Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet (9 page)

Agatha followed him silently up a winding drive. She did not want to look at any manor house because manor houses belonged to James Lacey’s world and not to hers. The drive, edged with rhododendron bushes, opened up and there stood the manor house. The mist had thinned and pale sunlight washed the golden walls. It was low and rambling and settled and charming, exuding centuries of peace. Even Agatha sensed that wars and conflicts, plague and pestilence had passed this old building by.

A small square woman in a twin set and tweed skirt came out with a black retriever at her heels. ‘Can I help you?’ she called.

‘Just admiring your beautiful home,’ said James, approaching her.

‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ she said. ‘Come inside and have some tea. I don’t often get visitors until the summer, when all my relatives decide they would like a free holiday.’

James introduced them. The woman said she was Bunty Vere-Dedsworth. She led the way into a dark hall and then through into a large old kitchen gleaming with copper pans and white-and-blue china on an old dresser which ran the length of one wall.

‘Lacey,’ she said, as she plugged in an electric kettle. ‘I used to know some Laceys down in Sussex.’

‘That’s where my family comes from,’ said James.

‘Really!’ She had cornflower-blue eyes in a reddish face. ‘Old Harry Lacey?’

‘My father.’

‘Gosh, small world. Do you ever see the . . .’

Agatha, excluded from that intimidating conversation of the upper classes which consisted of names and exclamations of recognition thrown back and forth, moodily sipped her tea and felt James moving out of her sphere. She could picture him living in a place like this with an elegant wife, not with some retired public relations woman such as herself who would only be able to swap names with someone from the rather nasty Birmingham slum in which she had grown up.

‘What brings you here?’ said Bunty at last.

James said, ‘Our vet in Carsely died and we went to offer Mrs Bladen our sympathies, but she doesn’t seem in need of any.’

‘No, she wouldn’t,’ said Bunty. ‘She had a very unhappy marriage.’

‘Other women?’ suggested Agatha.

‘I think it was more a question of money, or the lack of it. Greta Bladen was a wealthy woman when she married Paul, and he seemed to spend a great deal of her money. When she left him, that dingy little cottage was all she could afford. She really hated him. I heard how Bladen died. Now if he had been found dead because someone had biffed him with the frying-pan, that someone being Greta, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. But you’d really need to know about veterinary things to shove a syringe full of deadly stuff in him. I mean, think of it. How many of the population would know that stuff was deadly? Maybe his partner wanted the business for himself.’ And Bunty laughed.

James looked at his watch. ‘We really must go.’

‘Must you?’ Bunty smiled at Agatha. ‘Then do come back and see me. I’d like that.’

Agatha smiled back, feeling all her social inadequacies fade away, feeling welcome.

‘She had a point,’ said Agatha as she drove out of the village. ‘I mean about Rice. Surely it would need to be someone with a knowledge of veterinary medicine.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he remarked. ‘That story about the vet who died last year when the horse nudged his breast pocket with the syringe in it and caused his death was in all the local papers. I read it. Anyone could have read it and got the idea.’

‘But it would need to be someone who knew where he was going and what he was doing on that day.’

‘Any of his lady friends might know. “What are you doing tomorrow, Paul?” “Oh, I’m cutting the vocal cords of one of Pendlebury’s horses.” That sort of thing.’

‘Yes, but say he had said that to me. I wouldn’t immediately think of Immobilon.’

‘No, but a vet might talk about it, saying how deadly it was and talking about the accident of the previous year. I’ve got a feeling a woman did it.’

Agatha was about to exclaim, ‘So you
do
think it was murder,’ but decided to remain silent in the hope of more days of investigation together.

Bill’s home came as a surprise to Agatha. She had naïvely expected something, well, more oriental and exotic. The Beeches was one of those closes designed by builders, each house different, with trim suburban lawns, oozing respectability and dullness. Agatha knew that Bill’s father was Hong Kong Chinese and his mother from Gloucestershire, but she had not expected him to live somewhere so ordinary. Bill’s house was called Clarendon, the name being poker-worked on a wooden sign hung on a post at the gate. They went up a trim path between regimented flower-beds and rang the bell, which played a chorus of ‘Rule, Britannia’.

Bill himself answered the door. ‘Come in. Come in,’ he cried. ‘I’ll just put you in the lounge and go and get the drinks. Ma’s in the kitchen getting dinner ready.’

