The Blood of an Englishman (22 page)

“Don't you have waders like those other chaps?” asked Agatha.

“I've got some in the car,” said Roy sulkily. “But I can't swim.”

“The water's shallow,” said Agatha. “It's only just up above their knees.”

Roy went to the car and came back with the waders. “Let's eat first,” he said.

The picnic was very good and there was even a bottle of wine. “The effects of the alcohol will have worn off by the time we drive back,” said Agatha.

“It'll still show up on a breathalyser,” Roy pointed out. “And you're driving.”

“Okay. I'll have one glass.”

While they ate, the sun went in and a little breeze sent ripples over the river.

“Maybe we should go back,” said Agatha. “It's getting cold.”

“Better weather for fishing,” said Roy.

While Agatha packed away the picnic debris, Roy pulled on his waders, picked up his rod and gingerly walked into the river. The first thing he discovered was that the other anglers must be tall because the water came up to the top of his hips. There was quite a strong current.

His first catch was another angler who cursed him roundly as Roy detached his hook from the man's jacket and apologised profusely.

“Get away from me, you little faggot,” roared the man.

“I'll sue you!” shouted Roy. “That's slander.”

On the riverbank, Agatha sighed and wished she had not come. Then she was plagued with a feeling of menace. She twisted round but could not see anything lurking in the trees.

Roy had caught something on his line. His face was pink with excitement as he began to reel it in.

There was the sound of a gunshot and at the same time Roy fell facedown into the river.

Agatha kicked off her shoes and plunged into the river, shouting, “Get the police, he's been shot.”

The anglers and Agatha pulled Roy upright. “Have you been hit?” asked Agatha.

“Hit with what?” gasped Roy. “Some damned fish pulled me over and it's made off with my rod.”

“Get out of this river,” said Agatha. “Someone just tried to shoot you.” She turned to the other anglers. “Don't leave, any of you. I'm calling the police.”

*   *   *

The police arrived very quickly and began to search through the trees.

Agatha and Roy were soaking wet.

Four anglers stood around them, waiting impatiently. Said one to Roy, “Your mother's imagination has just ruined a day's fishing.”

“I did not imagine it!” howled Agatha. “And he is not my son.”

The two policemen who had originally arrived had been joined by others.

And then to Agatha's relief, Bill Wong and Alice Peterson appeared.

“You were right,” said Bill. “We've just found a shotgun cartridge. Maybe someone was shooting at you and it went over your head.” He turned to the anglers. “I'll need you to give me your names and addresses after I have taken your statements. Agatha, you and Roy can go and change into dry clothes and report to police headquarters. A police car will escort you back.”

As soon as they were in the car with the heater blasting, Roy took out his mobile phone.

“Put that thing away,” ordered Agatha. “I've had enough of the press.”

*   *   *

Roy had a change of clothes, as he meant to stay overnight. As soon as he was in the spare room, he took out his mobile and began to phone every newspaper and television station he could think of until Agatha shouted that the police were waiting to take them to Mircester.

*   *   *

Agatha and Roy were interviewed separately. This time, Agatha was interviewed not only by Wilkes, but by a Detective Superintendent Bloggs. He was a large grey lump of man in a baggy suit. Agatha thought his name suited him.

She was taken over the events bit by bit and then Bloggs said, “We're wondering whether he was shooting at you. It could be Walt Simple trying to take revenge.”

“I swear Roy was the target for some reason,” said Agatha. “He was down the river and a good bit away to my left. It couldn't have been Walt. Why try to kill Roy?”

“Mr. Silver is very effeminate,” said Bloggs. “Is he gay?”

“I don't know,” said Agatha. “Anyway, what's that got to do with anything?”

“It may have nothing to do with Simple,” said Bloggs. “Do you know if Mr. Silver has a lover?”

“I don't. And if he had, he would hardly want to spend a week-end with me.”

“What is your relationship with Mr. Silver?”

“He's an ex-employee, not a friend.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look,” said Agatha wearily, “I'm old enough to be his mother.”

