The Blood of an Englishman (2 page)

“What is a star trap?” asked Agatha.

“Star traps consist of a permanent stage floor, made up of several triangular sections of flooring meeting at the centre, which may be lifted but which naturally fall flat. Under the stage is an elevator using counterweights that are heavier than the weight of the performer.

“To make an impressive entrance, the elevator platform is first lowered, at which point a brake is applied, to stop the counterweight falling. The performer steps onto the platform. On cue, the brake is removed allowing the counterweights to fall. The performer is thrust through the star trapdoor. When the platform hits the highest point the performer leaps upward clearing the trapdoor sections, which then fall back into position at floor level. With a puff of smoke, the illusion is complete. Then in reverse, the flats open and Mr. Simple descends. Do you understand all that?”

“Sort of,” said Agatha cautiously. “How do you know all this?”

“The Mothers' Union was given a tour of the hall earlier this year to show how it had been used back in the Victorian days. The blacksmith gave us a lecture on the trap.”

“Do you think someone tampered with the brakes so that the platform would go down extra fast?”

“Maybe. But it went down pretty fast anyway.”

“How does anyone get in under the stage? Is there an outside door?”

“You can get through under the platform at the front. I know that. But whether there is another entrance, I can't say. I know Bert only made one entrance through the trap, so it could have been tampered with any time earlier.”

Agatha lit a cigarette and watched the smoke drift up towards the kitchen ceiling. “Wait a minute. In order for Bert to disappear, someone below the stage must have operated the elevator.”

“I gather that the stage manager pressed a button at the side of the stage, which opened the trap and sent the green smoke up.”

“But the stage manager—or Gareth Craven, the producer—surely checked on the apparatus before the show.”

“If things went all right at the dress rehearsal, Mrs. Raisin, maybe a check wasn't considered necessary,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

We really should start to call each other by our first names, thought Agatha. We called each other by our second names in the Ladies Society. But the society is long gone.

“What about the spike, or whatever it was that killed Bert?”

“I don't know about that. Someone must have really hated him,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Such an elaborate way of killing him!”

“The blacksmith must be the obvious culprit,” said Agatha.

“I believe he is a quiet, sensitive man,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Oh, well,” said Agatha. “I'll need to leave this one to the police. I've got my own business to run and I can't see anyone in Winter Parva wanting to pay me to investigate the murder of a baker.”

*   *   *

On a Monday morning, a week later, Agatha, as usual, greeted her staff before settling down to have her usual breakfast at her desk—one cup of strong black coffee and two cigarettes. Her staff consisted of young, blond and beautiful Toni Gilmour; white-haired gentle Phil Marshall; lugubrious ex-policeman Patrick Mulligan; young Simon Black with his jester's face; and secretary, Mrs. Freedman. Simon had left briefly to work for another agency when he thought Toni had resigned. But when he heard Toni had returned, he had promptly asked for his job back. Agatha did not like Simon much, but had rehired him in a weak moment.

Agatha blew out a smoke ring. Mrs. Freedman gave an admonitory cough and switched on an extractor fan she had insisted on having installed.

“Let's see,” said Agatha. “Toni and Simon, you have Mrs. Fairly's case. She wants proof of her husband's infidelity. Phil and Patrick, you've got two missing teenagers. You've got their details and photographs?”

Both nodded.

“Right,” said Agatha. “I've got Berry's supermarket. Valuable goods have been disappearing from their electronics section and so far there's been nothing on their CCTV cameras. I'm going to spend the day there.”

“Someone's coming,” said Toni. “Might be something interesting.” Toni hoped it might be a job that she could do on her own. She did not like working with Simon. He was constantly asking her out on dates and she found it all embarrassing.

The door opened and a man Agatha recognised as Gareth Craven walked in. He was even better looking than Agatha remembered. She did a frantic mental check. Did she have coffee-stained teeth? Had her lipstick faded? Why had she opted for trousers and flat shoes?

Gareth Craven was a tall man with thick brown hair, clear grey eyes, a firm mouth, and a handsome face which unfortunately ended in a rather weak chin.

