The Blood of an Englishman Page 4

  * * *

  Outside the mobile unit, Agatha phoned Charles, but his phone was switched off. She fought down a pang of jealousy. She remembered Gareth talking about the English teacher. Perhaps he might have some interesting views. She sent Charles a text message, got in her car and drove to Mircester High School. Pupils were streaming out through the gates, throwing snowballs, wrecking their school uniforms as they went along, the boys pulling their shirts out of their trousers and taking off their ties and the girls hitching up their skirts to above the knee.

  Agatha parked her car and walked into the school, breathing in the smell of sweat, chalk and disinfectant. She stopped a female member of staff and asked where she could find the English teacher.

  “Which one?” demanded the harried-looking woman.

  “The one that sings in the opera.”

  “That’ll be John Hale. I think I saw him in his classroom. Number 10b, along on your left, round the corridor.”

  Agatha walked on until she found the classroom. She put her hand on the doorknob and looked through one of the four glass windows on the upper part of the door.

  John Hale was sitting at a desk, correcting papers.

  He was beautiful. He had thick black glossy hair shadowing a pale sensitive face and perfect straight nose and mouth. Agatha quickly retreated and took out a compact, powdered her nose and repaired her lipstick.

  She then opened the classroom door and walked in. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Yes, was the answer to that, thought Agatha. Throw me on the pommel of your white horse and ride off with me into the sunset. She handed him her card. “I am a private detective, investigating the death of Bert Simple.”

  He turned her card over with long sensitive fingers. No wedding ring, noticed Agatha.

  “I don’t know how I can help you,” he said.

  “It’s like this,” said Agatha. “The more I learn about Bert Simple, the better chance I have of finding out who murdered him.” She saw a chair next to his and went and sat in it.

  “He was a bully. How that saint of a wife of his put up with him is beyond me.”

  Sod his wife, thought Agatha, gripped by a pang of jealousy.

  “You refused a part in the pantomime.”

  “The whole thing was a farce,” said John. “Bert ran the show. He didn’t care that there was no attempt at a plot so long as he could strut about the stage. But out of all the people in the cast, I cannot think of anyone who would go so far as to murder him. Amateur companies are full of scenes and rivalries but it doesn’t mean anything. They think by stamping around that they are behaving like real pros. There was one thing, however.”

  “What was that?”

  “The tap dancers from this school. There is a girl called Kimberley Buxton. It cropped up at the beginning of rehearsals. She said that Bert had given her a lift home and on the way had stopped the car and tried to assault her. Her parents reported the matter to the school.”

  “Not the police?”

  “No. The matter was investigated. Kimberley backed down and claimed it was nothing. She had misunderstood the situation.”

  “And do you think she had?” asked Agatha.

  “We occasionally have trouble here with pupils trying to get back at the teachers with claims of sexual harassment. That is why we were relieved the police had not been contacted.”

  “How old is this girl?”

  “She’s fourteen now. She was thirteen at the time.”

  “I would like to speak to her,” said Agatha.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I would like to help you.” He smiled and Agatha blinked at the beauty of that smile.

  “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “You seem a very observant man, Mr. Hale.”

  “John, please.”

  “John it is. Perhaps I could take you for lunch and you could give me a picture of some of the people in Winter Parva.”

  He hesitated, while Agatha mentally crossed her fingers.

  “I suppose that would be nice,” he said slowly. “I’ve never met a private detective before.”

  “What about lunch on Wednesday at the George in Mircester? Be my guest.”

  “Yes, I think that would be all right. I’ll phone you if I can’t make it. What time?”

  “Say one o’clock?”

  “Right. Thank you.”

  * * *

  Agatha left the school with a smile on her face. She was just getting into her car when Charles drove up.

  “How did you get on?” asked Agatha.

  “She seems to be finally mourning. She wept on my shoulder for quite some time. Apart from that, nothing interesting.”

  “Dear Gwen is manipulating you,” said Agatha. “I’ll bet she’s glad to get rid of the beast.”

