Authors: M. C. Beaton
“I’ll be all right,” said Agatha.
“You’ll do as you’re told for once in your bossy life,” said Toni.
“Then get me another G and T before you go.”
“Off you go, Toni,” said Phil. “I’ll get it.”
When Phil returned to the kitchen with Agatha’s drink, she was hugging herself and shivering. “It’s so cold,” she moaned.
“You’re in shock. Upstairs to bed with you.”
Agatha drained the gin and tonic in one gulp and then allowed Phil to lead her upstairs. She sat groggily on the edge of the bed while Phil removed her shoes. Then he managed to get her under the duvet and switched on the electric blanket.
When he finally went downstairs again, he reflected that he had never seen Agatha in such a state of shock before. There was something about these murders that had got to her. Phil felt he owed a great debt to Agatha. Who else would have recognised his talent as a photographer and employed a man like himself in his late seventies?
He decided to phone Charles. Agatha had a list of numbers pinned up next to the phone. There were two numbers for Charles: his home phone and his mobile. Beside the mobile number, Agatha had scribbled,
Never answers.
He phoned the home number. Charles’s gentleman’s gentleman, Gustav, answered the phone. He asked who Phil was and what was his business.
Phil said he was phoning because Agatha Raisin was in dire need of help. “I am afraid,” said Gustav, “that Sir Charles is unavailable,” and rang off.
Gustav jumped nervously when Charles came up behind him and asked, “Who was on the phone?”
“Someone selling double glazing,” said Gustav. He detested Agatha and often feared that his boss might marry her.
Charles was aware that Gustav’s eyes had a way of rolling up to the ceiling when he was lying. “So what does Agatha want?” he demanded. “Tell the truth or you can kiss your bonus goodbye.”
“She’s always bothering you,” protested Gustav. “It was some man called Marshall said she was in need of help.”
* * *
Phil was relieved when Toni and Charles arrived at the same time. Charles was told everything that had been happening and how they were frightened that Agatha was cracking up under the strain.
Now that Agatha was being monitored, Phil decided to go to his home in the village. Charles watched Toni fidgeting around and then asked, “What’s up?”
“I had a date for tonight but I cancelled it.”
“Not one of your old men?” asked Charles, knowing Toni’s penchant for dating older men.
“No, he’s a medical student. Only a few years older than me. He’s nice.”
“Phone him up and uncancel,” said Charles. “It doesn’t take two of us to baby-sit.”
* * *
Agatha awoke an hour later. Her head ached and her mouth felt dry. Poor Bob Dell, she thought. Then she suddenly sat up in bed. What was it that Bob had said as she had left?
I am not alone.
Did that mean someone else in this village was masquerading as a woman?
She slowly got up, her mind racing. Charles heard her moving about and came upstairs. “You look a wreck,” he said heartlessly.
She clutched his shoulders. “Have you heard what happened to Bob Dell?”
“Yes. Bill Wong called when you were asleep. Poor Bob died in hospital an hour ago.”
“Oh, how awful. But there’s something else. He was a cross-dresser. When I wondered why he didn’t choose to live in a town where he might meet more of his own kind, he said, ‘I am not alone.’”
“So?”
“So maybe there’s someone in this village that everyone thinks is a woman.”
“You smell of old gin, sweetie. Have a shower and come downstairs and eat something.”
When Agatha finally appeared, washed and wearing a change of clothes, she looked like her old self.
“I’m making you tea and toast,” said Charles. “No more booze for you.”
“I’d like a large glass of mineral water,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a mouth like a gorilla’s armpit.”
“You do have a way with words. All right. One glass coming up. But eat some toast.”
“Who could it be?” fretted Agatha. “I must look at my notes.”
“Toast and tea first. Notes afterwards.”
Agatha dutifully ate two slices of buttered toast washed down with tea. “Rats! It can’t be Gwen Simple.”
“No,” agreed Charles. “Much as you’d like to think so. Who else is there?”
“Let’s go and ask Mrs. Bloxby.”
“It’s getting late, Agatha.”
“It’s only ten o’clock.”