“Doesn't mean you aren't having an affair,” said Bloggs.

“I'm off!” Agatha got to her feet. “I'm not going to sit here any longer listening to your rubbish.”

When Agatha had left, Wilkes said, “We'd better put a police guard on her.”

But Bloggs was furious with Agatha. She had not treated him with the deference he was used to. “Let her rot,” he said savagely.

“But if it was Simple who was after her,” protested Wilkes, “and we keep a watch on her, we might catch the murdering bastard.”

But Bloggs, whose nickname was the Walking Ego, would not be moved.

*   *   *

To Roy's dismay, they were ushered out of the back of the police station to avoid the press. Worse was to come for Roy, because Agatha told the police not to go near her cottage but to drop them both at the vicarage.

Mrs. Bloxby ushered her into her comfortable living room and listened in horror to Agatha's account of the shooting. Roy chewed his nails and fretted.

“I'll get us all a nice glass of sherry,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“May I use your bathroom?” asked Roy.

“Of course. You know where it is.”

Roy went into the bathroom and locked the door. As he had remembered, the frosted glass window opened out into the churchyard. He opened it and climbed out and fled through the churchyard and did not stop running until he had reached Agatha's cottage to confront the waiting press. He happily gave interview after interview.

*   *   *

Agatha would have preferred a gin and tonic but sherry and the vicarage seemed to go together. The vicar came into the room. “Who's in the bathroom?”

“Mr. Silver,” said his wife.

“I keep rattling the handle but he won't open the door.”

“Maybe he's constipated,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“
I'm
not!” shouted the vicar. “You, Mrs. Raisin, get him out of there now!”

Followed by the vicar and his wife, Agatha went to the bathroom door and rattled the handle and shouted, “Are you all right?”

Silence.

“I'll kill that little toad,” said the vicar. He went off and came back with a chisel, which he inserted in the doorjamb and wrenched. The door cracked open. No Roy, but they immediately saw the window was opened.

“He's gone to meet the press,” said Agatha. “Well, he's welcome to them.”

“Do you mind clearing off and letting me use the toilet?” said the vicar. “Mrs. Raisin, I'll send you the bill for whatever it costs to repair the door.”

“Doesn't he ever practise Christian forgiveness?” demanded Agatha crossly, as she and Mrs. Bloxby retreated to the living room.

“Not when he has trouble with his bowels,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Now, wasn't the name of that farmer Paul Newton?”

“Yes.”

“There was an announcement in yesterday's paper that he is getting married.”

“Who to?” asked Agatha.

“To a Caroline Featherington.”

“Dear me. She was Charles's fiancée. I wonder what he thinks about that? She was spying on Charles which is why she broke off the engagement. She saw me having dinner with him and then he spent the night. That's the second time that has happened. I feel guilty.”

“You shouldn't,” said the vicar's wife. “If Sir Charles had really wanted to marry her, he would have brought her to meet you and all would have been explained. Anyone in your life at the moment?”

“Not a soul. I do hope Walt Simple isn't planning to murder me. But why would he try to kill Roy?”

“Perhaps he thought Roy was your son and thought that would hurt you dreadfully.”

“Could be,” said Agatha. “But I can't help hoping the police find it was some nut case who had nothing to do with the Winter Parva murders.”

“Would you like to stay here for the night?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

But before Agatha could reply, they heard the vicar saying, “Bloody woman!” and slamming the door of his office behind him.

“Honestly,” said Agatha crossly. “If I'm ever in church and hear your husband preaching about forgiveness and charity I shall heckle him.”

She went down to her cottage. She ignored both Roy and the press, went in and up to the spare room. She packed Roy's overnight bag, went back down, opened the door, placed it on the step and retreated before a barrage of questions from the press.

As Agatha went into the kitchen, her phone rang. She decided to answer it, knowing that the press did not have her ex-directory number. It was Roy.

“Couldn't I just come in and explain things?” pleaded Roy. “The press want a picture of us together.”