  “You get anything?” asked Charles.

  “Only a bit of possible gossip.” She told Charles about Kimberley. “He wouldn’t give me the address but we’ll look up Buxton in the phone book.”

  “Actually, I’m going to shove off. Why don’t you get Toni along to help you?”

  But Agatha did not want her beautiful detective anywhere near Winter Parva. Her head was already full of dreams of John Hale. Normally, Agatha’s powerful sex drive would already have plunged her into obsession, but John’s beauty had roused an almost teenage romanticism.

  Charles walked to his car and then turned back. “What did this teacher look like?”

  “What has that got to do with anything? Oh, tweedy. You know the type.”

  Charles threw her a suspicious look before getting into his car and driving off.

  * * *

  Fine snow was still falling. Evening was settling down with smells of tea and fried fish. One more interview, thought Agatha, and then I’d better get home before I am snowed up. She decided to leave Kimberley for another day and interview the comedian, George Southern. A small girl who looked anorexic was painting her nails behind the counter in the gift shop. Molly Kite, thought Agatha. The shop was filled with the usual Cotswold tourist junk: coffee mugs, tea towels, Cotswold fudge and other items meant to tempt the bus tours which came in the summer.

  “I would like to speak to Mr. Southern,” said Agatha.

  Large black eyes framed in thick false eyelashes stared at her. “Oh, you’ll be that detective lady. Have you got a gun?”

  “No.”

  Molly promptly lost interest. “I’ll fetch him.”

  She went through to the back shop. Agatha could hear the murmur of voices.

  Then Molly reappeared. She whispered, “He won’t see you. Says he’s stock taking. That’s a clue!”

  “It is.”

  “Looked ever so shifty, he did. And he hated Bert.”

  “Why?”

  “Cos Bert was real hateful.”

  “In what way?”

  “The panto was Bert’s big moment, see? He was jealous of his wife being the singing star o’ Mircester. Said he could act her off the stage and that wimp, John Hale.”

  Diverted, Agatha asked, “And is John Hale a wimp?”

  “Naw. He’s a judo expert. One o’ the big boys tried to take him on and Mr. Hale laid him flat on his back.”

  Agatha felt a twinge of unease. She hoped John hadn’t fallen for Gwen. They must spend a lot of time together at the Mircester Players.

  “Tell Mr. Southern I’ll call again,” said Agatha.

  She walked out of the shop and stood outside. After she had counted to ten, she walked in again in time to hear him say, “Get rid of her all right?”

  “Why, Mr. Southern,” cooed Agatha. “I thought I heard your voice.”

  “Oh, what is it?” he demanded. “I want to get home before the roads are blocked.”

  “Did you murder Bert Simple?”

  “Get the hell out of here and never speak to me again,” roared George.

  “I was just…,” began Agatha, and then ducked as a mug bearing the legend WELCOME TO WINTER PARVA went sailing over her
head. She beat a hasty retreat.

  Agatha decided to go home to Carsely to look after her cats. It was a slow, treacherous journey. What if it’s worse on Saturday? fretted Agatha. What if I can’t meet him for lunch?

  She let herself into her thatched cottage. Her cats, Hodge and Boswell, wound their sinuous bodies round her ankles, nearly tripping her up. She prepared their meal of fresh fish and then cooked a microwavable vindaloo curry for herself.

  When she had finished eating, Agatha phoned Toni and asked how the various investigations were going on.

  “I might have a bit of gossip for you,” said Toni. “A friend of mine was telling me that the widow, Gwen Simple, is the star of the Mircester Players, along with a schoolteacher called John Hale. There are rumours of a romance there. Would you like me to pop round to the theatre and see if I can find out more?”

  “No!” shouted Agatha. She could not bear the idea of beautiful Toni even breathing the same air as John. “I mean, you’ve got a lot to do. Get on with it and leave the Winter Parva case to me.”

  When Toni rang off, Simon, who was about to leave the office, said, “What’s up with Aggie? I could hear her shouting no, right across the room.”

