The Blood of an Englishman Page 6

  “I’ve invested in a Land Rover with snow tyres,” said James. “I’ve been reading all about the Winter Parva case and wondered if you needed any help.”

  “Oh, that would be great,” said Agatha. She studied James. He was as handsome as ever. Then she remembered how difficult their marriage had been. And James had been furious when Agatha had insisted on keeping the name Raisin, that of her first husband, for business. Then her racing mind thought, I must get rid of him by next Saturday. I don’t want anyone messing up my date with John.

  Aloud, she said, “We could drop Phil back off in Carsely and go on to Winter Parva from there. Toni, Simon, you’ve both got digs close by so you can go now.”

  Young Toni blushed slightly as she passed James, remembering when she had once had a crush on him.

  Simon hurried after her. James sat down next to Agatha at her desk.

  “I’ve been looking at my notes,” said Agatha, “and I’ve just remembered something. Gareth Craven, the producer of the pantomime who’s hired me to investigate, well, he told me he wanted to marry Gwen Simple but that he was married at the time.

  “But Bessie Burdock was the one who told us that Gareth had rushed off to get married after Gwen got married. It’s a small lie, but it’s a lie all the same.”

  “Maybe he was just trying to save face,” said James. “But I’d like to meet this Gareth Craven.”

  “We’ll go in a minute,” said Agatha. “I’ve got Toni’s notes here. I hadn’t time to read them. She thinks Kimberley really wanted to tell her something but her father was making threatening noises and she clammed up. She plans to go back and try to get Kimberley on her own.”

  “So let’s brave the snow,” said James, “and see what Gareth has to say for himself.”

  * * *

  The main roads had been gritted but it was hard going on the untreated country roads leading to Winter Parva. Agatha covertly studied James and wondered what he was thinking. His handsome face seemed inscrutable. Did he ever think of the nights in bed they had spent when they were married? Probably not, thought Agatha, feeling suddenly frumpy and deflated.

  “Isn’t this that village where they roasted a cop at the pig roast?” asked James.

  “The very one,” said Agatha. As they drove along the main street, she said, “Just look at it. Like a picture postcard. I can’t help wondering what goes on behind those net curtains and closed doors. Probably husbands beating the shit out of their wives.”

  “Cynic,” commented James.

  “Slow down,” said Agatha. “It’s that house over there.”

  * * *

  There was no reply when they rang the doorbell.

  “Could it be that he is in Mircester getting ready to put the show on again?” asked James.

  “He might,” said Agatha. “He has to get back the money that was paid back on the first night. But before we go back, I’d like to see if George Southern has been released by the police. The gift shop is in the main street. It’s right next to the post office.”

  They drove to the gift shop. There was a Closed notice on the door.

  “Probably still being grilled by the police,” said James.

  “Surely not.” Agatha peered out of the car. The snow had turned to large flakes, drifting slowly down. “Wait a moment. There’s a light on upstairs.”

  They got out and went up to the shop door. James hammered on it and the door slowly opened. A chorus of “Behold the Lord High Executioner” sounded from above.

  “Let’s go up,” said Agatha.

  “It’s trespass,” said the ever-cautious James.

  “We’ll shout.”

  Agatha began yelling, “Mr. Southern!”

  “He’ll never hear you,” said James. “He’s playing the music awfully loudly.”

  Agatha lifted the counter and made her way through to the back shop. “Look! There are stairs leading up,” she said.

  “I really don’t think…” began James, but Agatha was already mounting the stairs.

  She pushed open the door at the top, releasing a blast of sound.

  Agatha was about to walk in when she stopped short and let out a whimpering sound. She turned round and collided with James.

  “It’s awful,” she said.

  He put his arms round her. “What’s awful?”

  “His head is on his living room floor and there’s blood everywhere.”

  “Let me see. The idiot’s probably playing another stupid trick.”

  He released Agatha and edged past her.

