A Spoonful of Poison Page 8

  Occasionally, she worried about Toni. The girl seemed to have lost a lot of her sparkle, although her work was as efficient as ever.

  One Friday evening when she found herself alone with Toni in the office, Agatha said, “Let’s go for dinner.”

  “All right,” said Toni. “Where?”

  “There’s a new fish restaurant in Mircester, the other side of the square. It’s supposed to be good.”

  Once settled over plates of Dover sole and a carafe of house white, Agatha said, “Out with it.”

  “With what?”

  “There’s nothing up with your work, Toni, but you’ve been looking depressed and that’s not like you. Is it anything to do with Bill?”

  No, it’s…”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “So what’s up?”

  “It’s silly.”

  “I can be the queen of silliness where men are concerned,” said Agatha with a rare burst of honesty.

  “It’s Harry Beam.”

  “My Harry Beam? What happened? I saw you both in Comfrey Magna and have been meaning to ask you about that.”

  Toni told her about meeting Harry in Mircester and about their trip to Comfrey Magna, ending with “He asked me out for dinner, but I said I had a date.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “You know my background, Agatha. Harry’s posh. I felt intimidated.”

  “Don’t be. Nothing to be ashamed of. Your mother’s sobered up a treat. You haven’t anyone else in your family to worry about.”

  “It’s just… I feel caught between two worlds. All my friends are from working-class backgrounds.”

  “I’ll bet your mind raced on to the wedding and to meeting his parents.”

  Toni gave a reluctant smile. “Something like that.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about the English class system,” said Agatha, pouring more wine into their glasses. “People do go on about it, but it’s not as bad as France or Spain, say. These days, anyone with a job is now middle class. You’ll come across pockets of snobbery in the Gloucestershire middle classes, but those people are not worth bothering about. I had a lousy drunken family background just like you. Harry’s the last person to worry about where you come from. When the university holidays start, I’ll ask him to dinner with a few other people and you can take it from there. I feel pretty insecure socially at times, but I just charge along regardless. So don’t worry. Now, on to another subject. What do you make of Jimmy Wilson?”

  “I don’t like him,” said Toni. “He leers at me and makes my skin crawl. I wonder why he left the police force without waiting for retirement?”

  “There’s a point. I sometimes wonder if he really did have cancer. I’ll get Patrick to ask around. Now, cheer up!”

  They drank a lot more wine and followed it up with large brandies. Agatha decided she had better leave her car and take a taxi home.

  When the cab turned into Lilac Lane where her cottage was, she was dismayed to see that a police car and a van from the security firm, which had installed her burglar alarm, were parked outside.

  A policeman came up to meet her as she got out of the taxi and paid off the driver. “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “Are you Mrs. Agatha Raisin?”

  “Yes, yes. What’s going on?”

  “Someone tried to break into your house by the kitchen door. The alarm went off. Whoever it was seems to have been frightened by the alarm and ran away without going into the house, but you had better check and see if anything is missing.”

  Agatha unlocked the front door and went in. “We turned off the alarm,” said a security man behind her. “We’ll reset it, but you’ll need some repairs to your kitchen door.”

  Alerted by the police activity, villagers began to head towards Agatha’s cottage. The local carpenter said he would go back and fetch his tools and fix the door. Agatha turned down various offers of cups of tea.

  Bill Wong drove up. “Do you think this was an ordinary burglar, Agatha, or have you been stirring something up in one of your cases?”

  Agatha fiddled nervously with a silver chain around her neck and then, with an exclamation, pulled the whole chain out of her blouse to reveal a safe deposit box key attached to the end.

  “I wonder if it could have been anything to do with this.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Bill. Mrs. Bloxby came hurrying up, asking what had happened, and Bill waited impatiently while Agatha explained how her cottage had been broken into.

  “Agatha was just about to tell me why it might be something to do with the key hanging around her neck. We’d better go somewhere quiet. A forensic team should be arriving shortly.”

  “We’ll go to the vicarage,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “My husband is out this evening and no one will disturb you.”

  In the comfortable peace of the vicarage, Agatha explained how she had kept the safe deposit key in order to protect the accountant.

  “Now that the LSD case has been solved, I don’t think you need to worry any more.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Agatha. “It’s like this. The terrible twosome, Tubby and Tolling, say that Sybilla pushed George Selby’s wife downstairs. What if Sybilla’s suicide note was only apologizing for that and the LSD maniac is still at large?”

  “What has that got to do with the money?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  “I have an idea,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Mrs. Raisin, leave the key with the police. I will pay a visit to Comfrey Magna tomorrow and let as many people as possible know that that is where the key is.”

  “Good idea,” said Agatha. She lifted the chain with the key from around her neck and handed it to Bill. He wrote out a receipt and gave it to her.

  “Now, let it go, Agatha,” said Bill. “I checked our records on the death of Sarah Selby and it did seem to be a straightforward accident. She was carrying a tray and lost her balance.”

  “And yet it took Sybilla Triast-Perkins one whole hour before she phoned the emergency services.”

  “She said she fainted with shock.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Agatha, I’m sure you’ve got enough on your hands at that agency of yours without trying to find out murders that never existed. I’ve got to go.”

