The Blood of an Englishman Read online

  “How could anyone guarantee that the spike would kill Bert? I mean, he could have been at the edge of the platform?”

  “It’s a small platform,” said Gareth, “and Bert is—was—a big man. He complained that the lift went down too fast. In fact he and Harry had a bit of a row about it. Harry was very proud of that trap.”

  “What about the nearest and dearest. How old is the son, Walt?”

  “He’s twenty. Works in the bakery. Quiet and reliable.”

  “And Mrs. Simple?”

  Gareth’s face softened. “Gwen is a saint. She works serving in the shop. Everybody loves her.”

  Not you, I hope, thought Agatha. Aloud she said, “Perhaps I should start today by asking some of the locals. Who’s the biggest gossip in the village?”

  “Well, there’s Marie Tench. But she can be spiteful.”

  “Maybe just the sort of person I should talk to,” said Agatha. “Have you her address?”

  “She’s got a flat above the newspaper shop opposite the old marketplace.”

  “I’ll start there. Tell me about yourself. How did you get involved with producing this pantomime?”

  “I was a producer with BBC Radio 4 for years. Last year, I was suddenly made redundant. They’re cutting jobs all round. It was a bit of a blow, but I’m lucky enough to have private means so I thought I would keep my hand in by producing this pantomime.”

  “But it wasn’t very professional, surely,” said Agatha. “I mean, it was a sort of mishmash of all the pantomime characters.”

  “I know. Mrs. Grant of the Women’s Institute wrote the script and was to produce it, but she died. I wanted to make changes but the cast protested and said it should be kept just the way it was, in her memory.”

  “Any friction amongst the cast?”

  He sighed. “I think amateur productions are worse than professional ones for fragile egos. The Good Fairy, Pixie Turner, went on as if she had a leading role in a Shakespeare production. Then that so-called comedian was always groping the chorus girls.”

  “Where does the chorus line come from?”

  “Winter Parva High School. They have tap dancing classes there.”

  “Any little Lolitas that Bert might have had his eye on?”

  “Oh, no! He was devoted to his wife.”

  “I think I’ve enough names to be going on with,” said Agatha. “I’ll start with the village gossip and then maybe later on you can introduce me to the blacksmith if the police aren’t still grilling him.”

  * * *

  Agatha drove to Winter Parva and parked in the main street. The village was a mixture of old houses with high, sloping roofs. Seventeenth-century buildings rubbed shoulders with Georgian and Tudor. The market hall, carefully preserved with its open arches and cobbled floor, was a fifteenth-century building. The village was situated down in a fold of the Cotswold hills. It was often misty. The River Oore ran under a bridge leading to the main street and this was blamed for the frequent fogs which plagued the place in winter. A pale sunlight was trying to permeate the mist as Agatha climbed the old stone stairs which led to Marie Tench’s flat. Agatha rang the bell and waited. She had expected Marie Tench to be an old woman but the door was opened by a blonde with a quite enormous bust. She must have some sort of industrial-strength brassiere, thought Agatha, for the woman’s breasts were hoisted up so far that it looked as if her head were peering over them.

  “Mrs. Tench?” asked Agatha.

  “It’s Miss. Who are you?”

  Agatha handed over her card and said, “Gareth Craven has asked me to investigate the murder of Bert Simple. He told me you knew a great deal about the village.”

  “Come in.”

  Agatha squeezed past her and found herself in a cluttered living room. Every surface was covered by some ornament. There were little glass animals along the mantelshelf, china figurines on the occasional tables, a collection of china coasters on the coffee table, and on a round table by the window, a large acid green vase of silk flowers.

  Above the fireplace was a bad painting in oils of what appeared to be a naked Marie, those huge breasts painted in sulphur yellow and red.

  Marie sat down on a chintz-covered sofa and waved one plump arm to an armchair, indicating that Agatha should be seated.

  A shaft of sunlight shone through the window, lighting up Marie’s face. Agatha reflected that Marie was wearing so much make-up, you could skate on it. She had a small prissy mouth painted violent red, a button of a nose, and cold grey eyes. Her hair was so firmly lacquered that it looked like a bad wig.