  “I think she might be in love again.”

  “Who with?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Coming for a drink?”

  “I’ve got a date,” lied Toni.

  Simon went out, slamming the door behind him. Toni sighed. If only Simon would find a girlfriend and stop pestering her.

  * * *

  The Cotswolds lay under a pristine coating of snow when Agatha set out the next day, hoping her snow tyres would grip the road. A white disk of a sun shone overhead. Scenes straight out of a Christmas card lay round every corner. Agatha marvelled at how innocent everything seemed. And yet someone had been driven to murder Bert Simple in an extremely brutal way.

  Perhaps it was all to do with amateur dramatics and the fact that everyone wanted to be famous these days. That might cause murderous spite and a desire for revenge.

  A man was walking his dog, children were building a snowman in a garden—the school must be closed—and a woman was hurrying home with a basket of shopping. Agatha suddenly felt weary of detective work. People needed to be interviewed again. She had a sudden longing to stop the car and go up to a cottage and ask to sit by the fire and forget about the whole blasted business.

  Then she thought that perhaps she should make a U-turn, go to the vicarage and use her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, as a sounding board. She slowly eased the car round on the icy road and headed back into Carsely.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Agatha was ensconced in the vicarage drawing room in front of a log fire with a cup of tea in one hand and a buttered scone in the other.

  Mrs. Bloxby sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap, listening intently. When Agatha had finished, she said, “It seems to be a crime caused by sex and jealousy. If the murder had been performed in a murderous rage, it would be different. But someone plotted not only to kill him but to destroy his manhood in the process. Mrs. Simple is a very attractive woman.”

  “If you like that sort of thing,” said Agatha sourly.

  “Men do like that sort of thing. She has the looks to rouse protective feelings in men and also romanticism.”

  Don’t say it, thought Agatha.

  But Mrs. Bloxby went on. “Mrs. Simple is a leading light of the Mircester Players. They specialise in productions of Gilbert and Sullivan. The leading man, John Hale, is handsome, and the exact opposite of her husband. Have you thought of him?”

  Most of the time, was the honest answer to that question, but Agatha said airily, “Oh, I’ve spoken to him. Too quiet and gentle.”

  Oh, dear, thought Mrs. Bloxby, studying her friend’s face. I do believe Mrs. Raisin has fallen in love again.

  “He is a karate expert,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

  Agatha shifted restlessly in her armchair. “Yes, yes. But he didn’t throw Bert over his shoulder or break his neck. I think the blacksmith is the most likely candidate at the moment. He’s violent, he beats his wife and he hated Bert. Also he is the one who knew all the mechanics of the trap.”

  “Then could a woman have done it?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “On the face of it, it looks like a man’s job. But it takes very little effort to sink a sharp pointed steel rod into concrete and saw a hole in the trap. You remember, he didn’t enter the stage by the trap. He only left it. So someone had a lot of time to arrange things between the dress rehearsal the day before and the actual performance.”

  “That’s right,” said Agatha slowly.

  “And there is a door at the side that leads directly under the stage.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Agatha crossly. “I should have known.”

  “I didn’t know until Mrs. Jelly who comes to our church told me. I knew you could get in from the front but I didn’t know about the other door.”

  Agatha let out a groan. “My list of suspects suddenly seems to have got longer. I’d better get over there and get to work.”

  * * *

  But Agatha was halfway to Winter Parva when she realised the following day was Wednesday and her date with John. She stopped the car abruptly and peered in the driving mirror. There were a couple of small wrinkles on her upper lip and two grey hairs on the crown of her head.

  “Sod this detective business,” she muttered. She phoned Phil Marshall on her mobile and asked him to meet her by the market hall in Winter Parva.

  When Phil arrived, Agatha gave him her iPad with all her notes and told him to re-interview as many of the suspects as he could. She hoped that Phil with his white hair and gentle manner might get more out of people than she had done herself.

