The Blood of an Englishman Page 9

  When Agatha went downstairs in the morning, it was to find a note from Roy saying he had been called back to London. “I often wonder if that young man really likes me,” said Agatha to her cats. “Or does he only come in the hope of getting some publicity for himself?”

  She let her cats out into the garden and stood looking at another grey, cold day. A high wind was driving ragged clouds across the sky. Agatha felt lonely. She tried to contact Charles but was told by Gustav, his gentleman’s gentleman, that he had gone abroad. It was Sunday, so the vicar’s wife would be busy. She had a longing to go back to bed, pull the duvet over her head and wake up when dreary Sunday was over. She decided to sit down at her computer and go over all the notes and interviews on the Winter Parva murders.

  The suspects were stacked up before her eyes, a sort of log jam of suspects without a single clue to break them up and throw up one suspicious person. Still, she tried making a list of likely murderers. She put Harry Crosswith top of the list. According to Patrick Mulligan’s police sources, his wife was his only alibi for the time of George Southern’s death. Then there was David Buxton, Kimberley’s father. Before she went on, she began to wonder if there was someone she hadn’t even thought of. What about Colin Blain, who had played the role of the Lord High Executioner?

  She checked in the phone book. There was a C. Blain listed in Winter Parva. With a feeling of being back in the hunt again, Agatha put on a warm coat and headed out.

  Colin Blain lived on the housing estate on the edge of the village. His was a detached house of the kind that has two rooms upstairs and two down. Agatha rang the bell. She recognised Colin without his stage make-up because he had been the smallest member of the cast, being barely five feet tall. He had thinning hair, combed in strips across a freckled scalp. His blue eyes were watery and his face was dominated by a large bulbous nose.

  “Yes?”

  Agatha handed him her card and explained that she was still investigating the murders.

  “I don’t have anything to tell you that I haven’t told the police,” he said.

  “Just a few questions,” said Agatha. “Can we go inside? It’s freezing out here.”

  “Oh, all right.” He stood aside to let her past and then opened a door in the small hallway and ushered her into a living room where a tall, mannish woman was watching television. “My wife,” he said. “Darling, leave us alone for a minute. This is a detective.”

  “Not again,” grumbled his wife, but she left them alone after switching off the television.

  “I really want to know if it was your idea to get that sword sharpened,” said Agatha.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Agatha sat on a battered sofa and Colin on an equally battered armchair. Threads were hanging off the side of the armchair as if a cat had been sharpening its claws on it.

  “It was meant to be a bit of fun,” said Colin. “I mean, make it a real executioner’s sword for a laugh. I took some melons in and cut them up for the chorus before the show, demonstrating how sharp the sword was.”

  “And where did you put it afterwards?”

  “I shut it in a cupboard in my dressing room. With all that fuss over the fake head, anyone could have gone in there.”

  “And you were in on the joke? I mean placing the box with the fake head on the stage?”

  “Yes. The idea was they would look at it when the curtain came down.”

  “The head was very lifelike,” said Agatha. Did George make it?”

  “Yes. He was awfully clever with papier-mâché. When we had a fair in the village last year, he constructed carnival heads. Some of the heads were of the villagers and very lifelike they were, too. Mind you, he annoyed a lot of people with his practical jokes.”

  “But can you think of anyone who would be annoyed enough to kill him?”

  Colin shook his head.

  “But what about the sword? Surely the police would take it away after the practical joke. They would regard it as a dangerous weapon.”

  “I think they forgot it. They were so fed up with us all and yakked on about wasting police time. So, like I said, I shut it up in the cupboard in my dressing room.”

  “George Southern was a bachelor?”

  “No, he was married but the marriage broke up years ago.”

  “Does his wife live in Winter Parva?” asked Agatha.

  “She lives in Mircester, or did do, the last I heard.”

  “Do you have an address for her?”

  “No, but I ’member someone saying it was in one of those tower blocks out by the industrial estate.”