Agatha and James sat in the lounge, not looking at each other. There was a three-piece suite, shell-backed, in a nasty sort of grey wool material. There were venetian blinds drawn down over the ‘picture’ windows and ruched curtains. The fitted carpet was in a noisy geometric design of red and black. The wallpaper was white and gold Regency stripe. There were little occasional pie-crust tables on spindly legs. A display cabinet full of Spanish dolls and little bits of china stood against one wall. A gas fire with fake coals and logs burned cheerfully but threw out very little heat.

Agatha longed for a cigarette but could not see an ashtray.

Bill came in with a small tray on which were three tiny glasses of sweet sherry.

‘You’re honoured,’ said Bill. ‘We don’t use this room much. Keep it for best.’

‘Very nice,’ said Agatha, feeling strange and awkward at seeing her Bill, chubby and oriental as usual, in these cold English suburban surroundings.

‘May I use your toilet?’ she asked.

‘Top of the stairs. But don’t go standing on the hand basin.’

Agatha climbed up thickly carpeted stairs and pushed open the door of a bathroom which contained a suite in Nile green. The toilet had a chenille cover. A flowery notice on the back of the bathroom door stated, ‘When you have had a tinkle, please wipe the seat.’

She tugged at the toilet roll to get a piece of tissue to blot her lipstick and started in alarm as the toilet-roll holder chimed out ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ said Bill when she arrived downstairs again.

He led them across the hall and into another small room, the dining-room, where at the head of the table sat his father, a small morose Chinese gentleman with a droopy moustache, a grey baggy cardigan and large checked carpet slippers.

Bill performed the introductions. Mr Wong grunted by way of reply, picked up his knife and fork and stared at the polished surface of the laminated top of the table. Agatha looked down at a place-mat depicting Tewkesbury Abbey and wished she had not come.

A hatch from the kitchen shot up and a Gloucester accent said shrilly, ‘Bill! Soup!’

Bill collected plates of soup and passed them round. ‘Have you got that bottle of Liebfraumilch, Ma?’ he called.

‘In ’er fridge.’

‘I’ll get it.’

Mrs Wong appeared. She was a massive woman with a discontented, suspicious face and appeared to resent having guests. Bill poured wine.

The soup was canned oxtail. Little triangles of bread were passed around. Even James Lacey seemed stricken into silence.

‘Roast beef next,’ said Bill. ‘Nobody does roast beef quite like Ma.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said Mr Wong suddenly, making Agatha jump.

The roast beef was incredibly tough and the table knives were blunt. It took all their concentration to hack pieces off. The cauliflower was covered in a coat of thick white sauce, the carrots were overcooked and oversalted, the Yorkshire pudding was like salted rubber and the peas were those nasty processed kind out of a can which manage to turn everything on the plate green.

‘Days are drawing out,’ said Mrs Wong.

‘That’s for sure,’ said Mr Wong.

‘Soon be summer,’ pursued Mrs Wong, glaring fiercely at Agatha, as if blaming her for the seasons.

‘I hope we get another nice summer,’ said James.

Mrs Wong rounded on him. ‘You call last summer nice? Did you hear that, Father? He called last summer nice?’

‘Some people,’ muttered Mr Wong, taking more cauliflower.

‘So hot, it nearly brought on one of my turns,’ said Mrs Wong. ‘Didn’t it nearly, Father?’

‘That’s for sure.’

Silence.

‘I’ll get the pudding,’ said Bill.

‘Sit down,’ said his mother. ‘These are your guests. I told you I wanted to watch that quiz on the telly, but you would have them.’

Soon bowls of stewed apples and custard were banged in front of them. I want to go home, thought Agatha . . . Oh, please God, let this evening be over quickly.

‘Take them through to the lounge,’ said Mrs Wong when the dreadful meal was over. ‘I’ll bring the coffee.’

‘You really must show me your garden,’ said James. ‘I’m very interested in gardens.’

‘We’re not going out in the evening air to catch our deaths,’ said Mrs Wong, looking outraged. ‘Are we, Father?’

‘Funny thing to suggest,’ said Mr Wong.

To Agatha’s and James’s relief, they had only Bill for company over coffee. ‘I’m so glad you could come,’ said Bill. ‘I’m really proud of my home. Ma’s made quite a little palace out of it.’

‘Really cosy,’ lied Agatha. ‘Bill, are you sure there is nothing odd about Bladen’s death?’