“Please take a seat, Mr. Craven,” said Agatha, thinking, nobody's perfect.

“I really need your help,” said Gareth. “You see, the newspapers are after me already and they are making me feel guilty. You would think I had done it. I've stopped answering the door or the phone. Mrs. Raisin, you have such a good reputation for solving cases. I wondered if I could employ you.”

“Certainly,” said Agatha. “Mrs. Freedman will draw up a contract for you. I will start on it right away. Toni, you take over Berry's supermarket for me.” Simon's face fell. He had been looking forward to a day with Toni.

Mrs. Freedman came over with the contracts. Gareth barely looked at the price and quickly signed them.

“Now,” said Agatha to Gareth, “we'll clear off somewhere for a coffee and you can give me all the details.”

*   *   *

In the old-fashioned gloom of the George Hotel lounge, after coffee had been served, Agatha asked, “Who, in your opinion, would want to kill Bert?”

“That's the problem,” said Gareth. “I don't know where to tell you to start.”

“Have you discussed it with your wife?” asked Agatha.

“I'm not married. Divorced.”

“Like me,” said Agatha cheerfully. “What about the blacksmith?”

“Harry Crosswith is a pillar of the community. He's in a terrible state.”

“How could anyone guarantee that the spike would kill Bert? I mean, he could have been at the edge of the platform?”

“It's a small platform,” said Gareth, “and Bert is—was—a big man. He complained that the lift went down too fast. In fact he and Harry had a bit of a row about it. Harry was very proud of that trap.”

“What about the nearest and dearest. How old is the son, Walt?”

“He's twenty. Works in the bakery. Quiet and reliable.”

“And Mrs. Simple?”

Gareth's face softened. “Gwen is a saint. She works serving in the shop. Everybody loves her.”

Not you, I hope, thought Agatha. Aloud she said, “Perhaps I should start today by asking some of the locals. Who's the biggest gossip in the village?”

“Well, there's Marie Tench. But she can be spiteful.”

“Maybe just the sort of person I should talk to,” said Agatha. “Have you her address?”

“She's got a flat above the newspaper shop opposite the old marketplace.”

“I'll start there. Tell me about yourself. How did you get involved with producing this pantomime?”

“I was a producer with BBC Radio 4 for years. Last year, I was suddenly made redundant. They're cutting jobs all round. It was a bit of a blow, but I'm lucky enough to have private means so I thought I would keep my hand in by producing this pantomime.”

“But it wasn't very professional, surely,” said Agatha. “I mean, it was a sort of mishmash of all the pantomime characters.”

“I know. Mrs. Grant of the Women's Institute wrote the script and was to produce it, but she died. I wanted to make changes but the cast protested and said it should be kept just the way it was, in her memory.”

“Any friction amongst the cast?”

He sighed. “I think amateur productions are worse than professional ones for fragile egos. The Good Fairy, Pixie Turner, went on as if she had a leading role in a Shakespeare production. Then that so-called comedian was always groping the chorus girls.”

“Where does the chorus line come from?”

“Winter Parva High School. They have tap dancing classes there.”

“Any little Lolitas that Bert might have had his eye on?”

“Oh, no! He was devoted to his wife.”

“I think I've enough names to be going on with,” said Agatha. “I'll start with the village gossip and then maybe later on you can introduce me to the blacksmith if the police aren't still grilling him.”

*   *   *

Agatha drove to Winter Parva and parked in the main street. The village was a mixture of old houses with high, sloping roofs. Seventeenth-century buildings rubbed shoulders with Georgian and Tudor. The market hall, carefully preserved with its open arches and cobbled floor, was a fifteenth-century building. The village was situated down in a fold of the Cotswold hills. It was often misty. The River Oore ran under a bridge leading to the main street and this was blamed for the frequent fogs which plagued the place in winter. A pale sunlight was trying to permeate the mist as Agatha climbed the old stone stairs which led to Marie Tench's flat. Agatha rang the bell and waited. She had expected Marie Tench to be an old woman but the door was opened by a blonde with a quite enormous bust. She must have some sort of industrial-strength brassiere, thought Agatha, for the woman's breasts were hoisted up so far that it looked as if her head were peering over them.