  “What was her name before she got married?” asked Agatha.

  “Alice Freemont.”

  Back in her car, Agatha checked on her iPad for the correct address. She found an A. Freemont listed at Haden Court, wrote down the address and headed back towards Mircester.

  A group of tower blocks loomed up against the steel grey sky. Bits of rubbish blew across a parking lot outside Haden Court. To Agatha’s relief, the lift worked, because she had discovered from studying a board at the entrance that Alice’s flat was on the top floor. As she came out of the lift, the icy wind seemed to cut through to her very bones.

  She hurried along the open corridor and rang the bell of Alice’s flat, suddenly wishing she had phoned first.

  The door was opened by a small woman whose features showed a sort of faded prettiness. Her brown hair was curly and her eyes, brown. She was wearing two sweaters over a pair of jeans.

  Agatha introduced herself. “You’d better come in,” said Alice. She had a soft, Gloucestershire accent.

  The living room looked as if it had been furnished by Ikea. There were no books, pictures or photographs and everything was scrupulously clean.

  “If you’re here to ask about George, I can’t help you,” said Alice. “I can’t think of anyone who might want to have murdered him.”

  “Why did your marriage break up?” asked Agatha.

  “Do sit down.”

  Agatha sat on a sofa and Alice sat next to her.

  “Fact is,” said Alice, “it was because he wouldn’t stop playing practical jokes. Even on our honeymoon, he put a rubber spider in the bed and gave me a fright. The odd thing is, I saw him a week before he died. He didn’t have to pay alimony or anything like that. It was an amicable divorce. But he turned up saying he wanted us to get back together again. He said he was lonely. I told him I’d made a life for myself and I didn’t want to marry him again. He said he was coming into money…”

  “How?” asked Agatha.

  “He didn’t say. But he said he was going to sell the gift shop and we could go abroad.”

  “Did you think the money he was talking about was to come from the gift shop?”

  “I can’t understand it. I know he took out a second mortgage.”

  Agatha scowled horribly in thought. At last she said slowly, “Just suppose George knew the identity of the murderer and was blackmailing him. Is that possible?”

  “He certainly was always short of money. But I can’t believe he would do something so dangerous. He might just have confided in that girl who worked for him, Molly Kite.”

  “I’ll try her. Do you know her address?”

  “I think I still have it somewhere.” Alice left the room and returned shortly with a bulky address book. She turned the pages and then said, “Here she is. Number five, The Loaming. It’s a little road that runs along the back of the high street.”

  * * *

  Feeling she might be getting somewhere at last, Agatha drove back to Winter Parva. At first, Agatha thought that Alice had made a mistake. The Loaming seemed to have nothing more than sheds, no doubt belonging to the shops on the high street. But right at the end, she found a small brick cottage.

  Agatha knocked at the door. A dingy lace curtain on a window on the right twitched and then she could hear shuffling footsteps. The door was opened by a squat man in his pyjamas. He smelled strongly of beer. His
sparse hair stood on end.

  “Does Molly Kite live here?” asked Agatha.

  “She’s at work.”

  “Where’s work?”

  “You the social?”

  “I’m a private detective,” said Agatha, wishing for the hundredth time she had the power of the police.

  “Works at Jacey’s supermarket, her does,” he said and slammed the door.

  Agatha shouted through the letter box, “Which Jacey’s?” Jacey’s was a chain of supermarkets.

  A faint voice reached her ear. “Mircester.”

  Agatha got back into her car and drove off, switching on the heater as she did so. As she drove up out of Winter Parva, she suddenly saw a small clump of snowdrops by the roadside and felt cheered. Surely the cold days must be coming to an end.

  Jacey’s was on the outskirts of Mircester. Agatha really meant to park her car as far away from the entrance as she could, as that way she could get some exercise, but the day was so cold, she slid into a space nearest the front doors.

