Agatha's First Case Read online

  She became aware that she was being studied by a small, grey-haired man on the other side of the restaurant. When he saw Agatha looking at him, he gave a half smile and raised a hand in greeting.

  Agatha finished her meal, and, on her road out, stopped at his table. “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “No, but we’re in the same profession,” he said. “I’m Clive Tremund. I’d like to compare notes. Would you like to get out of here and go for a drink? What about the Randolph? I could do with a bit of posh.”

  Along Cornmarket, he talked about how he had recently moved to Oxford from Bristol to set up his agency.

  In the bar of the Randolph, Agatha, who had taken note of his cheap suit, said, “I’ll get the drinks.”

  “I’ll be able to get you on my expenses,” he said.

  Agatha waited until the waiter had taken their order and come back with their drinks, and asked him what he had meant. “Never tell me I am one of your cases!”

  “The only reason I am breaking the confidentiality of a client,” said Clive, “is because the bitch hasn’t paid anything so far and it looks as if she isn’t going to.”

  “Would that bitch be a therapist called Jill Davent?”

  “The same. I was supposed to ferret out everything I could about you. Got your birth certificate and took it from there.”

  “I’ll kill her! Did she give a reason?”

  “She said she was about to be married to a James Lacey, your ex. Said if you had got him to marry you, she might learn something by knowing all about you.”

  “I think it’s because she’s hiding something and wants to keep me away,” said Agatha.

  “Don’t tell her I told you,” said Clive. “She may yet pay me, although I’ll probably have to take her to the Small Claims Court. She was one of my first clients.”

  “Why did you leave Bristol?”

  “Got a divorce. Didn’t want to see her with her new bloke. It hurts. Then I had to get my private detective’s licence.”

  “I’ve just got one of those,” said Agatha. “How’s business?”

  “Picking up. Missing students, students on drugs, anxious parents, that sort of thing.”

  “What did you make of the Davent woman?”

  “She seemed pretty straightforward, until I gave her the report on you, and then she was sort of gleeful in a spiteful way. I asked for my fee and she demanded more. She told me your first husband had been murdered and maybe the police had got it wrong and you did it yourself. I haven’t done anything about it. I sent her an e-mail, saying until she paid something, I couldn’t go on. She had an office in Mircester before she moved to Carsley.”

  “I’ll pay your instead,” said Agatha. “Send me a written statement about the reasons she gave for employing you.” Agatha took out her cheque book. “I will pay you now.” She scribbled a cheque and handed it over.

  “This is generous,” said Clive. “I’ll be glad not to see her again, except maybe in court. She gave me the creeps.”

  * * *

  As Agatha drove back to Carsely, she could feel her anger mounting. As she turned down into the road leading to the village and to Jill’s cottage, an elderly Ford was driving in the middle of the road. She honked her horn furiously, but the car in front continued on in the middle of the road at twenty miles an hour.

  Victoria Bannister was the driver. She finally saw Agatha pull up outside Jill’s cottage, and stopped as well a little way down the road. Her long nose twitching with curiosity, Victoria decided to see if she could hear what Agatha was up to.

  The window of Jill’s consulting room was open and Agatha’s voice sounded out, loud and clear.

  “How dare you hire a detective to probe into my life. Leave me alone or I’ll kill you. But before I murder you, you useless piece of garbage, I am going to sue you for intrusion of privacy.”

  Said Jill, “And that will be a joke coming from a woman who earns her money doing just that.”

  Agatha stormed out as Victoria scampered down the road to her car and this time, drove off at sixty miles an hour.

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Bloxby had been worried ever since Agatha had told her all about Jill having paid a private detective to look into her background. The vicar’s wife felt that Mrs. Raisin should simply have asked Miss Davent why she had gone to such lengths.

  Two days after Agatha’s confrontation with the therapist was clear and quite cold. The waxy blossoms of the magnolia tree in the vicarage garden shone against the night sky where that peculiar blue moon was rising, a blue moon everyone had been told was because of forest fire in Canada.