  “And what will you be doing?” asked Phil.

  “I’ve got a lead I’m following up,” said Agatha. “I’ll let you know if anything comes of it. There’s a schoolgirl, Kimberley Buxton, who claims she was assaulted by Bert Simple. See if you can find out where she lives and get something out of her.”

  She then headed off for Evesham, planning a long day of restoration. First, she got a nonsurgical facelift at Beau Monde and then headed for her hairdresser, Cheryl at Achille, to get her hair tinted.

  Evesham does not specialise in luxury goods and Boots did not have her favourite perfume, but she thought she had enough Mademoiselle Coco left at home. When she finally walked to the car park in Evesham, the weather had changed and a thaw had settled in. I hope this doesn’t mean flooding, fretted Agatha. What if the River Mir floods again and Mircester is cut off?

  That night, she tossed and turned, hearing snow falling from the thatched roof above her head.

  * * *

  In the morning, she laid out her clothes for the day: a royal blue wool tailored jacket with a matching short skirt and high black suede boots. Over it, she planned to wear a white fun fur. She had her usual breakfast of one cup of black coffee and two Benson cigarettes before working on her make-up.

  Still worried about floods, she left early, having some difficulty in driving because the heels on her boots were very high. The roads weren’t too bad and so she arrived at the George Hotel car park exactly one hour too early. She fought off the temptation to go into the bar and have a couple of stiff gin and tonics.

  How the minutes dragged! How incredibly boring were the programmes on the radio! She finally switched to Radio 3 in time to hear the announcer say, “And now we have a little-known symphony by Hans Guttenberger.” Agatha switched it off, muttering, “The reason it’s little known, you pompous pratt, is because nobody wanted to hear it.”

  At long last, the dial of her watch showed five minutes to one. She got out of her car and began to tittup across the melted snow of the car park on her high heels. Her foot slipped and she skidded forward and ended up under a parked car with her head poking out.

  “Engine trouble?” asked a small man looking down at her. “Can I help?”

&
nbsp; “Help me out of here,” wailed Agatha. “I slipped.”

  He bent down, and grunting and groaning, pulled her out. Agatha staggered to her feet. Her white coat was ruined. She thanked her rescuer, stormed into the George, demanded to see the manager, and berated him about failing to salt the car park.

  She was in full intimidating voice when suddenly she saw John walking into the hotel. “You’ll hear from me later,” she said to the manager, and turning, greeted John.

  “I’ll leave this mess of a coat in the cloakroom. I slipped and fell,” said Agatha.

  “Poor you. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll meet you in the bar.”

  Agatha went to the bar as quickly as her boots would allow and asked for a double gin and tonic and downed it in almost one gulp, feeling the blessed alcohol coursing through her veins.

  John appeared at her elbow. He was wearing a well-tailored suit, a striped shirt and a blue silk tie which matched his eyes. “What’ll you have?” asked Agatha.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “Just tonic,” lied Agatha. “But I could do with something stronger. What about you?”

  “Just a half of lager.”

  Agatha ordered another gin and tonic for herself and the lager for John. Then to her horror, John said, “I’ll pay for these.”

  “No! You’re my guest,” said Agatha, but the barman had handed John the bill.

  John insisted on paying. “We’ll take our drinks to the table,” said Agatha.

  Why did I ever think I could wear these wretched boots? she mourned. And now he’ll think I’m a lush.

  When they were seated in the dining room, Agatha said, “I lied about that first drink because I felt I needed one after that silly fall in the car park. I didn’t want you to think I was a drunk.”

  “No, I wouldn’t think that.” He smiled into her eyes. “Your skin is too perfect. I brought you along a couple of tickets for The Mikado. Monday is the opening night and we’re having a party afterwards.”

  “I would love to come,” said Agatha, her eyes shining.

  He asked her about her work and Agatha was happy to talk, trying not to tell highly embroidered stories and failing as usual. She suddenly realised she had been monopolising the conversation and asked him why he became a schoolteacher.