  Once more she wished she were a police officer. If she were, she could ask for the manager and demand that Molly be brought to her. Instead she headed for the customer services desk and asked to speak to Molly. She had to state her business and was told that Miss Kite would be on her break in half an hour. If Mrs. Raisin would take a seat, they would see whether she was willing to talk to her.

  So Agatha sat on a chair by the entrance, suffering in the blasts of cold air that flooded in every time the automatic doors opened. A figure suddenly loomed over her and a cultured voice said, “I know you from somewhere.” Agatha looked up. A tall man stood there, holding a plastic bag of groceries. He had a square, pleasant face, thick grey hair and brown eyes. He was wearing a Barbour with a red scarf tucked in at the neck.

  “I don’t think so,” said Agatha cautiously.

  “I know. I’m a friend of James Lacey. You were married to him, weren’t you? I was a guest at your wedding.” His face crinkled up in an attractive smile. Agatha’s spirits soared.

  “I was thinking of going for a drink,” he said. “Feel like joining me, or are you waiting for someone?”

  “Just resting,” said Agatha, consigning her appointment with Molly to the devil.

  “There’s a pub just along the road,” he said. “I’ll drive us and then bring you back to your car.”

  Damn this awful weather, thought Agatha. I’m sure my nose is red and these flat-heeled boots make me feel dumpy. He led the way to a Land Rover.

  “Still detecting?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. What about you?” asked Agatha.

  “I’m a farmer. Got a place not far from here.”

  “I didn’t think farmers would shop in supermarkets,” said Agatha. “I mean, when it comes to supplying local produce, they’re not very loyal.”

  “It’s handy for a few things. Here we are.” He drove into the car park of a pub called The Dog and Duck.

  He got out and went round and helped Agatha get down. Is he being a gentleman, she fretted, or does he think I am old? How old is he? Despite the grey hair, I think he’s about my age.

  The pub had a cheerful log fire. Agatha asked for a gin and tonic, saying that although she was driving, one wouldn’t hurt. He found them a table near the fire and went to get her drink and a pint of beer for himself.

  Before he sat down, he removed his coat. Agatha shrugged her own coat off, wishing, because she had been feeling so low, that she had not decided to wear old clothes. Her trousers were baggy at the knees.

  “So,” he said, “what are you detecting?”

  Agatha thought guiltily of Molly Kite, no doubt wondering what had happened to her.

  “I’m trying again,” she said, “to find out who murdered these people in Winter Parva.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Still a lot of dead ends.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  So Agatha did. When she had finished, he said, “You should be careful. If George Southern was murdered because he knew the identity of the man who killed Bert Simple and he thought you were getting close, he might kill you.”

  “Well, I’ll need to find him before he finds me,” said Agatha.

  “I must be getting back,” he said.

  “Yes, your wife must be wondering what’s happened to you,” said Agatha.

  “Like you, I’m divorced. I live with my son. I was lucky to get custody. Do you work on Saturdays?”

  “Not often.”

  “Why don’t you come and see the farm?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’ll give you directions.”

  Agatha wrote them down. She felt as if the long-awaited spring was blossoming inside her.

  When he dropped her at the supermarket, she felt she would leave Molly Kite until later.

  She forgot about the other men in her life and looked forward to Saturday. But some caution prompted her to call on her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, who had a good knowledge of people over quite a wide area.

  But Mrs. Bloxby said she had never heard of Paul Newton, but that she would ask around. She looked unusually distracted so Agatha asked her if anything was bothering her.

  “The bishop,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “He’s back on the attack. Alf, he says, must do more to attract young people to the church. We are to have a pop group next Sunday. They call themselves The Charistmatic Christians. I have heard them. They are very loud. So we’re back to that same old business—Jesus is your pal. Clap happy. No grandeur. No real spiritual belief. Nothing to be scared of which means nothing to respect.”

  “I think that’s silly,” said Agatha, who hated to see her friend worried. “I’ll see what I can do. I mean, it’ll drive away the regulars and no young person is going to bother coming.”