Agatha slammed down the phone.

She suddenly wanted something to take her mind off murder and mayhem.

*   *   *

The next day was a beautiful Saturday. She fed her cats and let them out into the garden. The air was redolent with the scent of flowers. A white clematis with blooms the size of dinner plates hung over the door.

What was the name of that village where Jeremy had his antiques shop? Walton Magna, that was it. She went inside and collected her iPad, took it out to the garden and searched for directions to Walton Magna.

Agatha went upstairs and changed into a cotton dress that had a low neckline and a short skirt. She put on a pair of high-heeled strapped sandals. She then put on a dark blue raw silk jacket, checked her make-up, and went down to brave the press who were still lurking outside her door.

“I am sure Roy Silver has told you all you need to know,” she said firmly. She thrust her way through them, got into her car and drove off.

She parked at the side of the road on the outskirts of Walton Magna and wondered whether to turn round and go home. But she had seen nothing of a police guard and home meant worrying that Walt Simple was advancing on her.

She drove on into the village and easily located the shop, for Walton Magna was little more than a hamlet. Rutherford Antiques was the only shop in the village.

The supermarkets and the motorcar had killed off most of the village shops. Agatha could see evidence of where shops had once been, now turned into cottages.

She looked in the window of the shop to see if there was anything she would like to buy.

A ghostly Agatha Raisin looked back at her from her reflection in the window.

She wanted to turn away and go home. But what if she had been seen? It would look odd.

Agatha took a deep breath, pushed open the door and went in. The shop appeared to be empty. She looked at the ornaments, at the clocks, at the furniture and then saw in a corner a tall pier glass mirror with a carved gilt frame. I could put that in my bedroom, thought Agatha. The mirror in the bathroom only shows me from the waist up.

“Can I help you?”

Agatha started and swung round. An elegant young man was standing there. He was small and neat, wearing a white shirt and white trousers. His hair was fair and his eyes large and grey and tilted slightly at the corners.

“How much is that mirror?” asked Agatha.

“It's George the Third,” he said. “Attributed to George Cole. It's valued at ten thousand pounds.”

“Blimey. Can't you come down a bit?”

“I'm not the boss. You'd need to ask Mr. Rutherford.”

“I know Mr. Rutherford,” said Agatha. “We had lunch together. Is he here?”

“He stepped out for a minute.”

“I'll have a look for something else,” said Agatha. “I'm afraid I can't afford the mirror.”

“I'll leave you to it. Shout if you want me.”

“You're very trusting. What if I nick something?”

“We've security cameras all over the place. Knock yourself out.”

He grinned and waved. Soon Agatha could hear the sound of an Australian soap coming from the back shop.

Agatha felt suddenly tired. He looks like Puck, she thought, and that rhymes with …

“Oh, hullo, Jeremy.”

“Agatha! How nice to see you again. Did you come to see me or did you want an antique?”

“Both,” said Agatha.

“And what are you looking for?”

Agatha looked wildly around until her eye fell on a brass coal scuttle. “That scuttle would look nice on my hearth. How much?”

“It's eighty pounds. I'll let you have it for sixty. It's modern. Do you want me to wrap it up?”

“Don't bother. It's got a handle.”

Agatha paid by debit card and picked up the scuttle.

“Have you had lunch?”

“No.”

“I know a nice pub near here.”

“My treat,” said Agatha. “You paid for the last lunch.”

“Leave the scuttle. You can get it on your road back. Going out, Perry!” he shouted.

“Okay,” came an answering call.

Jeremy helped Agatha into his BMW and they drove off. They came to a pub called the Jolly Farmer.

“They've got tables in the garden,” said Jeremy.

“Good,” commented Agatha. “That means I can smoke.”

“You actually smoke,” he said. “I thought nobody smoked these days.”

“Just me and the other dinosaurs,” said Agatha crossly.

The pub garden was sunny and delicious smells of cooking wafted from the kitchen.