“Mrs. Tench?” asked Agatha.

“It's Miss. Who are you?”

Agatha handed over her card and said, “Gareth Craven has asked me to investigate the murder of Bert Simple. He told me you knew a great deal about the village.”

“Come in.”

Agatha squeezed past her and found herself in a cluttered living room. Every surface was covered by some ornament. There were little glass animals along the mantelshelf, china figurines on the occasional tables, a collection of china coasters on the coffee table, and on a round table by the window, a large acid green vase of silk flowers.

Above the fireplace was a bad painting in oils of what appeared to be a naked Marie, those huge breasts painted in sulphur yellow and red.

Marie sat down on a chintz-covered sofa and waved one plump arm to an armchair, indicating that Agatha should be seated.

A shaft of sunlight shone through the window, lighting up Marie's face. Agatha reflected that Marie was wearing so much make-up, you could skate on it. She had a small prissy mouth painted violent red, a button of a nose, and cold grey eyes. Her hair was so firmly lacquered that it looked like a bad wig.

“I wondered if you had any idea who might have murdered Bert Simple,” began Agatha.

“Pixie Turner, that's who.”

“The Good Fairy?”

“Good Fairy, my arse. More like the wicked witch.”

“But the murder of Bert Simple,” said Agatha, “seemed to take a lot of knowledge of engineering and carpentry.”

“Hah! Not much by all accounts. Any fool could have sawn that hole in the trap and shoved a spike underneath.”

“How did you learn how the murder was done?”

“Molly Kite, her what works in the gift shop, told me. Her cousin's a policeman.”

“Apart from Pixie, who else might have hated him enough?”

Did Marie suddenly look guilty—or was it a trick of the light? But she flashed Agatha a smile. “Apart from Pixie, we all loved Bert. No need to look anywhere else.”

“And where does Pixie Turner live?”

“Out on the housing estate at the end of the village. I forget the number, but it's Church Road on the corner. Can't miss it. The door's painted bright blue.”

*   *   *

Agatha drove to the housing estate. She saw the house with the blue door and parked outside. Suddenly, she felt inexplicably weary. Her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, could easily have diagnosed her trouble. Agatha Raisin, when she was not obsessed with some man or other, became de-energised. Sir Charles Fraith, with whom she had enjoyed an occasional fling, had disappeared out of her life as he did from time to time. Her ex-husband and next-door neighbour, James Lacey, was a travel writer and was currently abroad somewhere.

Agatha got slowly out of her car. She was wearing flat shoes and little make-up. Her brown hair was as glossy as ever but her bearlike eyes held a sad look. Her thoughts turned to Gareth Craven. Pity about that weak chin.

She squared her shoulders and marched up to Pixie's door and rang the bell.

The letter box opened and a voice cried, “Go away!”

Agatha bent down. “I am Agatha Raisin and I am investigating the death of Bert Simple.”

“Go away.”

Agatha had a sudden inspiration. “I can understand you not wanting to be bothered. Those television crews will follow me around.”

“Television!” The door swung open to reveal Pixie in a tatty pink silk dressing gown. “Come in quickly,” she hissed, “and wait in the parlour until I get dressed.”

Agatha looked around the room into which Pixie had thrust her. There were framed photographs of Pixie everywhere. Her acting roles appeared to have been confined to the village productions of pantomimes. She had progressed from Cinderella when she had been young, then to the Principal Boy, and so on to older parts, ending up as the Good Fairy.

A joss stick was smoking in a vase in one corner. Film and television magazines were piled up on the coffee table and on the chairs and sofa. One wall was dominated by a large mirror surrounded by light bulbs.

I wonder what she does when she's not dreaming of fame, thought Agatha.

Agatha peered at her own reflection in the mirror. Was that a hair on her upper lip? “Snakes and bastards,” she muttered, and began searching in her bag for a pair of tweezers. Not all that long ago, early fifties had been considered pretty old. Women let their figures sag and grew moustaches and didn't seem to bother. Ah, the good old days. She was still looking frantically for a pair of tweezers in her handbag when Pixie entered the room.