“Still, leave the woman alone until tomorrow. And I gather from Phil that you’ve got to go to headquarters in the morning to sign a statement. The best thing,” said Charles, “is that you put the whole thing out of your head and we’ll watch something stupid and easy on television. Give your mind a rest.”
They watched
NCIS
although Agatha complained that the scriptwriters obviously had a father complex as it was yet another story with one of the characters having trouble with his father. Then they watched an old Jackie Chan movie until Charles fell asleep and Agatha took herself off to bed.
She set the alarm. She was sure she would not sleep and was surprised to be awakened in the morning by the alarm.
When she went downstairs, she found Charles awake, dressed and waiting for her. “I’ll drive you in to headquarters,” he said. “You’re liable to think of someone, shout ‘Eureka!’ and drive into a lamppost.”
At police headquarters, Charles waited while Agatha was led away to sign her statement for Bill Wong.
“That’ll be all,” said Bill. “You should take the day off, Agatha. Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You checked out the backgrounds of all the people who you knew were Jill’s clients?”
“Of course.”
“What about Mrs. Tweedy?”
“Agatha, you need a rest,” said Bill. “You surely don’t suspect that old woman?”
“Listen to me. Bob Dell was a cross-dresser. When I wondered why he had chosen to live in a village instead of a town where there would be more of his own kind, he said, ‘I am not alone.’”
Bill laughed. “And so you immediately leap to the conclusion that Mrs. Tweedy is a murderous transvestite?”
“Humour me, Bill. What’s her story?”
“She’s from a village in Oxfordshire called Offley Crucis. She moved to Oxford and then Carsely a year ago after a tragedy.”
“What tragedy?”
“Her twin brother was killed in a fire.”
“How did the fire start?”
“Faulty electrics. Really, Agatha, we’ve gone into everyone’s background thoroughly.”
“What happened to Mr. Tweedy?”
“There isn’t one. She said she just called herself Mrs because she didn’t want to be damned as the village spinster.”
“No one talks about spinsters anymore,” said Agatha. “She may be old but she looks powerful and she’s got strong hands.”
“You’ve been working too hard, Agatha. Let it go.”
* * *
“Agatha,” protested Charles, “we can’t go calling on Mrs. Tweedy and accuse her of being a man.”
“I want to go to Offley Crucis where she lived, and find out about this twin brother. What if she wanted to inherit the lot and to take his identity as well?”
Charles sighed. “Can we eat first?”
“The nearest greasy spoon on the road will do.”
* * *
Agatha phoned her office and said she was taking the day off. Then she and Charles set out, stopping at a roadside restaurant for a full English breakfast and several cups of coffee.
Offley Crucis turned out to be a very small village at the end of a one-track road. The weather had turned fine again. There were a few redbrick houses clustered around a pond. There was a small church and a general store. Apart from a few ducks bobbing about the pond, nothing moved.
“Pity there isn’t a pub,” said Charles. “I hate the idea of knocking on doors.”
“I hope there are some people at home,” said Agatha. “It’s quite near Oxford and could be one of those sort of dormitory villages. Oh, look! That woman’s just come out into her front garden. I’ll try her.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Charles lazily.
He sat on a bench by the pond and watched as Agatha entered into animated conversation with the woman. She came back and said, “That’s a bit of luck. She’s new to the village but she says if we go to the pub at the next village, Sipper Magna, we’ll find an old boy who is a fund of gossip. His name is Barney Gotobed.”
At the pub, they were told they would find Mr. Gotobed at “his” table in the garden by the cedar tree.
Agatha, who had expected to find a sort of local yokel was surprised to find an elderly, scholarly looking gentleman in a worn tweed jacket and flannels. He had thinning grey hair and bright intelligent eyes.
Introducing herself and Charles, Agatha said, “Mind if we join you and ask some questions about the Tweedys?”
“Please do,” he said. “You may call me Barney. I seem to have acquired a reputation for being the local gossip.”
They pulled up chairs and sat down. “We’re curious about the fire in which the brother died,” said Agatha. “May we get you another drink?”
“A lager would be fine.”
“Could you get it, Charles?” said Agatha. “And a gin and tonic for me.”
Charles went off reluctantly. Then he came back. “I seem to have forgotten my wallet, Agatha.”