  Mrs. Bloxby came to a sudden decision. She would visit this therapist and ask her herself.

  Mrs. Bloxby put on her old serviceable tweed coat and set out to walk through the village and up the hill to Jill’s cottage.

  She rang the bell and waited. A light was on in the consulting room. Perhaps, thought Mrs. Bloxby, a consultation was in progress and the therapist had decided not to answer the door. But having come this far, she was reluctant to leave. She banged on the door and shouted, “Anyone there!”

  Silence.

  Mrs. Bloxby walked to the window of the consulting room and peered through a gap in the curtains. She let out a startled gasp. She could see a pair of feet on the floor but the rest was masked by a desk.

  She went back to the door and tried the handle. The door was unlocked.

  Mrs. Bloxby went straight to the consulting room and walked round the desk. The ghastly distorted face of Jill Davent stared up at her. A coloured scarf had been wound tightly round her neck.

  The vicar’s wife backed slowly away, as if before royalty. Her legs felt weak and she was beginning to tremble.

  She made it outside and, fishing in her old battered leather handbag, took out her mobile phone and dialled 999.

  It seemed to take ages for the police to arrive and she stood there while the pitiless blue moon rose higher in the sky.

  Mrs. Bloxby let out a gulp of relief when she at last heard the approaching sirens.

  * * *

  It was only when she was back at the vicarage, having given her preliminary statement and been hugged by her worried husband that she realised she should really phone Agatha Raisin.

  Agatha was on her road home when Mrs. Bloxby phoned. Her first reaction was, “Oh, God! I threatened to kill her!”

  “Did anyone hear you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

  “No. I bet it was Gwen Simple. I swear that women’s a murderer.”

  As Agatha drove down into the village, she could see the police cars and ambulance and a little knot of villagers standing behind the police tape.

  Her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, and Inspector Wilkes could be seen waiting outside the cottage for the forensic team to do their work. Agatha parked her car up the road and walked forward to join the crowd.

  Victoria Bannister saw her approach and called out loudly, “There’s the murderer. I heard her threatening to kill her.”

  Wilkes swung round, saw the contorted accusing face of Victoria and that she was pointing at Agatha.

  “Wong,” he said to Bill, “get that Raisin woman here and whoever that woman is who’s accusing her.”

  * * *

  How many weary hours I have spent in this interviewing room, having questions fired at me? thought Agatha dismally. She had been taken to police headquarters and Wilkes was interrogating her.

  Over and over again, Agatha explained that she had found out that Jill had hired a private detective to ferret into her background and that had enraged her.

  “I like my unfortunate upbringing to be kept quiet,” she explained.

  “You’re a snob,” said Wilkes nastily. “My father was a porter on the railroad and my mother worked in a factory. I’m proud of them.”

  “I am sure they were sterling people,” said Agatha wearily, “but did they force you to work in a factory and then take your wages to buy booze? And did it ever
cross your mind that she wanted to get me off her case? She was counselling Gwen Simple, for a start. And why did she leave Mircester?”

  “That’s for us to find out and for you to keep your nose out of police business,” snapped Wilkes.

  Agatha explained she had not left the office until eight o’ clock in the evening. She had stopped for petrol outside Mircester. Yes, she had the receipt.

  Agatha looked to Bill for sympathy but his face was blank.

  By the time she was allowed to go and told not to leave the country, Agatha was in a rage.

  Mrs. Bloxby, who had driven her to police headquarters, got the full blast of Agatha’s tirade on the road back to Carsely. At last, when Agatha had paused for breath, she said mildly, “But what a great incentive to find out who murdered her. I am sure it would be a wonderful idea to get revenge on Mr. Wilkes.”

  “Yes,” said Agatha slowly. “There must be something fishy in Jill’s background. I’ve asked that private detective of hers to detect for me.”

