The Blood of an Englishman Read online

  “You think it’s a boring job?” he asked.

  “I think these days the life of any schoolteacher is fraught with danger,” said Agatha. “So why school teaching?”

  “I am one of the last of the Mr. Chips,” he said. “If I can inspire just one pupil to go on to university, then it is worth anything.”

  “I think you could inspire anyone,” said Agatha.

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I rather like that. We should have fun at the party.”

  Agatha dragged her soaring mind back to earth. “Have you no idea who might have murdered Bert?”

  “Not a one. He was generally disliked. But murder! Can’t think of anyone vicious enough. I’m happy for Gwen. She says she loved her husband, but how can she love anyone like that?”

  “But she is performing in The Mikado.”

  “Gwen is a real trouper.”

  Agatha experienced a sharp stab of jealousy. She said sharply, “Oh, come on. It’s only an amateur show, not Covent Garden, and her husband isn’t buried yet.”

  Those blue eyes of his suddenly looked as hard as sapphires. “I don’t expect someone like you to understand.”

  Agatha backpedalled like mad. “Of course, she will want to do anything to keep her mind off it,” she said. “The show must go on.”

  He flashed that smile of his that made her feel as if her bones were melting. “There you are! I should have known you would really understand.”

  He glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation. “I am so sorry. I have a rehearsal. Got to run.”

  “I’ll settle this,” said Agatha. “See you on Monday.”

  After she had gone, she found to her delight that the meal was free, compliments of the hotel to make up for the unsalted car park and they had had her fun fur express cleaned.

  She took off her boots and dug a pair of flat shoes out of the glove compartment, putting them on with a sigh of relief.

  Now, what on earth am I going to wear on Monday? thought Agatha.

  Chapter Four

  By Sunday evening Agatha’s bedroom was a mess. Clothes lay strewn everywhere. She glared sourly at her fun fur. Why call the damn thing “fun” when she would feel better off in mink. Why were the animal libbers so much against mink when the ferrety little creatures were roaming about destroying the native fauna of Britain?

  Monday came. Agatha called in at the office to make sure all the cases were being covered. She sat down and studied the report from Phil. He had achieved a long interview with Gwen Simple. Gwen had denied that her husband was a philanderer. She had gone on at length about how much she would miss him. Then Agatha’s eyes sharpened. Clever Phil had run Kimberley to earth. But interviewed with her parents, she denied having accused Bert Simple of having tried to molest her. She claimed it was only a joke which had turned out badly.

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” muttered Agatha.

  He had also interviewed the blacksmith, Pixie Turner and George Southern. The interview with George Southern was the one that had been singularly unsuccessful. In fact, Southern had threatened to call the police, saying he was a victim of harassment. Phil’s comment was, “Southern is frightened. He knows something.”

  Agatha had still to find someone to take with her to The Mikado. She had considered Mrs. Bloxby. But she did not want her clever friend to find out about her interest in John Hale. Toni interrupted her thoughts. “I’m free at the moment. Would you like me to take a look at Winter Parva?”

  Agatha surveyed her beautiful assistant. Her conscience troubled her. Toni was a brilliant detective but she wanted to keep the girl clear of John Hale. On the other hand, the case needed to be solved.

  “Maybe one thing,” said Agatha. “There’s a schoolgirl called Kimberley Buxton. She claimed to have been assaulted by Bert Simple and now denies the whole thing. You’re nearer her in age. See if you can get her to confide in you. Don’t go to the school! Wait until she is home or on the way home.” She unclipped a photograph. “Phil snatched this shot of her.”

  “Anything this morning?” asked Toni.

  “I’ll give you these notes. There’s something fishy about George Southern. See if you can get anything out of him.”

  “Are you going over there yourself?”

  “I think I’ll sit here. Take a copy of the notes. I’ll study them and see if I can think of anything. Where’s Simon?”

  “That divorce case.”

  “And Patrick?”

  “The supermarket job.”

  “Okay. You run along.”

  But Agatha did not study the notes. She fretted over what to wear. The day was cold and frosty. Her mind ranged back and forwards over the clothes in her wardrobe. Of course, she could go to Bicester where they had model gowns at knock-down prices. But that would mean neglecting the case. Sod the case, thought Agatha, putting on her coat.

  She bumped into Phil in the doorway. “Going to see someone,” she said. “Are you doing anything this evening?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’ve got a spare ticket for The Mikado. There’s a party afterwards.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”

  I mean old Phil doesn’t look as if I could be romantically interested in him, thought Agatha cheerfully. He’s old.

  * * *

  She had slight misgivings when she picked up Phil that evening. He was in full black-tie gear and his silver hair was brushed until it shone. I wish he looked a bit dowdier, thought Agatha. She was wearing a gold dress decked with little gold beads.

  There seemed to be some delay to the opening of the operetta. Then Gareth Craven, introducing himself as the producer, appeared in front of the curtains. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Unfortunately John Hale will not be appearing tonight. He has a bad cold. His place will be taken by George Southern.”

  “Oh, no!” said Agatha. “He’s horrible. Let’s go.”