“As usual,” grumbled Agatha, getting out her wallet and handing him a twenty-pound note.
“So what about the fire?” asked Agatha eagerly.
“Anthony and Lavender Tweedy were twins,” he began, leaning back in his chair. “Could hardly tell them apart because Lavender dressed like a man. They hated each other and lived separate lives in the same house. They had it altered, you know, so each had separate kitchens and bathrooms. Neither of them had ever had a job. The parents had been extremely wealthy; old Mr. Tweedy owned several storage unit sites and had invested cleverly. They died when the twins were at Oxford, I believe. A car crash on the M5. To everyone’s surprise, the twins chucked up their studies and returned home and there they stayed for years and years until the fire. I suppose no one thought much of it. Every village has its eccentrics. I said they didn’t work? That’s not quite true. Anthony was clever on the stock exchange and increased their wealth considerably. Somehow, much as he openly loathed his sister, they had joint accounts and shared the money.”
Charles came back with the drinks.
“And the fire?” asked Agatha.
“The pair of them were great readers and the house was like a library. I think that’s why it was such an awful blaze. It went up like a torch. Lavender was found in the garden suffering from smoke inhalation and cuts where she had smashed a window and jumped out.”
“That’s odd,” said Agatha. “Couldn’t she just have run out of the door?”
“They were both afraid of burglars and the windows were all locked and sealed. It was Anthony’s job to lock the doors at night and he kept the keys in his room. Also he kept his part of the house locked. Added to that, the pair of them considered bottle gas more economical and stored several canisters and so they all exploded. The nearest fire station is some miles away and by the time they arrived, it was too late. All that was left of Anthony, I gather, were charred remains.”
“Any suggestion that the fire had been deliberately started?” asked Agatha.
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you mean, did Lavender deliberately try to get rid of her brother?”
“Could be.”
“The insurance company did a full investigation. It was an early Georgian house and the fire was judged to be the result of an electrical fault.”
“Did you ever talk to the Tweedys?” asked Charles.
“They barely spoke to anyone. People pretty much ignored them. They became part of the village scenery.”
“But you were interested in them,” said Agatha.
“Since I retired from Oxford University, I found I liked studying people and speculating about them. I suppose that’s how I got my reputation as a gossip. What is your interest in the Tweedys? Is it anything to do with all these murders?”
“Mrs. Tweedy was a client of that therapist who was murdered,” said Agatha. “I’m just checking up on everyone.”
Said Barney, “Lavender Tweedy consult a therapist? I find that very hard to believe unless she has changed considerably.”
“What if she had some awful secret and she just had to tell someone?” said Agatha. “And what if that someone was a blackmailing therapist?”
“From what I remember of Lavender, she wouldn’t have confided in anyone,” said Barney.
“And the fire was really an accident?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, of course. Faulty wiring. It was an old house. A developer bought the ruin, knocked it down and built a couple of villas. There was a good bit of land, you see.”
“Can you remember the name of the insurance company?” asked Agatha.
Barney grinned. “You do have a nasty suspicious mind. Falcon Insurance in Cheltenham. I remember the name clearly because there was an investigator down here for quite a time.”
* * *
“This really is one of your more dramatic flights of fancy,” grumbled Charles as they got in the car and Agatha announced they were going to Cheltenham.
“I’ve got to follow this up,” said Agatha. “I’ve got nothing else.”
* * *
Cheltenham Spa in Gloucestershire has some fine Regency buildings. It has recently changed from a genteel town, famous for retired colonels and their ladies and has become a rougher place. But it still has the pump room and beautiful gardens and those magnificent terraces of white houses. Although inland, it has the air of a seaside town and one almost expects to turn a corner and see a pier.
Falcon Insurance was situated in one of these mansions. They were passed from secretary to secretary until they were told that a Mr. Brian Dempsey would see them.
Brian Dempsey was a tired-looking grey man: grey suit, grey face, grey hair.
“I investigated the Tweedy fire,” he said. “I was very thorough. Of course, all those canisters of butane gas had helped to burn everything to a crisp. The body of Anthony Tweedy was just a scorched mess.”