  Mrs. Bloxby looked surprised. “Why did you do that? You have detectives of your own.”

  “True,” said Agatha. “I did it on the spur of the minute, but I will need all the help I can get. You see, there suddenly seems to be a great amount of adultery going on, and much as I hate divorce cases, they pay well and we are all stretched to the limit. Now I know you don’t like to gossip, but I have to start somewhere. Who in Carsely has been consulting Jill?”

  “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. There is your cleaner, Mrs. Simpson.”

  “What! Doris? She the sanest person I know. Anyone else.”

  “I believe Miss Bannister went to see her.”

  “That old cow. I could murder her.”

  “Mrs. Raisin!”

  “Well, she’s the reason I have been stuck in the police station half the night. Who else?”

  “Old Mrs. Tweedy.”

  “You mean the old girl who lives round the corner from the vicarage. What’s up with her?”

  “Nothing more than loneliness, I should think,” said Mrs. Bloxby. Then she added reluctantly, “Mr. Lacey spent a great deal of time with Miss Davent. Of course, there were women from the other villages but I don’t know who they are.”

  As Mrs. Bloxby turned the corner into Lilac Lane where Agatha lived, they saw a car parked outside James’s cottage. Bill Wong and detective Alice Peterson were just getting out of it. Bill saw Agatha and signalled to the vicar’s wife to stop. “Don’t go to bed yet,” he said to Agatha. “I want to ask you a few more questions. Mrs. Bloxby, a minute of your time.”

  “Do you want me to come in with you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby as Agatha got out of the car at her cottage.

  “No, you’ve done enough and thank you,” said Agatha. She had a sudden impulse to hug Mrs. Bloxby, but resisted. Agatha Raisin, somehow, could not hug anyone—handsome men excepted.

  Once inside her cottage, she slumped down on her sofa. The cats prowled around her hopefully. Agatha often forgot that she had fed them and would feed them again, but this time, she felt too tired to move.

  Her eyes were just closing when she heard the imperative summons of her doorbell. She struggled to her feet, went to open it and stared bleakly at the two detectives.

  Agatha led the way to the kitchen. “Have a seat and make it quick,” she said.

  “We’ve got to go over it again,” said Bill soothingly. “You should know better than to go around threatening to kill people.”

  “I was exasperated,” said Agatha. “How dare she hire a private detective to dig up my background?”

  “We will be interviewing Clive Tremund,” said Bill. “Begin at the beginning.”

  Agatha did not want to say again that she had initially lied to Jill about her upbringing. Tell a detective that you’ve lied about one thing and they might assume you’re lying about everything else. She detailed the previous day. She had been working on a divorce case and had been out on it with Phil. He had the pictures to prove it. They then had both met with the client’s lawyer and handed over the evidence. Agatha worked late, typing up notes on other outstanding cases, and, as she was heading home, that was when Mrs. Bloxby had called her.

  “Why do you call Mrs. Bloxby by her surname?” asked Alice, when the interview was over.

  “There was a society for women in this village when I arrived here,” explained Agatha. “We all addressed each other by surnames and somehow it stuck. I know it’s strange these days when every odd and sod calls you by your first name. But I rather like being Mrs. Raisin. I hate when in hospital nurses call me Agatha. Seems overfamiliar, somehow. And, yes, it’s ageing, as if they think I’m in my second childhood.” She stifled a yawn.

  “We’ll let you get some sleep,” said Bill.

  When they had left, Agatha noticed that a red dawn was flooding the kitchen with light. She opened the garden door and let her cats out. The morning was fresh and beautiful. She went into the kitchen and got a wad of paper towel and wiped the dew off a garden lounger and then sank into it, sleepily enjoying the feel of the rising sun on her face and the smell of spring flowers.

  She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Two hours later she was in the grip of a nightmare where she had fallen overboard from a ship, and as she struggled in the icy water, above her, Jill Davent leaned over the rail and laughed.