  “I wondered if you had any idea who might have murdered Bert Simple,” began Agatha.

  “Pixie Turner, that’s who.”

  “The Good Fairy?”

  “Good Fairy, my arse. More like the wicked witch.”

  “But the murder of Bert Simple,” said Agatha, “seemed to take a lot of knowledge of engineering and carpentry.”

  “Hah! Not much by all accounts. Any fool could have sawn that hole in the trap and shoved a spike underneath.”

  “How did you learn how the murder was done?”

  “Molly Kite, her what works in the gift shop, told me. Her cousin’s a policeman.”

  “Apart from Pixie, who else might have hated him enough?”

  Did Marie suddenly look guilty—or was it a trick of the light? But she flashed Agatha a smile. “Apart from Pixie, we all loved Bert. No need to look anywhere else.”

  “And where does Pixie Turner live?”

  “Out on the housing estate at the end of the village. I forget the number, but it’s Church Road on the corner. Can’t miss it. The door’s painted bright blue.”

  * * *

  Agatha drove to the housing estate. She saw the house with the blue door and parked outside. Suddenly, she felt inexplicably weary. Her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, could easily have diagnosed her trouble. Agatha Raisin, when she was not obsessed with some man or other, became de-energised. Sir Charles Fraith, with whom she had enjoyed an occasional fling, had disappeared out of her life as he did from time to time. Her ex-husband and next-door neighbour, James Lacey, was a travel writer and was currently abroad somewhere.

  Agatha got slowly out of her car. She was wearing flat shoes and little make-up. Her brown hair was as glossy as ever but her bearlike eyes held a sad look. Her thoughts turned to Gareth Craven. Pity about that weak chin.

  She squared her shoulders and marched up to Pixie’s door and rang the bell.

  The letter box opened and a voice cried, “Go away!”

  Agatha bent down. “I am Agatha Raisin and I am investigating the death of Bert Simple.”

  “Go away.”

  Agatha had a sudden inspiration. “I can understand you not wanting to be bothered. Those television crews will follow me around.”

  “Television!” The door swung open to reveal Pixie in a tatty pink silk dressing gown. “Come in quickly,” she hissed, “and wait in the parlour until I get dressed.”

  Agatha looked around the room into which Pixie had thrust her. There were framed photographs of Pixie everywhere. Her acting roles appeared to have been confined to the village productions of pantomimes. She had progressed from Cinderella when she had been young, then to the Principal Boy, and so on to older parts, ending up as the Good Fairy.

  A joss stick was smoking in a vase in one corner. Film and television magazines were piled up on the coffee table and on the chairs and sofa. One wall was dominated by a large mirror surrounded by light bulbs.

  I wonder what she does when she’s not dreaming of fame, thought Agatha.

  Agatha peered at her own reflection in the mirror. Was that a hair on her upper lip? “Snakes and bastards,” she muttered, and began searching in her bag for a pair of tweezers. Not all that long ago, early fifties had been considered pretty old. Women let their figures sag and grew moustaches and didn’t seem to bother. Ah, the good old days. She was still looking frantically for a pair of tweezers in her handbag when Pi
xie entered the room.

  She had put on so much mascara that her lashes stuck straight out around her eyes like black spikes. She was wearing a short, tight red leather skirt with fishnet stockings and high heels. Her white blouse was nearly transparent. Her face had a sort of withered prettiness under white make-up with pink circles of blusher on each cheek. Her dyed blond hair was dressed in old-fashioned ringlets. She looked like a rather battered doll.

  “Have the TV people called?” she asked anxiously.

  Agatha was about to lie and say they would be along shortly in order to keep Pixie’s interest when there was a ring at the doorbell.

  “That’ll be them,” said Pixie and sashayed to the door.

  Agatha heard a man’s voice say, “Midlands Television.” Well, I’ll be damned, she thought.

