Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley (6 page)

‘I could phone him up,’ she offered.

‘Knowing Jessica,’ tittered Peter, ‘she could already be shacked up with him.’

‘I’ll ring,’ said Deborah.

She went over to the public phone in the corner. Gustav answered. She breathlessly asked for Sir Charles.

‘Sir Charles is not at home,’ said Gustav.

‘Oh, I wondered if you had seen anything of my friend, Miss Jessica Tartinck?’

‘No.’

And then, somewhere in the regions of the house behind Gustav, Deborah distinctly heard Sir Charles calling, ‘Who is it, Gustav?’

‘No one,’ called back Gustav and put the phone down.

Deborah stared at the receiver in baffled fury. Then she slowly replaced it. Pride stopped her from telling the others she had been snubbed by a servant.

‘No, he hasn’t heard anything,’ she said.

Jeffrey looked at her in surprise. ‘But didn’t one of his keepers or gardeners see her?’

‘No,’ said Deborah, head bent.

‘Now what do we do?’ demanded Alice.

‘We’re not in the pages of a Gothic romance,’ said Jeffrey. ‘I mean, if you’re thinking she’s in the deepest dungeon of Barfield House in chains, forget
it.’

‘It may have nothing to do with Sir Charles,’ said Gemma. ‘All sorts of awful things happen to women these days.’

‘Wimmin like Jessica mug folks, they don’t get mugged themselves,’ said Kelvin.

It was at last agreed to leave the matter for another couple of days. A few more drinks and they all began to feel confident that Jessica was staying away to get even with them for having stood
up to her.

But two more days passed, and the Dembley Walkers met in the school.

No Jessica. It was Jeffrey who addressed the group. ‘I think we should all get together after work tomorrow and go out there and see if we can find any sign of her.’

‘No need for that,’ said Mary Trapp. ‘I’m convinced she is staying away to punish and frighten us.’

‘An’ I say, whit do we pay taxes for?’ demanded Kelvin truculently. ‘Call the cops.’

‘No,’ retorted Jeffrey fiercely. ‘Let’s see what we can do ourselves first.’

It was a clear warm evening when they all met up again. Ill-assorted as they were, Jeffrey could not help thinking how relaxed and happy they all were without Jessica around.
She had dominated them so much. He mentally pulled himself up. He was already thinking of her in the past tense. They marched out of Dembley in the golden evening. When they reached Sir
Charles’s estate, Jeffrey unfurled a large Ordnance Survey map of the Pathfinder series and with one grubby fingernail outlined the route.

A silence fell on the group. Without the militant Jessica heading them, none could get away from an uneasy feeling of trespass. The evening was very still and quiet. They carefully shut farm
gates behind them. Jessica would have left them open. Soon they reached the field of oil-seed rape blazing golden in the westering sunlight.

‘Look!’ said Jeffrey, stopping at the edge of the field. Jessica, they assumed it must have been Jessica, had certainly marched right into the field, trampling and stamping down the
flowers.

‘She must have
jumped
her way along to do this damage,’ said Alice, quite awed.

They fell into single file, Jeffrey at the head, and followed the track. Over the trees at the far end of the field rose the bulk of Barfield House.

‘The track stops here,’ said Jeffrey. ‘Was she burying something?’

They all gathered around and looked down at the mound of earth and torn yellow flowers.

Kelvin edged forward and scraped at the earth with one large foot. A little cascade of loose earth fell from the mound and there, sticking out, was a booted foot and a white leg, a white hairy
leg. Jessica never shaved her legs.

‘Oh, God,’ shrieked Alice. She knelt down and scrabbled at the earth with her fingers. Gradually Jessica’s body was exposed. Her earth-soiled face stared sightlessly up to the
calm evening sky.

Deborah turned away and was violently sick, Gemma began to weep, and Mary Trapp fainted, falling over the dead body in a grotesque embrace.

Kelvin pulled her away. ‘We’ve done enough. Get the police. Don’t you daft pillocks see? Someone’s murdered her.’

*   *   *

It was quickly discovered, once Jessica’s body had been turned over, that someone had struck her a vicious blow on the back of the head with a spade, striking down with
the edge, and then had made an ineffectual attempt to bury her. Bill Wong, waiting patiently by the tent which now covered Jessica’s body for one of his superiors to give him instructions,
had a fleeting thought that it was odd that Agatha should return from London to take up rambling and now here was a rambling murder. The lights placed on the field round the tent blazed into the
darkness. An owl hooted from the trees. A rising wind rustled the oil-seed-rape blossoms, bleached white by the lights.

Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes came up to him. ‘They’re all at the house, are they?’

Bill nodded.

‘We’d better start questioning them. We’ve learned all we can at the moment. She was struck violently from behind.’

‘Must have been a pretty powerful man.’

‘No, a woman could have done it. One good swing. It was a heavy spade.’

‘So who would have a spade to hand?’

‘That’s what we’ve got to find out. Too early for fingerprints yet. And it’s been raining since the murder, if she set out last Saturday, as she threatened to
do.’

‘Think Sir Charles lost his rag and biffed her?’

‘We’ll get a better idea of what sort of man he is after we speak to him. I hear the bane of your life is back in Carsely.’

‘My friend Agatha?’ Bill grinned. ‘I wonder what she’ll make of this.’

Wilkes shuddered. ‘Don’t even tell her.’

Gustav greeted them at the door. ‘I have put the persons you wish to question in the ballroom.’

‘We would like a word with Sir Charles first, if we may?’

Gustav inclined his head. ‘Come this way.’ His formal manner suddenly dropped. ‘And don’t take all night over it.’ He looked over their shoulders. ‘What is
it, Parsons?’

The policeman turned round. A tall thin man with a broken shotgun in the crook of his arm stood there.

‘I have shut the gates, Gustav,’ said Parsons. ‘But the press are trying to get to the house.’

‘Then shoot them,’ said Gustav patiently. ‘This way, gentlemen.’ He held open the door of Sir Charles’s study. Wilkes hesitated a moment, obviously wondering if
that order to shoot the press was to be taken seriously, and then decided it wasn’t.

He introduced himself and Bill Wong.

Sir Charles sat behind a large leather-topped desk. He folded his hands neatly on top of it, and surveyed them with bright interest.

‘Now, Sir Charles,’ said Wilkes. ‘Just a few questions. The dead body in your field is that of a member of a rambling group called the Dembley Walkers. We believe she was
killed last Saturday, possibly around the middle of the afternoon. That was the time she intended to be walking across your land. Did you see her?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you last Saturday?’

‘In London. I have a flat in Westminster.’

‘Address?’

He gave it to them.

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘Gustav drove me up and my aunt, Mrs Tassy, came with us.’

‘We will be having a word with both Gustav and Mrs Tassy.’

‘You can speak to Gustav for as long as you like. But must you speak to my aunt? She is lying down at the moment. All this has been a great shock to her.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow. But we must speak to her. Tell us what you know of the Dembley Walkers.’

‘Not much,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Here’s a letter Miss Tartinck wrote to me and here’s a copy of the letter I sent in return.’

They studied both. Wilkes said, ‘So with such a charming invitation, why was Miss Tartinck alone, do you think?’

‘Oh, I can tell you that. I took one of the girls from the ramblers out to the cinema.
Citizen Kane.
Jolly good film. Have you seen it?’

‘Many times,’ said Wilkes.

‘Anyway, she said that the rest didn’t like this Jessica’s militant attitude and told her to go by herself.’

‘So you knew she was coming?’

‘Yes, but I had friends to see in London and so I decided to make myself scarce.’

‘The name of these friends?’

‘The Hasseltons. But I didn’t get around to seeing them. It was a wet day and I decided to stay in my flat and watch television.’

‘So you really have no witness to the fact that you were in London?’

‘But I told you, my aunt and Gustav.’

‘We would have liked a witness less close to you.’

‘Meaning they would lie for me? That’s a bit naughty.’

‘We’ll speak to you again, if we may, Sir Charles,’ said Wilkes, getting to his feet.

‘Must you? Don’t be all night, will you?’

‘Where would the murderer have found that spade?’

‘I don’t really know. I suggest you talk to my land agent, Mr Temple. He lives in Dembley.’ Sir Charles scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘That’s his address and phone
number.’

Wilkes took it. ‘Where are these ramblers?’

‘I think Gustav’s put them in the ballroom.’

‘Why there?’ asked Wilkes curiously.

‘I suppose because we hardly ever use it.’

Wilkes turned in the doorway. ‘Which one of the ramblers was it you took out?’

‘Nice little thing called Deborah Camden.’