  She awoke with a start to find the rain was drumming down and she was soaked to the skin. Agatha fled indoors and upstairs, where she stripped off her wet clothes, had a hot shower, pulled on a nightdress and climbed into bed.

  * * *

  Agatha awoke again in the early afternoon and reconnected her phone which she had switched off before falling asleep. She checked her messages. There were worried ones from her staff and several from the press.

  She dressed and went wearily downstairs. Looking through a small opening in the drawn curtains in her front room, she saw the press massed outside her cottage. Agatha went upstairs and changed into an old T-shirt, jacket, loose trousers and running shoes.

  Down again and out into the back garden, where she seized a ladder and propped it against the fence. She had somehow planned to heave the ladder up when she was straddled on the top of the fence but could not manage it. She was just about to give up and retreat when James appeared below in the narrow path which separated her cottage from his.

  “I’ll get my ladder,” he called up to her.

  If this were a film, thought Agatha grumpily, I would leap down into his strong arms. A watery sunlight was gilding the new leaves of the large lilac tree at the front of her cottage which mercifully screened her off from the press, who might otherwise have spotted her at the end of the passage.

  James came through a side gate from his garden carrying a ladder which he propped against the fence.

  Agatha climbed down. She smiled up at James and then ducked her head as she realised she wasn’t wearing make-up.

  “Come in and have a coffee,” said James. “But I really think you should have a word with the press, even if it’s ‘no comment’ or they’ll be here all day.”

  “In these clothes!”

  “Agatha! Oh, all right. We’ll climb back over, sort yourself out, and then go out to face them.”

  * * *

  James waited impatiently in Agatha’s kitchen for half an hour until she descended the stairs, fully made-up and teetering on a pair of high heels.

  Agatha went out to face the press. She competently fielded questions while television cameras whirred and flashes went off in her face. Yes, she had spent a long time at police headquarters. Why? Because she was a private detective who lived in the village where the woman was murdered.

  And then to her horror, Victoria Bannister pushed her way to the front. “You threatened to kill her!” she shrieked.

  “Jill Davent hired a private detective to find out all about me,” said Agatha. “I was annoyed with her. That is all. The question that arises is, why was she afraid of me? W
hat had she got to hide?”

  “You’re a murderer,” shouted Victoria.

  “And you,” said Agatha, “will be hearing from my lawyers. I am going to sue you for slander.”

  Victoria’s wrinkled face showed shock and alarm. “I’m sorry,” she babbled. “I made a mistake.” She turned to escape, shouting at the press to let her through.

  Agatha’s voice followed her, “There one in every village.”

  And in that moment, Victoria could have killed Agatha. As she fled up to her cottage, she vowed to find out the identity of the murderer herself. She knew all the gossip of the village. Once inside, she poured herself a stiff sherry and went off into a rosy dream where she was facing an admiring press and telling them how she had solved the case.

  * * *

  “All done?” asked James as Agatha teetered back into the kitchen, sat down and kicked off her shoes.

  “I think they’ve gone off to the vicarage to persecute Mrs. Bloxby.”

  “Will she be able to handle it?”

  “Oh, yes. A vicar’s wife has to be tough. In the past, she’s had to confront several women who developed a crush on her husband. It’s a lousy existence and she’s welcome to it. Half her time is acting as an unpaid therapist. A lot of people take their troubles to her.”

  “Including you?”

  “I’m her friend. That’s different. I’ll phone Toni to take over tomorrow. I think I’ll go into Oxford and talk to Clive.”

  * * *

  Clive Tremund’s office was in a narrow lane off Walton Street in the Jericho area of Oxford. It was situated in the ground floor of a thin two-storied building. Agatha tried the handle and found the door was unlocked.

  There was a little square vestibule with a frosted glass door on the left bearing the legend TREMUND INVESTIGATIONS. She pushed open the door and went in.