Authors: M. C. Beaton
* * *
As Mark talked enthusiastically to James about his ambition to write a book, Agatha gathered that Mark wanted to write any sort of book without knowing whether it was to be fiction or nonfiction. James found out that Mark’s favourite reading was spy stories and suggested he could write one based on his experiences in Dubai. Agatha began to think there was something almost schoolboyish about Mark.
At last she yawned and said she had to go to bed. Mark reluctantly left with her and walked her to her cottage next door. To her irritation, Agatha recognised Charles’s car.
“Are you going to invite me in?” asked Mark.
“Not tonight. I’m tired.”
“We must do this again. I’ll phone you.” He kissed her warmly on both cheeks.
Agatha let herself into her cottage. Charles was asleep on the sofa with the cats on his lap. She glared at him and then went up to bed.
Would she really need to be in love with a man to get married to him? Mark was easy company. She paused. Where was the murderer now? Was she putting Mark in danger? And what about Charles and James? What about herself?
She opened her bedroom window and leaned out. A squat dark figure was just hurrying out of the lane. Agatha felt a spasm of pure dread. Whoever it was hadn’t been walking a dog. There were only two cottages in Lilac Lane, her own and James’s, and the lane ended at a field.
She rushed downstairs and shook Charles awake. “There was someone out in the lane,” she said.
Charles straightened up, spilling cats onto the floor. “So what?”
“So what reason does anyone have for coming along here?”
He got to his feet. “I’ll go and have a look.”
“No!” screamed Agatha, hanging on to him. “I don’t want to lose you.”
He grinned. “This is so sudden.” He planted a kiss on her nose. “I’ll be careful.”
Charles slipped on his shoes and went out into the lane. The air was damp and close and there was no moon. He ran lightly to the end of the lane. There was a streetlight at the corner. But it appeared the whole of Carsely had gone to sleep. Charles returned slowly to Agatha’s cottage. He was worried about her. He had known Agatha to cope with murder and mayhem before and she always came bouncing back from every fright as good as new. But these murders were getting to her. She should get away on holiday and forget about the whole thing.
A pattering in the leaves of the lilac tree at the gate made him look up. Rain was beginning to fall.
“Anything?” demanded Agatha as he walked in.
“Nothing. Go to bed. You should go away somewhere, Aggie, and forget about the whole business. You’re becoming a nervous wreck.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I nail this bastard,” said Agatha.
“Well, go to bed and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
* * *
The grey, drizzly morning had a calming effect on Agatha. Horrors somehow seemed worse in bright sunlight. Charles was already up and on his way out. “Maybe see you later,” he said.
Agatha had sometimes thought she might tell him she was turning the spare room into an office because she did not like the cavalier way he came and went in her life, but, she reminded herself, he had saved her life.
She decided to forget about the murders for the time being and concentrate on the work in hand. It was a busy week and the staff all worked hard. Agatha realised with delight that she would finally be able to give everyone a bonus and that news, delivered to her staff on Friday evening, was greeted with a great cheer. Agatha often worked on Saturdays with one other member of her staff, but decided that this time, as part of the celebration, they should all have the week-end off.
Agatha was sure Charles would have disappeared again. She did not want to be alone and planned to leave her cottage and walk up to the pub. But as she arrived, she saw Roy Silver’s car parked outside her door. She often viewed her former employee as an irritation. He was asleep at the wheel. She rapped on the window and he came awake with a start.
When he got out of the car, Agatha noticed that, for Roy, he was more soberly dressed than usual, wearing a business suit, but with a white shirt open at the neck, revealing enough gold chains to make an Indian woman’s dowry.
“You’ve got to help me,” he said as soon as he was out of the car.
“Come inside and tell me all about it,” said Agatha. She wondered for a moment if Mark would phone and reminded herself she was not really interested in him.
The rain had stopped but the garden was still soaked. They sat in the living room. Roy asked for a vodka and tonic and Agatha helped herself to a gin and tonic.
“Now,” she said. “What’s up?”
“I was to handle the Leman account, you know, the Paris perfume people. Big promotion for their new perfume, Passion. Pedman gave it to that conniving bitch Maisie Byles.” Pedman was Roy’s boss.