  James saw the head, the blood and the bloody executioner’s sword lying on the carpet.

  “Let’s get out of here. Call the police.”

  He helped her down the stairs and into the Land Rover after he had called the police.

  “Oh, James,” wailed Agatha. “I have seen some terrible sights in my career but I think this is the worst.”

  He put an arm round her. “The police will soon be here. We’ll make our statements and go back to Carsely where you can have a warm drink.”

  * * *

  At one point it seemed as if the police would never arrive but then Wilkes, Bill Wong and Alice Peterson drove up in a police Land Rover. “I’ll deal with this,” said James, getting out of his vehicle.

  But Agatha got out as well, telling herself she was a detective and to get a grip.

  The snow had suddenly stopped and a pale sun shone down through a break in the clouds.

  James rapidly told Wilkes what they had seen.

  “Detective Sergeant Peterson will take your statements,” said Wilkes. James saw a pub opposite.

  “We’ll go over to the pub,” he said.

  “Very well,” said Wilkes. “But stay there until I join you.”

  * * *

  “You should really have hot sweet tea,” admonished James as Agatha clutched a large gin and tonic.

  “Hate the stuff,” said Agatha, taking a gulp of her drink.

  James described what they had seen while Alice recorded his statement on tape and also wrote it down in her notebook.

  When it was Agatha’s turn, she felt it was like describing a nightmare.

  “Do you think that was the sword from the theatre?” asked Alice.

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha. “There’s some awful hate-filled person around. To play that music!”

  At last Wilkes and Bill joined them. “The forensic team are going over everything,” said Wilkes.

  “Did you find the rest of the body?” asked Agatha.

  “It was in the corner of his living room behind the sofa. It looks as if someone sliced his head off while he was asleep. What is even more horrible, is that there was a CD of the executioner’s chorus. Someone had programmed it to play over and over again. You will now need to go with Peterson to police headquarters and wait until your statements are prepared and then sign them.”

  * * *

  On the road to Mircester, James suddenly swung into a lay-by and stopped the car.

  “Agatha, I want you to drop this case,” he said.

  “I’ve never dropped a case yet,” said Agatha. “Why?”

  “Because this mad murderer might come after you.”

  “James,” said Agatha wearily, “I will put it on hold. By tomorrow or even later today, the village of Winter Parva will be thick with the media and tomorrow, the world’s media will join them. There will be squads of police going from door to door. I won’t be able to get near anyone.”

  “I really do wish you would drop it.”

  “No and no. Drive on.”

  * * *

  After they were finished signing their statements, James left Agatha at her office. She waited until her small staff had all come back, complaining about the difficulty of getting anywhere through the snow.

  Agatha told them about the latest gruesome murder. “I had better phone Gareth Craven,” she said finally. “I won’t be able to proceed with any investigation while the village is flooded wit
h police, rubber-neckers and the whole of the world’s media. You can all go home. We’ll do what we can tomorrow. This snow can’t last forever.”

  After they had all left, Agatha phoned Gareth Craven. He sounded frantic. “I can’t take much more of this. Haven’t you the slightest idea who is doing this?”

  “Not yet. But I will, I promise you,” said Agatha with a confidence she did not feel. “I will be back on the job once the press hysteria cools. I called on you before I found George but you weren’t at home.”

  “I was out at an old neighbour’s shovelling snow.”

  “I tried your mobile.”

  Gareth gave a shaky laugh. “I’d left it at home. What is this? Am I a suspect?”

  “No,” said Agatha quickly. “I just wondered if you had seen anything or heard anything.”

  “I wish I had. I must try to see Gwen. This is awful for her.”

  “Let me know what she or anyone else says,” said Agatha.

  She had just put down the phone when it rang. It was John Hale. Agatha’s heart gave a lurch.

  “This is awful, horrible,” said John. “I’m in Mircester. May I call on you?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Agatha. “But aren’t you on stage tonight?”