  She walked into the small entrance hall to hear what Pixie was saying. “I was playing the part of the Good Fairy,” said Pixie, “only don’t let that fool you. Little Pixie can be wick-ED.” Then she let out a great laugh which actually sounded like Har! Har! Har!

  “Was there any friction amongst members of the cast?” asked the reporter.

  “Oh, no. We got on great. Everyone loved Bert.”

  “Could anyone have got in under the stage to rig that murder device?”

  “Yes, but take it from little Pixie here, it was some maniac from outside.”

  “Thank you for your time, Miz Turner.”

  “Don’t you want to come in for a little drinkie?”

  “No, got to get on.”

  Agatha retreated to the parlour. Pixie came in looking sulky and was about to sit down when the doorbell rang again.

  “Maybe they’re back,” she said eagerly.

  But this time, Agatha heard a voice say, “Mircester Echo.”

  Pixie tripped in followed by a reporter and cameraman. Agatha recognised the reporter, Chris Jenty.

  “Why, Mrs, Raisin,” he cried. “What a bit of luck.”

  “She’s just leaving.” Pixie’s eyes bored into Agatha’s face.

  “How right you are,” said Agatha with a smile. As she headed for the door, the reporter and cameraman followed her. “Come back!” wailed Pixie.

  The slamming of her front door was the only answer.

  “Let’s go for a drink,” said Chris. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

  When they were settled over drinks in a corner of the Jolly Beggar pub in the main street, Chris said, “You first.”

  Agatha told him what she had found out about the rigged trap, that the village gossip had suggested Pixie was the murderer, but that she hadn’t got very far.

  “Who’s paying you to investigate this?” asked Chris.

  “Can’t tell you,” said Agatha. “What have you got?”

  “I’ve got a report of flaming rows between Bert Simple and Gareth Craven.”

  Agatha stared at him while her mind worked furiously. Once, before she had made a name for herself as a detective, she had been hired by a murderer who thought her incompetent and that the very act of hiring her might make him look innocent.

  “That’s interesting,” she said cautiously.

  “All I can dig up at the moment. Have you seen Mrs. Simple?”

  “I might try,” said Agatha. “I hope she’s not too sedated.”

  Chapter Two

  But when she left the pub, Agatha decided it was time she found out more about Gareth Craven. If he were retired, he must have private means or other work to be able to afford her fees.

  She found his address and looked up his street on her iPad. It was quite close to the pub so she decided to walk. His home was in a narrow lane leading off the high street. It was in a terrace of seventeenth-century buildings that leant together as if trying to prop each other up. There were no gardens at the front of the houses.

  As she raised her hand to ring the bell, she paused as a pleasant tenor voice sounded from inside the house, singing, “Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes” from Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Gondoliers.

  Agatha waited until the end of the song and firmly rang the bell.

  Gareth answered the door. He had a charming smile, reflected Agatha.

  “Was that you singing?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, I’m in amateur theatricals, for my sins.”

  Agatha’s hormones gave a little sigh of disappointment. People who said “for my sins,” in Agatha’s opinion, had gnomes in the garden and avocado bathroom suites.

  “Come in,” said Gareth, standing aside to let her pass. “Turn left.”

  Agatha found herself in a small front parlour. Like Pixie, he had the walls and tables festooned with photographs of himself. She could understand people having family groups on display, but it did look like an excess of vanity to have so many pictures of oneself. Still, she reflected, maybe it was healthier than her own dislike of her appearance. She could remember, as a child, praying that she would wake up one morning with curly blond hair and green eyes.

  “I belong to the Mircester Savoy Players,” said Gareth. “You must come and see us. Sometimes I either sing or produce. I’m producing The Mikado.”

  “Maybe another time,” said Agatha. “Have you heard anything more that might be useful to me?”

  “Not really. Of course there were a lot of squabbles amongst the cast. Like a professional company, we have our fair share of prima donnas.”

  “Who, for example?”

  He furrowed his brow and then burst out laughing. “The lot of them, I think.”

  “So was the late Bert the cause of any of these squabbles?”