“The wonderful world of public relations,” said Agatha. “I’m glad to be out of it. Who the hell is Maisie Byles?”
“She only joined a month ago. Came from our rivals, JIG Publicity. Smarmed all over Mr. Pedman from day one.”
“What does she look like?”
“Rabbity. Protruding eyes and big teeth.”
“So how has she managed to charm Pedman?”
She found out the date of his little son’s birthday and brought in a present. She offered to babysit when his babysitter let him down.”
“JIG Publicity is a big powerful firm,” said Agatha. “Why did she leave?”
“Don’t know. She sneers at me.”
“I’ve got a contact at JIG,” said Agatha. “I’ll see if I’ve got his home number.”
She went to her desk, pulled out a drawer and lifted out a bulging address book.
“You must be the only person to still use an address book,” commented Roy.
“Old numbers,” said Agatha curtly. “Now what was his name? Maybe it’s under JIG. Ah, here we are. Duncan Macgregor. Scottish as malt whisky. I’ll phone him.”
She rang a number and waited. Then she said, “No reply. I’ll try his mobile.”
This time Duncan answered. After the preliminary pleasantries, Agatha said, “What can you tell me about Maisie Byles?”
Roy waited impatiently, wishing he could hear what Duncan was saying.
At last, he heard Agatha say, “That’s interesting. I’ll bet Pedman didn’t know anything about that.”
She began to talk about her detective work, obviously in answer to Duncan’s questions. Finally she rang off.
Agatha sat down and took a gulp of her drink and then said, “Maisie Byles left before she was pushed. She was handling Happytot baby formula. The silly cow went on her Facebook page and said that all mothers should be forced to breast-feed. Furious people at Happytot. JIG lost the account. Going to sack her but she cried and cried and said she had an invalid mother to support so instead they suggested she find other employment.”
“Oh, dear,” said Roy. “Do you think she has an invalid mother?”
“Not for a moment,” said Agatha.
“So what do we do?” asked Roy.
“I’ll send Pedman an e-mail and tell him all about it. If I do, are you sure you’ll get the account?”
“Yes, it was initially offered to me but Maisie piped up and said surely it would be better if the account were handled by a woman.”
“Okay, help yourself to another drink while I send this e-mail.”
Agatha typed out an e-mail and sent it off.
“He always checks his e-mails, even at week-ends,” said Roy. “Maybe he’ll contact me.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Agatha.
“So what’s been happening in Murderville?” asked Roy.
“Quiet at the moment. I’m still sure Gwen Simple is behind it. Maybe she confessed to Jill Davent that she had helped her son with those murders.”
“Oh, the Sweeney Todd case?”
“That’s the one. Finish your drink and let’s walk up to the pub and get something to eat. I don’t feel like cooking.”
“When did you ever cook, Agatha? You nuke everything in the microwave.”
“Don’t be rude. Let’s go.”
* * *
The pub was full inside but the tables and chairs outside had been wiped dry so they sat there and studied the menus, both finally settling for “sea fresh cod in golden crispy batter with hand-cut chips, mange tout and rocket from our own garden.”
“They don’t have a garden,” said Agatha. “I hate rocket. Nasty, spidery vegetable.”
Agatha lit a cigarette and blew smoke up towards the grey sky.
“Still smoking,” said Roy. “It’s so old-fashioned, Agatha.”
“I suppose Maisie will now get the sack,” said Agatha. “I must admit, that’s a bit on my conscience.”
“Don’t worry. The cunning bitch insisted on a year’s contract so Pedman is stuck with her. What if he’s so enamoured of her that he does nothing?”
“He’ll listen to me,” said Agatha. “He’ll be furious. He’ll think the whole PR world is laughing at him. You know how hypersensitive he is.” In the past, after she had sold her agency, Agatha had done PR work on a freelance basis for Pedman.
When their food arrived, Agatha noticed that the chips were the usual frozen ones. Between bites of food, she began to fret about the murders.
Said Roy, “Doris Simpson was one of her clients. Maybe she noticed another client, someone not on your list.”
“I think she would have told me,” said Agatha.
“Let’s go and see her after we eat,” urged Roy. “It’ll take my mind off Pedman.”