  “We were going to perform as usual but the police said the theatre must be closed down. Be with you in a few minutes. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  After she had rung off, Agatha slid out the bottom drawer of her desk and took out a magnifying mirror and a bag of make-up. She cleaned off her old make-up and put on a fresh layer and then brushed her hair until it crackled with electricity. Her black cashmere sweater was all right, she decided, as were her black tapered trousers, but she was wearing flat-soled boots, and, without heels on, Agatha felt demoralised.

  As she waited for John, Agatha began to wonder uneasily about him. Why had he allowed George to take his place?

  But when John walked in, Agatha surveyed all that masculine beauty and forgot about her doubts.

  “Do sit down,” she said. “Have the police been questioning you?”

  “Over and over again,” said John.

  “Why at the theatre?”

  “Evidently it was the executioner’s sword that killed George.”

  “But these stage swords are surely made of wood,” said Agatha.

  “This one was steel. It had been made razor sharp.”

  “How does Blain explain the sharp sword?”

  “He said it was as dull as anything during rehearsals,” said John.

  “I wonder if the blacksmith sharpened it,” said Agatha.

  “I’m sure the police will think of that. I owe you dinner.”

  Agatha’s phone rang. “I’d better answer that in case it’s the police again.”

  But it was Mrs. Bloxby. “Such awful weather,” said the vicar’s wife. “But the farmers have cleared the road down to the village and the A44 has been salted and gritted. I left a lamb casserole on your doorstep. All you need to do is heat it up.”

  Agatha thanked her and turned to John. “That was my friend, Mrs. Bloxby. She’s left one of her famous lamb casseroles for me. Why don’t you come back with me and we’ll have dinner at my place?”

  “I’d love to, but I don’t have snow tyres,” said John.

  “I do,” said Agatha, her mind full of romance. “I’ll run you to Carsely and then take you home.”

  * * *

  Agatha’s head was crowded with dreams as she drove home. She would suggest he stay the night … and then … and then …

  The casserole was on the doorstep under a wooden box. Agatha carried it in, lit the oven and put it in.

  James, who had been worried about her, had seen her arrival from his window. He phoned Charles.

  “Agatha has just arrived home with an exceptionally handsome man. Do you know who he is?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” said Charles. “I may run over and join the party. Maybe later.”

  * * *

  Agatha and John had a pleasant dinner. Agatha had found a good bottle of wine and then produced a bottle of brandy. John seemed to enjoy chatting about the school and Agatha loved watching his face.

  Then he said, “We’ve been drinking rather a lot. Do you think you can really drive me home?”

  “Why not stay the night?” said Agatha. “I have a spare room.”

  He smiled. “I am rather tired.”

  “I can take you back in the morning.”

  * * *

  Bustling about in a housewifely way, quite unlike her usual behaviour, Agatha found him clean towels and one of Charles’s dressing gowns he had left behind on his last visit.

  She stood hopefully outside his bedroom door. “I hope you have a good night’s sleep,” she said.

  “I’m sure I will.” He bent down, kissed her on the cheek and retreated into the spare room.

  “Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha, stumping off to her own bedroom.

  She lay awake for a long time, nursing hopes that he might join her, but at last fell into a heavy sleep.

  * * *

  Charles Fraith let himself into Agatha’s cottage shortly after midnight. He was tired. His aunt’s dinner party seemed to have gone on forever. He yawned and opened the door to the spare bedroom and switched on the light. He stared at the man in the bed, switched off the light and retreated.

  He opened Agatha’s door. The moon shining in the window showed Agatha asleep on one side of her double bed. He shrugged, then stripped off his clothes and climbed in beside her. He folded his hands neatly on his chest and soon was sound asleep.

  * * *

  John awoke early. He phoned his headmaster to find the school was closed because of the snow. He tried to go back to sleep, but decided instead to get up and go downstairs for a cup of coffee.