‘Nothing that anyone could find,’ he said. He looked amused. ‘You two have been sleuthing.’

‘Just asking around,’ said Agatha. ‘Bill, do you mind if I have a cigarette?’

‘I don’t, but Ma would kill you. Come out into the back garden and have one there.’

They followed him out into the garden. James let out a gasp. It was beautifully laid out. A cluster of cherry trees at the bottom raised white-and-pink branches to the evening sky. A wisteria just beginning to show its first leaves coiled over the kitchen door. ‘This is my patch,’ said Bill. ‘Makes a change from policing.’

James marvelled that Bill, who obviously had such an eye for beauty, could see nothing wrong with his parents’ home. Agatha wondered how Bill could have such admiration and affection for such a dreary couple and then decided she admired him for it.

James was becoming happy and animated as he discussed plants and Agatha thought again of her own neglected garden and decided that if this investigation fell through, then gardening might be a subject they would have in common. By the time they returned to the dreadful lounge for more horrible coffee served in doll’s cups which Mrs Wong called her best ‘demytess’, the three were at ease with each other.

‘I like to return hospitality,’ said Bill to James. ‘I’m always dropping in to Agatha’s for a coffee, but she’s never been here. Now you know the road, you’re welcome to come any time.’

‘Have you moved here recently?’ asked James.

‘Last year,’ said Bill proudly. ‘Dad’s got this dry-cleaning business in Mircester and he’s really built it up. Yes, we’re moving up in the world.’ His good nature seemed to transform his home into the palace he thought it to be and Agatha and James thanked Mrs Wong very warmly for her hospitality before they finally left.

‘It will be a cold day in hell before I go back there again,’ said Agatha, as they drove off.

‘Yes, I’m still hungry. I cut up that beef and pushed it under the vegetables to make it look as if I’d eaten it,’ said James. ‘We’ll stop somewhere for a drink and a sandwich.’ He said this almost absent-mindedly, as if to an old friend, taking her acceptance for granted, and Agatha felt so ridiculously happy, she thought she might cry.

Over beer and sandwiches, they decided to continue their investigations the next day. ‘What about Miss Mabbs?’ asked Agatha suddenly. ‘Look, we know Bladen was a womanizer. Miss Mabbs was that pallid female who worked as receptionist. What of her? She must have known all about the operation on that horse. I wonder where she is now?’

‘We’ll find her tomorrow. You can smoke if you like.’

‘I feel like an endangered species,’ said Agatha, lighting up. ‘People are becoming so militant about smokers.’

‘They’re puritans,’ said James. ‘Who was it said that the reason the puritans were against bear-baiting was not because it gave pain to the bear but because it gave pleasure to the crowd?’

‘I don’t know. But I should give it up.’

‘Bill said an odd thing when we were leaving,’ said James. ‘He said, “Don’t go about stirring up muck or you may promote a real murder.” ’

‘Oh, he was joking. He’s a great one for jokes.’

Agatha would have been most surprised if anyone had called her a romantic. She considered herself hard-headed and practical. So she did not realize the folly of wild dreams and fantasies.

In her mind, since she had said goodbye to him the evening before, she was married to James Lacey, and most of her dreams had been of a passionate honeymoon, and the lovely thing about dreams is that one can write the script, and James said beautiful and loverlike things.

So Agatha, next morning, forgot all her plans of being cool and detached. James had said he would call for her around noon and that they might have a bite to eat in the pub before trying to find out what had become of Miss Mabbs.

Agatha decided to make a romantic lunch. So when James turned up on her doorstep, he shied nervously before an Agatha in a low-cut blouse, tight skirt and very high heels, who was glowing at him. He fidgeted nervously in the hall as she waved a hand in the direction of the dining-room and said she’d thought they may as well have lunch at her place.

Through the open door of the dining-room, James saw the table set with fine china and crystal and candles burning in tall holders – candles in the middle of the day!

Panic set in. He backed out of the door. ‘Actually, I came to apologize,’ he said. ‘Something’s come up. Can’t make it.’ And he turned and fled.

Agatha could practically hear the ruins of her dreams tumbling about her ears, brick by brick. Red with shame, she blew out the candles, put the china away, went upstairs, scrubbed off her thick make-up and put on a comfortable old dress like a sack, thrust her feet into slippers and shuffled back down to stare at the soaps on television and try not to brood on her gaffe.