  “Let me see. Pixie wanted the green smoke cancelled because she said it made her cough. Bert called her an old frump and she went into hysterics. Wait a bit! She shouted out something about did his wife know who he was screwing.”

  “To which he replied?”

  “‘If I were married to a used-up bit of shit like you, I might think of being unfaithful to my wife. But I’m not so why don’t you…’ Well, you can guess the rest.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “George Southern, the comedian, was going to take Bert to court. George put a whoopee cushion in the trap so that when Bert made his exit at one rehearsal there was the sound of a loud fart. He came roaring back up like the pantomime demon he’s supposed to be and punched George on the nose. It was all soothed over.”

  “Dear me, so many suspects. I’ve lost my programme. Have you got a spare?”

  “Right here.” He handed her one.

  “It’s quite a small cast,” said Agatha. “The principals, I mean. Mother Hubbard is someone called Bessie Burdock. There seemed to be no storyline at all. There was one scene where Mother Hubbard chases the schoolchildren who did that tap dancing thing, in and out of a large cardboard shoe. Then Jack hands her some beans and she chases him as well. No beanstalk. Jack threatened by giant and saved by Puss in Boots played by Pixie. Double role?”

  “Yes, she played Red Riding Hood as well.”

  “Blimey! Who played the wolf? Not mentioned here.”

  “The wolf changed his mind and said he would not be associated with such rubbish.”

  “And he is?”

  “The English teacher at Mircester High School.”

  “And did he quarrel with Bert?”

  “Yes. Told him the whole panto was an ego trip for Bert. If you remember, Bert makes an entrance and exit by the trap, but other times he simply walks on stage.”

  “And was that part of the nonexistent plot?”

  “Well, no.”

  “But as the producer, surely you could have stopped him?”

  “He said if I did, he would say I had been diddling one of the school kids. You know all the scandals at the BBC at the moment with everyone coming out of the woodwork to say they were sexually assaulted? Well, mud sticks. I couldn’t risk it. I’ll never produce another panto for them again.”

  “What happened to the last producer?”

  “He died
of a heart attack.”

  “I heard you had a flaming row with Bert,” said Agatha cautiously. “Was that about the slander?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t threaten to kill him or anything like that?”

  “I did. So you see how terribly important it is for you to find the murderer.”

  “I’ll do my best. Now, murders are usually committed by the nearest and dearest.”

  “You can forget that one,” said Gareth, turning red. “Gwen Simple is a saint and the son, a quiet, well-mannered boy.”

  “You know the family well?”

  “I knew Gwen before she was married. I would have proposed to her myself, but I was married at the time and Bert snapped her up.”

  No hope here, thought Agatha. He’s obviously still carrying a torch for Gwen.

  Aloud, she said, “I think it’s time you introduced me to the blacksmith.”

  “I’ll get my coat.”

  * * *

  The blacksmith was shoeing a horse. “We’d better wait until he’s finished,” said Gareth. “The work used to be done by a farrier, but he died a few years ago and Harry took on the extra work.”

  Agatha and Gareth sat on a couple of battered chairs in the workshop. Gates and railings, grills and pieces of wrought ironwork lay about them.

  A thin wintry sun slanted through the open door where hens, sounding like rusty gates, pecked in the yard outside. Harry had trimmed the hoof and was attaching the horseshoe. I wonder what it would be like, thought Agatha, to work with one’s hands and never have to exercise one’s brain about who it was murdered whom.

  “I’m amazed the horse is so patient,” said Agatha.

  “Doesn’t hurt. Like getting your nails manicured,” said Gareth.

  At last the blacksmith had finished. “What is it?” he demanded.

  Gareth introduced Agatha. Harry was a powerful man and loomed threateningly over Agatha.

  “Look here,” he said. “You find out who murdered Bert and I’ll shake that man’s hand. The world’s a better place without him.”

  “But what a horrible way to die!” protested Agatha.

  “Aar, right up the goolies he got it. Serves him right. Got a decent wife. No reason to get his leg over half the village.”