  “On the contrary, they have quite a following. I suppose I am being dreadfully old-fashioned. Don’t worry. The bishop will soon turn his attention elsewhere. Besides, it’s kind of you to suggest it, but there really is nothing you can do.”

  “One thing,” said Agatha before she left, “if Charles or James wants to know where I am, don’t tell them.”

  * * *

  Saturday dawned, damp, cold and drizzly. Agatha wore a dark green cashmere trouser suit and moderately high-heeled boots. She wondered what it would be like to be a farmer’s wife. It was a pity he had a son. Wrapped in a rosy dream where the son was saying, “Dad, it’s time you put the past behind you and got married again,” Agatha followed the directions to the farm.

  When she arrived in the farmyard, Paul came out to meet her. He was wearing a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing powerful arms.

  “Come in and have a coffee,” he said, “and meet Luke, my son.”

  Agatha followed him into an impeccably clean kitchen. A tall young man with a thatch of black hair and who looked very much like his father rose as Agatha and Paul entered.

  “This is my son,” said Paul. “Luke, this is Mrs. Raisin.”

  “Agatha, please.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Luke, rising to his feet. “I am never familiar with the aged.”

  “Luke! A word with you,” said his father furiously.

  They moved into another room. Agatha could hear raised voices but not what they were saying. What a bad beginning!

  At last, Paul came back. “I’m sorry about that. My son is very possessive. Usually, it’s the other way around. But we won’t let it spoil our day. Tell you what, I’ll put the coffee on and while it’s percolating, I’ll show you my Charolais. I’m very proud of them. They took first prize last year at the Moreton show.”

  He glanced down at Agatha’s boots. “You’d better borrow a pair of Wellingtons.”

  “I’ll be all right,” said Agatha. “My heels aren’t very high.”

  She followed him out of the farmhouse, across the yard, and to where a large barn stood. Agatha could feel the damp, clinging drizzle playing havoc with her make-up. Paul unfastened the doo
r of the barn. “Go and take a look,” he said. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl, and city-born Agatha’s bones were made of pavement. “What marvellous beasts!” she said, hoping she wasn’t expected to get nearer to the great white animals. The only time Agatha felt comfortable with cattle was when they were neatly cut up into steaks.

  At last, feeling his visitor had admired his prize cattle long enough, Paul led the way back to the farmhouse.

  Clasping a mug of coffee, Agatha asked if he minded if she had a cigarette. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll have one myself.”

  Bless the man, thought Agatha, lighting up. I really must marry him.

  * * *

  At that moment, Mrs. Bloxby was facing Toni Gilmour. The vicar’s wife was incapable of lying, but she said, “I cannot tell you where Mrs. Raisin is. She really did not want anyone to know.”

  “I’ve tried her mobile, but it’s switched off,” said Toni, “and I really think she’ll want to hear my news.”

  Mrs. Bloxby remembered that she had only been instructed not to tell Charles or James where Agatha was.

  “Is it really important?” she asked.

  “Very.”

  “Mrs. Raisin is visiting a farmer called Paul Newton. I know his farm is in the Mircester area but that’s all.”

  * * *

  Agatha was back in the farm kitchen, feeling tired and miserable. Her boots were muddy and the rain had suddenly changed from a drizzle to a downpour, washing off what was left of her make-up. She felt she had walked miles and miles, looking at rain-sodden fields lying under a lowering sky.

  Luke crashed into the kitchen. “Sit down,” ordered his father. “I’m just about to serve lunch.”

  Shrugging on his coat, Luke said, “I’m going to the pub.”

  “I’m sorry about my son’s manners,” said Paul as the farm door slammed behind Luke.

  But the door crashed open again. “Dad!” cried Luke. “Someone absolutely gorgeous has just driven up.”

  There came a tentative knock at the open door and then Toni walked in. She was wearing a long scarlet padded coat and her blond hair was tied up on top of her head.