  Toni at that moment was thinking uneasily of Agatha’s offer to hold a dinner party so that she could meet Harry again.

  With her mother being drunk and incapable until comparatively recently, Toni had brought herself up. Agatha had already organized her life by finding her a flat and buying her a car. Toni suddenly felt she wanted a part of her life that was private and had nothing to do with Agatha. She had her own key to her office. Toni let herself out of her flat and walked round to the agency. Once inside, she searched the computer files until she found Harry’s e-mail address.

  She decided to write to him. “Dear Harry,” she typed. “I am sorry I turned down your invitation for dinner. I didn’t have a date. I’m a bit shy, that’s all. Hope to see you again. Toni.”

  She left the computer on, made herself a cup of coffee, and sat down on the sofa to watch the computer screen. After half an hour there was a ping from the computer signalling the arrival of new mail. Eagerly she read it. It said, “Dear Toni. See you next Saturday? OK? Harry.”

  Hurriedly Toni typed back. “Dear Harry, I’ll meet you on Saturday at The George in Mircester. Eight o’clock. OK? Toni.”

  She waited anxiously. Back came a message. “Great, see you then, Harry.”

  Toni felt a rush of elation. She carefully deleted all the e-mails to and from Harry. Then she began to worry. What if Harry couldn’t make it and e-mailed the office and Agatha read it? She hurriedly typed out another e-mail to him, giving him her mobile phone number and telling him to text or call her if by any chance he couldn’t keep the appointment. She sent it off, deleted it and switched off the computer.

 
Agatha, finally in bed in her cottage and listening nervously to every rustling in the thatch above, decided to delegate all the agency work and return to Comfrey Magna. Even if someone had meant the LSD to be just a silly joke, two women had died and that meant unsolved murders. She somehow did not believe that Sybilla had been responsible.

  Chapter Six

  THE WEATHER WAS MISERABLE. Ever since the thunderstorm, it had rained steadily, weeping from heavily laden clouds that seemed to sit on top of the Cotswolds hills.

  Agatha’s cats, Hodge and Boswell, mewed disconsolately as they stared out at the deluge from the ledge in front of the kitchen window.

  Everything felt damp, but the air was not cold; rather it was heavy, hot and humid. Meteorologists said it was the La Nina effect, as opposed to the El Nino, which all seemed to mean that it was guaranteed to rain and rain for weeks to come.

  Agatha drove to Comfrey Magna and parked outside the vicarage. She climbed out of her car, unfurled a large umbrella and hurried to the vicarage door, wishing she had worn Wellington boots, for her shoes were soaked by the time she covered the short distance to the shelter of the front porch.

  Trixie answered the door, her golden hair cascading about her shoulders. “So what now?” she asked rudely.

  “I would like to have a word with your husband,” said Agatha.

  “If you must. Come in. He’s in the study.”

  Trixie pushed open the door of the study and wandered off. Agatha went in. Arthur was sitting at his desk with George Selby.

  Agatha was taken aback at the sight of George. She had forgotten how very handsome he was. “Come in. Sit down,” said Arthur. “Arnold has just left. We have more or less finished working out where the money goes. Do you have the safe deposit key? We are going to transfer the money into an account and then, when the chequebook is issued, we will start sending out cheques.”

  “The police have the key,” said Agatha. “Someone tried to break into my cottage, so I thought the key was safer there. If I had thought of it at the time, it might have been more sensible to deposit it in an account right away.”

  “We all agreed to the safe deposit box,” said Arthur. “At that time, it seemed more sensible than having chequebooks lying around before we had worked out who gets the money apart from what is needed for the repairs to the roof. So many people seem to just walk into the vicarage during the day. I am sure everyone in the village is honest, but, just in case, we let everyone know that the money was in the safe deposit box. I’ll drive Arnold over to… Mircester, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll pick up the key soon and arrange a time to go to the bank. Is this a social call?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were satisfied that Sybilla Triast-Perkins put LSD in the jam.”

  “Alas, yes. I am afraid the poor lady had been behaving oddly these past few months. So sad. But such a relief to have the whole matter solved. I sent you a cheque for your services.”

  “Thank you. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.”

  “My dear lady, it is because of you that we will be able to repair the church.”

  George’s grass-green eyes fastened on Agatha’s face. Could they really be that green? Or could he be wearing contact lenses?

  “Mrs. Raisin…”

  “Agatha, please.”

  “Agatha. Can it be that you have doubts about the police verdict?”

  “Well, I can’t help wondering how Sybilla got hold of something like LSD.”

  “Have the police confirmed it was LSD?”

  “Wait a minute.” Agatha took out her phone and called Jimmy Wilson on his mobile. “Jimmy, I forgot to ask you, was it LSD in the jam at Comfrey Magna?”

  She listened carefully, thanked him and rang off. “Yes, she said. LSD it was. So how did she get her hands on it? If it was a young woman, I could imagine her getting it at a club, although even that’s odd because it’s all Ecstasy and heroin and cocaine these days, not to mention some lethal-type pot grown in greenhouses. She wasn’t a chemist at some time in her life?”