Gustav was waiting outside the door. He led the way across the vast expanse of the hall, down a corridor at the end and threw open a door. The ballroom was oak-panelled like the rest of the
house. In a little island of chairs, which had been unshrouded from their covers for the occasion, sat the ramblers. A great Waterford chandelier blazed overhead. In the musicians’ gallery
overlooking the ballroom sat one policeman, and another stood guard beside the door.

Wilkes turned to Gustav. ‘I would like to question them one at a time. Is there somewhere we could use?’

Gustav hesitated and then said, ‘Come with me, sir.’

He opened a door next to the ballroom. ‘Used to leave cloaks here in the old days,’ he said. ‘Good enough?’

Wilkes looked round. There were a few hard chairs, a long mirror along one wall, and nothing else except a black and empty fireplace.

‘I suppose this will do. Send Deborah Camden in first.’

‘I have to attend to Sir Charles,’ said Gustav. ‘Get her yourself.’

‘I used to dream that one day I would be rich,’ said Bill Wong after Gustav had left, ‘and have servants. A short experience of Gustav is enough to persuade me that robots
would be preferable.’

‘May as well get started instead of discussing the servant problem. Get Deborah in.’

When Deborah came in, Wilkes studied her closely. She was very pale. A shy, insignificant little thing, he thought, amazed that Sir Charles should even consider dating her.

‘This is just an initial interview, Miss Camden,’ he said. ‘We will need you to call at the police station tomorrow, where we will take an official statement. What were you
doing last Saturday afternoon?’

‘I went shopping in Dembley.’

‘And would any of the shop assistants remember you?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. I was window-shopping. A teacher’s pay doesn’t go very far.’

‘How is it you know Sir Charles?’

‘I was sent out to check the right of way but I didn’t want to be accused of trespass, so I called at the house. Sir Charles gave me tea, took my phone number, and then asked me
out.’

‘We’ll return to Sir Charles in a moment. What do you know of Jessica Tartinck?’

Deborah’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I wish I hadn’t quarrelled with her,’ she said shakily.

‘Was the quarrel about the right of way?’

Deborah nodded dumbly.

‘It’s a sad business, but try to compose yourself. Tell us what you know of Jessica’s background.’

In a faltering voice, Deborah outlined what she knew. She knew Jessica had been with the anti-nuclear women protesters on Greenham Common when it had been a missile base. She had been arrested
on a couple of occasions for cutting the wire. She had been vague about the posts in teaching she had held before she came to Dembley. No, no, they hadn’t been
close.
Jessica had been
living with Jeffrey Benson but he had thrown her out.

‘Why?’

‘The same reason that the rest of us got angry with her. She liked finding out rights of way that quite often the landowner didn’t even know he had, and then making trouble. It was
exciting for a bit, but I suppose we were all getting a bit tired of her bossing us around,’ said Deborah. ‘I’m only speculating, of course. I wasn’t there when Jessica had
the row with Jeffrey.’

Deborah visibly grew more at ease as the questioning continued. She said that although Jessica seemed to have annoyed them all in one way or another, she could not think of anyone actually
hating Jessica enough to kill her. ‘But I think I know who did,’ she ended triumphantly.

‘Who?’ demanded Wilkes.

‘Gustav, that servant. He’s weird and I think he could be violent.’

‘We’ll be checking on him. We expect to see you at the central police headquarters in Mircester tomorrow to make a statement, Miss Camden. See the policeman at the door of the
ballroom before you leave and he will give you a time to call on us. And send in Jeffrey Benson.’

Bill Wong studied Jeffrey when he entered. Something was tugging at the back of his mind. He felt the police had been interested in Jeffrey before. Jeffrey Benson was a big, powerful man with
receding hair tied back in a pony-tail.

He was warned it was a preliminary interview and then asked about his relations with Jessica Tartinck.

‘We were lovers,’ said Jeffrey. ‘I suppose you want the old-fashioned term.’

Being well aware of what the new-fashioned description would be, Wilkes pressed on.

‘We’d like you to begin at the beginning and tell us how it came about that Miss Tartinck went out walking along the old right of way on her own.’

For one who did not like the police, Jeffrey appeared, surprisingly, an ideal witness. He described everything from the beginning, then Jessica’s speech trying to rally them all, then how
they had had a row, although he omitted any mention of Irishmen, simply saying he was tired of ‘bossy women’. ‘There was no real affection between us,’ he said. ‘She
wanted what I’d got and I gave it to her.’ Like Deborah, he had no alibi for the Saturday afternoon. He had done a few chores at home. Maybe he had gone to the Grapes. He couldn’t
really remember.