  “Agatha,” said Phil firmly, “we have a good chance to study the members of the cast, particularly Gwen Simple. I feel it would be a good idea to watch the show.”

  “Okay,” said Agatha gloomily, banishing romantic dreams of serving John hot soup in front of a log fire.

  The show began. With a wig and heavy make-up on, George Southern was just about passable as Nanki-poo. He sang, “A Wand’ ring Minstrel I,” in a pleasant tenor, quite unlike the voice he had used to roar out the songs at the pantomime.

  Agatha hoped to escape outside for a cigarette at the interval, but the audience was warned that there was only to be a break of two minutes.

  The second act opened with the Three Little Maids. Gwen Simple sang “The Sun Whose Rays Are All Ablaze” in what even Agatha had to admit was a perfect soprano.

  Then she leaned forward in her seat. Dominating the stage was a large box, covered in fancy paper and tied up with tinsel ribbon. The maids kept eyeing it. There seemed to be some sort of holdup backstage. “It’s a present for me,” said Gwen. Obviously improvising, she knelt down and unwrapped the box and threw the lid open.

  Gwen let out one long scream, put her hands to her face and fainted dead away as the curtains were hurriedly closed.

  “Come on, Phil,” said Agatha. “We’d better get backstage.” As they made their way out of the theatre, they could hear Gareth Craven telling the audience there had been an accident and to collect their money from the box office.

  * * *

  Fortunately, the stage door man was not at his post. They hurried along the corridors to the sound of screams and yells, stopping short in the wings.

  On the brightly lit stage, Gwen was being supported by her “maids” at the side. A crowd of people were clustered around the box. Agatha thrust her way to the front and stared down at the contents. The severed head of George Southern stared up at her from the blood-soaked interior of the box.

  Agatha saw she was next to Gareth Craven. “Where
’s the rest of him?” she asked.

  “In his dressing room, I suppose,” said Gareth through white lips.

  Inspector Wilkes strode onto the stage, followed by three detectives, one of whom was Agatha’s friend, Bill Wong.

  “Clear the stage,” he shouted. “Is there a green room?”

  “Yes,” said Gareth.

  “Get everyone along there and nobody leaves until the police have taken statements.” He glared at Agatha. “And that goes for you, too.”

  He summoned two policemen who were waiting in the wings. “Make sure everyone is in the green room and no one is to leave.”

  * * *

  The green room was laid out for the after-show party. Efficient Phil commandeered two chairs for them and went to fetch Agatha a drink.

  Everyone was white faced. Gwen had started to cry. Phil returned with a large gin and tonic. Agatha took a gulp. She saw Gareth looking at her and summoned him.

  “Who played the Lord High Executioner? I seem to have lost my programme.”

  “Colin Blain.”

  The door to the green room crashed open. Inspector Wilkes surveyed the crowded room, his face a mask of contempt.

  “Where is Mr. Southern?” he shouted.

  “He’s dead!” wailed someone.

  “That head is a fake,” said Wilkes bitterly. “Someone’s idea of a practical joke.”

  Over the buzz of relieved voices, Agatha stood up and shouted, “You’ll probably find him at home.”

  “And what gives you that idea, Mrs. Raisin?”

  “He’s a comedian. It was probably his idea of a joke.”

  “You can all go home,” said Wilkes.

  “Come on,” said Agatha to Phil. “Let’s get to Winter Parva.”

  * * *

  “Where does he live?” asked Phil as Agatha roared out of Mircester.

  “Maybe above the gift shop but all we have to do is look for all the flashing blue lights.”

  “What can they charge him with?”

  “Wasting police time for a start,” said Agatha.

  The village of Winter Parva was in a hollow and thick mist had descended. As Agatha turned into the high street, she could see flashing blue lights outside the gift shop.

  She parked the car. She and Phil got out and stood near the entrance to the gift shop. Two policemen appeared, escorting George to a police car. George was shouting, “It was only a joke.”

  “He must be mad,” said Phil.

  “There’s a thought,” said Agatha. “Mad people commit murders.”

  * * *

  She dropped Phil off at his home and then drove to her cottage. Agatha still felt shaken and wondered if any of the cast would sue George for the distress he had caused. Gareth would probably try to get all the money back he had lost on refunded ticket sales.

  Her doorbell rang. First, she peered cautiously through the spy hole. The vision that was John Hale stood outside, wreathed in mist.

  Agatha wrenched open the door. “I just heard the awful news,” said John.

  “Come in. Let me take your coat. Let’s have a drink and I’ll tell you all about it. How did you hear what happened?”

  “Gwen called me but she was too distressed to go on.”

  Agatha struck a match and lit the log fire which her excellent cleaner had laid ready. “Now, what would you like to drink?”

  “Brandy, if you’ve got it.”

  Agatha poured two glasses, handed him one and sat down in an armchair. John was leaning back against the cushions of the sofa, very much at his ease.

  After describing the shock the fake head had caused, Agatha surveyed John.

  “I don’t think you’ve got a cold,” she said. “Why did you let George Southern take your place?”

  “He begged me. He said it was a dream of his to have the leading role. He’s got a good voice and I thought one evening wouldn’t hurt.”