  He put a bath towel over his arm and headed for the bathroom. It was locked. He was just turning away when the bathroom door opened. He swung round. A naked man was surveying him.

  “Good morning,” said Charles. “We haven’t been introduced. I am Charles Fraith. And you are?”

  “John Hale.”

  “Ah, the schoolteacher. I’d better get dressed. I’m sleeping in Agatha’s other spare room. Practically a cupboard. See you downstairs.”

  Charles walked past him but waited until John had gone into the bathroom. He went into Agatha’s bedroom and hurriedly dressed. Agatha was still asleep. When he was dressed, he shook her awake.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Agatha.

  “Hush. I met your inamorato. I told him I had slept in the other spare room.”

  “You know there isn’t one. Where did you sleep?”

  “Beside you, my sweeting.”

  “Damn you! I am taking those keys I gave you back, once and for all. Get the hell out of here!”

  “Not till I have had coffee. And I have news for you. The chief constable came for dinner last night.”

  Agatha heard John leaving his room. “Say you’re one of my detectives,” she hissed.

  John made his way down to the kitchen. He had not told Agatha he had been married and had a son. He found the alimony and child maintenance he had to pay left him with not very much money. Agatha was obviously rich. Her cottage was well appointed. A rich wife could ease the burden.

  * * *

  Agatha dressed hurriedly and went downstairs, just in time to hear the doorbell ring. When she opened the door, James was standing on the step.

  “Oh, come on in and join the party,” said Agatha crossly. “Why don’t you invite the whole village?”

  And with that, she turned her back on him, leaving him to close the door and follow her into the kitchen.

  John, she saw to her dismay, was freshly shaved. He must have used one of her razors. She turned red with embarrassment.

  “I took the liberty of taking a clean shirt out of the wardrobe in the spare room. And I found an electric razor in one of the drawers.”

&nb
sp; “This is my ex-husband, James Lacey,” said Agatha, not wanting Charles to say he left spare clothes in the spare room. She hadn’t known about the razor because her cleaner, Doris Simpson, always cleaned that room along with the others.

  “James, this is John Hale. He was supposed to be in The Mikado the night George Southern took his place.”

  “Doesn’t anyone want to hear my great news?” asked Charles, taking one of Agatha’s cigarettes and lighting it.

  “Out with it,” commanded Agatha.

  “David Buxton has been taken in for questioning.”

  “How did you find that out?” asked Agatha.

  “As I said, the chief constable was at a dinner party last night. He said Buxton took the sword to the blacksmith and had it ground until it was razor sharp. He then showed off to some of the chorus, showing it was so sharp it could slice a dropped scarf in half. He said he did it to surprise Colin Blain.”

  “And has he confessed?”

  “Not a bit of it, says it was a joke. But wasn’t his daughter supposed to have been sexually assaulted by Bert Simple?”

  “That’s right. If only it can turn out to be him,” said Agatha. “On the other hand, I am being paid to investigate and if the police solve the murder, I won’t get any money.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Agatha,” said John. “Think of poor Gwen. It would be marvellous for her to have closure.”

  “I don’t give a sod for poor Gwen,” said Agatha. “She may have committed the murders herself.”

  “And with that, love flew out the window,” murmured Charles.

  “If you don’t mind,” said John stiffly, “I would like to get back to Mircester.”

  “Of course, I’ll drive you,” said Agatha. “Do let yourself out, Charles, and lock up behind you. I expect you to report to the office later and type up a report.”

  “Is Charles one of your detectives?” asked John.

  “Yes,” said Charles at the same time as James said, “No.”

  “Part time,” said Charles airily. “Off you go.”

  Chapter Five

  John was silent for part of the journey to Mircester. Who was this Charles Fraith? He had not expected any competition if he decided to pursue Agatha. But there was a strange rapport between her and this Charles. And he hadn’t liked the suspicious looks her ex had been giving him. But Agatha was not only attractive but rich.