  “As far as we know, she never worked,” said George. “But perhaps she had a wild youth and had some left over.”

  “But why did her suicide note refer to one death and not two?”

  Said the vicar, “She could hardly have been in a normal state of mind when she wrote it. Her sister is at the manor at the moment. You could ask her. But really, Agatha, our little village has settled back into its usual tranquil ways. The funerals of Mrs Andrews and Mrs. Jessop were very moving and yet healing in their way. We were all united in our grief.”

  “I think I’ll go to the manor,” said Agatha. “The sister, Mrs. Unwin, might have something interesting to say.”

  “Perhaps now might not be a good time,” said George. “The poor woman must still be grieving.”

  “Oh, right,” said Agatha.

  She left the vicarage and found Charles waiting by her car. “I thought I might find you here,” he said. “What’s all this about suicide at the manor?”

  Agatha gave him all the details and her suspicions that Sybilla’s suicide note had been referring to the murder of Sarah Selby rather than the jam at the fête.

  “I’ve been warned off at the vicarage against going to see her,” she finished by saying.

  Charles grinned. “And that’s not going to stop you?”

  “No.”

  “Right. Leave your car and we’ll take mine.”

  The rain was coming down in torrents by the time they reached the manor. The door was standing open.

  “Anybody home?” called Agatha. Rainwater was dripping through the roof into several buckets placed about the hall.

  A plump, fussy woman appeared in the hall. “What do you want?”

  “Mrs. Unwin?”

  “Yes?”

  “I am Agatha Raisin…”

  “You’re that wretched woman who started all this off by interfering in the village fête! Get out of here.”

  “And this,” said Agatha loudly, “is Sir Charles Fraith.”

  Oh, the magic of a title, thought Agatha cynically, as Mrs. Unwin visibly thawed. “I suppose it will do no harm to speak to you for a little,” she said. “Come into the drawing room. Would you like some tea or coffee, Sir Charles?”

  “It’s all right,” said Charles. “You’ve obviously got a lot to do with all these leaks.”

  “That was so like my sister,” complained Cassandra Unwin as she led the way into the sitting room. “Never had any repairs done.”

  “Will you sell this place?” asked Charles.

  “I’ll need to fix it up. Mind you, a builder would pay a lot for it. Knock down the house and put a housing estate on the land.”

  “Wasn’t this your family home?” asked Agatha.

  “We grew up here, but I don’t have any happy memories. If Sybilla hadn’t insisted on hanging on to the place, she might have made a better life for herself. But suicide! I can’t take it in. She can’t have been responsible for anything like putting LSD in the jam. Where would she get it?”

  “Your sister only referred to one death in her note,” said Agatha, “and yet there were two caused by the LSD.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose she was sane when she wrote that.”

  “I believe she was very fond of a Mr. George Selby,” said Agatha, cautiously feeling her way through what she saw as a minefield of difficult questions.

  “She talked a lot about him. I think she even had a sort of schoolgirl crush on him. Why do you ask?”

  Charles saw that Agatha was going to jump in with both metaphorical hobnailed boots, and said hurriedly, “We wondered whether he had called on you. Perhaps he might have a better idea as to your sister’s state of mind.”

  “Then why don’t you ask him? Really! I have a lot to do and I cannot see the point of all these questions.”

  Charles thanked her and, taking a reluctant Agatha by the arm, propelled her outside. “It’s no use,” he
said. “You’re not going to get anywhere. You can’t come right out and ask her if Sybilla murdered George’s wife. She won’t have a clue anyway.”

  “Let’s go and see Maggie Tubby and Phyllis Tolling. They’re the ones who put the idea in my head.”

  The rain was still pouring down and they stood under an umbrella on the porch of the cottage in the main street, which seemed to be rapidly turning into a river behind them.

  Phyllis opened the door. “You again. I thought the case was closed.”

  “Not quite,” said Agatha.

  “Come in.”

  Maggie was reading a book in the front parlour. “Who’s your friend?” she asked.

  “This is Sir Charles Fraith, who is helping me in the investigation.”

  “A ‘sir,’” mocked Maggie. “How too terribly Dorothy Sayers. What do you want now?”

  “Why did you suggest that Sybilla killed Sarah Selby?”

  “We’re sure she did. She was so unbalanced when it came to George. Now it looks as if she went even battier and tried to poison the village.”

  “But in her suicide note, she said she was sorry about a death. A death. Not two.”

  “You don’t think she would be in exactly a sane state of mind,” said Phyllis. “What’s the matter with you? Trying to drum up some business? I tell you, the sooner that accountant gets to the bank and you give him that safe deposit key and he starts sending some money to the Andrews and Jessop families, the better it will be.”

  “How do you know about the safe deposit key?” demanded Agatha.

  “It’s all over the village. Everyone’s been trying to get their hands on some of the money. Some claim that the visitors trampled over their gardens and ruined them-that sort of thing.”

  “So the only reason you think Sybilla killed Sarah Selby was a hunch?”

  “Of course it was a hunch, you thickheaded creature. If we’d had any proof, we’d have gone to the police.”