  “The police will be looking for you,” said Agatha. “If they think you both planned it, you will be charged along with George.”

  “I had no idea the silly fool planned such a horrible joke. Oh, dear. Poor, poor Gwen. She must be in bits.”

  You can go off people, you know, thought Agatha. Yes, he’s beautiful. But what if I’m sitting here with a murderer?

  She said, “Perhaps you had better go home. The police will be looking for you.”

  “I suppose I must.” He got to his feet.

  The doorbell rang shrilly, startling both of them. Agatha went to answer it, peering through the spy hole and seeing Bill Wong standing on the step. “Come in,” she said, opening the door. “There’s someone here you’ll want to interview.”

  “I wanted to talk to you and ask you what you were doing there,” said Bill.

  “Later. John Hale is in the living room.”

  “We’ve been looking for him. Lead the way.”

  Agatha introduced them. John, who had got to his feet, sank back onto the sofa looking miserable.

  Bill questioned him closely. John’s moving rapidly up the list of suspects, thought Agatha. John explained that he was at home, marking exam papers, when Gwen Simple had phoned with the bad news. He knew Mrs. Raisin had been hired to investigate and he had given her tickets for the theatre and so he had called on her to find out more. Bill asked if there were any witnesses to the fact that he said he had been home all that evening. He gave the names of two parents who had phoned him during the time the show was onstage.

  He’s frightened, thought Agatha. Wait a bit. He said one of the parents who phoned him was Mr. Buxton. That must be Kimberley’s father. Should she tell Bill? Or was she going to protect John?

  She suddenly realised Bill’s shrewd almond eyes were fastened on her face. “What is it, Agatha?” he asked.

  Slowly and reluctantly, Agatha said, “Mr. Buxton is the father of Kimberley, a pupil at John’s school. The girl initially claimed Bert Simple had molested her, but now says he didn’t. Toni tried to get something out of the girl but had no luck.”

  “Buxton called on me at the school,” said John.

  “So what did Mr. Buxton want?”

  “He was angry with me,” said John. “He blamed me for telling Agatha about Kimberley.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. He said if I didn’t keep my mouth shut, I’d end up like Bert Simple.”

  “You should have phoned the police immediately,” said Bill severely.

  “If I phoned the police every time a parent threatened me, I’d never be off the phone,” said John wearily. “If their little genius—in their opinion—turns out to be failing English exams, they take it out on me.”

  “I would like you to call at police headquarters in the morning,” said Bill, “and sign a statement.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  After Bill had left, John rose and stretched. “What a horrible mess,” he said. “I hope they lock up George and throw away the key.”

  Agatha escorted him to the door and helped him into his coat. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you for not calling me a fool,” he said. “I owe you a meal. I’m a good cook. What about next Saturday evening?”

  Looking up into his handsome face, Agatha forgot about any doubts about him. “I’d love to. What time?”

  “Eight o’clock. Here’s my card with my address.” He kissed her on the cheek again. Agatha opened the door. Tiny snowflakes were beginning to swirl in the light over the door.

  “I’d better get home before this gets worse,” said John. “See you soon.”

  Agatha dreamily watched him go.

  * * *

  The newspapers and television were full of the fake-head story on the following day. Agatha finally locked her office door to keep the press out. Interest in the gruesome murder of Bert Simple had been reanimated and she knew Winter Parva would be full of the media.

  She settled down at her desk to read the newspaper reports. Gwen
Simple was reported as being too distressed to make a statement. Other members of the cast were threatening to sue George for causing them post-traumatic stress.

  Agatha turned to Patrick. “See if any of your police contacts can let you know if George has been charged.”

  Patrick put on his coat and left the office. Agatha looked out of the window. The snow was coming down thicker. If she did not make a move soon, she would not get to Winter Parva.

  But if she did go to try to see if George had been released and returned home, the press would all be waiting outside the gift shop.

  Mrs. Freedman was patiently answering the phone and reading from a typed statement.

  “Agatha Raisin was at the performance and witnessed the whole thing. George Southern begged to replace John Hale for one performance only. Mrs. Raisin does not know why he decided on such a horrible trick. Goodbye.”

  The calls grew less and finally ceased.

  Toni appeared and said it looked as if most of the roads were going to be impassable. She was soon followed by Simon and Phil, complaining about the same thing.

  They all sat, drinking coffee, and watching the white world outside the windows. Patrick appeared at last, shaking snow from his heavy overcoat. “George has been kept in overnight,” he said, “and they’re going to be interviewing him again today. Evidently Wilkes thinks that someone who could go to the lengths of performing such a macabre joke probably killed Bert.”

  “I believe members of the cast are threatening to sue him for causing post-traumatic stress,” said Agatha.

  “The actual charge,” said Patrick, “would be nervous shock and they would need to pay a psychiatrist to back up the claim. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything any one of us can do until they get the gritters out,” said Agatha. “You can all go.”

  “I don’t think I’ll make it to Carsely,” said Phil.

  There was a knock at the office door and a familiar voice called, “Agatha!”

  Agatha rushed to open the door. James Lacey, her former husband, stood there, smiling at her.

  “How did you get here?” asked Agatha. “Let me take your coat.”