* * *
Doris welcomed them in. But when Agatha asked her if she had seen any other clients while she was there, Doris shook her head. “I did hear, however,” said Doris, “that John Fletcher’s missus had been to see her. You know, Rose Fletcher.”
“And we’ve just come from the pub. Thanks, Doris. It’s someone new.”
* * *
“Won’t she be working?” asked Roy as they made their way back to the pub.
“She works in the kitchen,” said Agatha. “They don’t serve meals after ten o’clock and it’s now ten past. We should be able to have a word with her.”
They went round to the kitchen door at the back of the pub. The door was standing open so they just walked in. Kitchen staff were clearing up, washing dishes and wiping down surfaces. Rose Fletcher was sitting at a table with a glass of beer in front of her.
“I want to ask you about Jill Davent,” Agatha shouted above the kitchen noise.
“Outside with you,” ordered Rose. “I’ll talk to you outside.”
Rose was a buxom woman with strong arms. She had dark brown curly hair and large brown eyes. “So?” she demanded.
“You were a client of Jill Davent, weren’t you?” said Agatha.
“Yes.”
“Is there anything you can tell me?” asked Agatha.
“Like what?”
“Did she try to blackmail you?”
“No,” said Rose, “but she threatened to take me to court. I wouldn’t pay her. I had a frozen shoulder. John told her about it. The next thing is she’s round at the kitchen door saying she can cure it. So I made an appointment and went along. She fiddled about with a sort of massage. It took about five minutes or so. Then she demanded sixty pounds. My shoulder was as bad as ever so I told her to get lost.
“She said, ‘I’ll see you in the Small Claims Court.’
“I said, ‘Why don’t you do that? All your qualifications will be gone into.’ She started screaming that it was dangerous to cross her. I walked away. I found an acupuncturist in Shipston-on-Stour and he was brilliant. I told everyone who would listen that she was a phony.”
“When did this happen?” asked Agatha.
“The night before she was murdered.”
“Did you see anyone else around?”
“Victoria Bannister. I bumped into her as I left. She was standing by the garden gate. I didn’t think anything of it because Victoria was always spying on people.”
“Did she say anything?” asked Agatha.
“No, she scurried off. Poor Victoria. Who would want to kill her?”
“She must have known something, or the murderer might have thought she knew something,” said Agatha. “If you hear anything, Rose, let me know.”
* * *
As they walked back to Agatha’s cottage, Roy’s mobile rang. He answered it and listened carefully. Agatha heard him say, “Yes, I’ll be there tomorrow.”
When he rang off, Roy did a little dance. “I’ve got it! I’m to be in Paris tomorrow.”
“Good for you,” said Agatha, but feeling suddenly low. Another week-end on her own. At her cottage, Roy said happily, “Good thing I left my travel bag in the car. Airport, here I come.”
And not one word of thanks, thought Agatha as he sped off.
As she let herself into her cottage, the phone was ringing. She snatched it up. “Hi, Agatha,” said Mark. “I might have found out something. All right if I call round?”
“Of course,” said Agatha and ran up the stairs to her bathroom to remove the old make-up and put on a fresh layer.
Welcome to the maintenance years, thought Agatha, remembering the days of her youth when her legs felt like steel and her bras were usually limp disgraceful things because her breasts didn’t need any support. Now it was all pelvic floor exercises, nonsurgical face-lifts, excruciating visits to the dentist to get the roots of her teeth cleaned, massage at Richard Rasdall’s in Stow and all the other bits of hard work to keep age at bay.
She suddenly wondered why she was going to all this trouble for a man she was not interested in, and changed into flat sandals and a blue cotton shift dress.
The bell rang as she was descending the stairs. When she opened the door, she was startled to realise she had forgotten that Mark was handsome.
Agatha led the way into the kitchen. “Take a seat,” she said, “and tell me your news.”
“I’ve been talking to Gwen,” he said. “She and Jill were friends.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Agatha. “Criminals always feel comfortable in each other’s company.”
“Agatha! Gwen is a sweet woman and wouldn’t harm a fly.”
“Okay. Go on. What’s the news?”
“Gwen says that Jill told her that someone had threatened to kill her.”
“Yes, but who?”
“She couldn’t find out.”
Agatha sighed. “That doesn’t get me any further.”
“But don’t you see? It must have been one of her clients in the village.”