The Blood of an Englishman (3 page)

She had put on so much mascara that her lashes stuck straight out around her eyes like black spikes. She was wearing a short, tight red leather skirt with fishnet stockings and high heels. Her white blouse was nearly transparent. Her face had a sort of withered prettiness under white make-up with pink circles of blusher on each cheek. Her dyed blond hair was dressed in old-fashioned ringlets. She looked like a rather battered doll.

“Have the TV people called?” she asked anxiously.

Agatha was about to lie and say they would be along shortly in order to keep Pixie's interest when there was a ring at the doorbell.

“That'll be them,” said Pixie and sashayed to the door.

Agatha heard a man's voice say, “Midlands Television.” Well, I'll be damned, she thought.

She walked into the small entrance hall to hear what Pixie was saying. “I was playing the part of the Good Fairy,” said Pixie, “only don't let that fool you. Little Pixie can be wick-
ED
.” Then she let out a great laugh which actually sounded like Har! Har! Har!

“Was there any friction amongst members of the cast?” asked the reporter.

“Oh, no. We got on great. Everyone loved Bert.”

“Could anyone have got in under the stage to rig that murder device?”

“Yes, but take it from little Pixie here, it was some maniac from outside.”

“Thank you for your time, Miz Turner.”

“Don't you want to come in for a little drinkie?”

“No, got to get on.”

Agatha retreated to the parlour. Pixie came in looking sulky and was about to sit down when the doorbell rang again.

“Maybe they're back,” she said eagerly.

But this time, Agatha heard a voice say, “
Mircester Echo.
”

Pixie tripped in followed by a reporter and cameraman. Agatha recognised the reporter, Chris Jenty.

“Why, Mrs, Raisin,” he cried. “What a bit of luck.”

“She's just leaving.” Pixie's eyes bored into Agatha's face.

“How right you are,” said Agatha with a smile. As she headed for the door, the reporter and cameraman followed her. “Come back!” wailed Pixie.

The slamming of her front door was the only answer.

“Let's go for a drink,” said Chris. “You show me yours, and I'll show you mine.”

When they were settled over drinks in a corner of the Jolly Beggar pub in the main street, Chris said, “You first.”

Agatha told him what she had found out about the rigged trap, that the village gossip had suggested Pixie was the murderer, but that she hadn't got very far.

“Who's paying you to investigate this?” asked Chris.

“Can't tell you,” said Agatha. “What have you got?”

“I've got a report of flaming rows between Bert Simple and Gareth Craven.”

Agatha stared at him while her mind worked furiously. Once, before she had made a name for herself as a detective, she had been hired by a murderer who thought her incompetent and that the very act of hiring her might make him look innocent.

“That's interesting,” she said cautiously.

“All I can dig up at the moment. Have you seen Mrs. Simple?”

“I might try,” said Agatha. “I hope she's not too sedated.”

 

Chapter Two

But when she left the pub, Agatha decided it was time she found out more about Gareth Craven. If he were retired, he must have private means or other work to be able to afford her fees.

She found his address and looked up his street on her iPad. It was quite close to the pub so she decided to walk. His home was in a narrow lane leading off the high street. It was in a terrace of seventeenth-century buildings that leant together as if trying to prop each other up. There were no gardens at the front of the houses.

As she raised her hand to ring the bell, she paused as a pleasant tenor voice sounded from inside the house, singing, “Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes” from Gilbert and Sullivan's
The Gondoliers.

Agatha waited until the end of the song and firmly rang the bell.

Gareth answered the door. He had a charming smile, reflected Agatha.

“Was that you singing?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, I'm in amateur theatricals, for my sins.”

Agatha's hormones gave a little sigh of disappointment. People who said “for my sins,” in Agatha's opinion, had gnomes in the garden and avocado bathroom suites.

“Come in,” said Gareth, standing aside to let her pass. “Turn left.”

Agatha found herself in a small front parlour. Like Pixie, he had the walls and tables festooned with photographs of himself. She could understand people having family groups on display, but it did look like an excess of vanity to have so many pictures of oneself. Still, she reflected, maybe it was healthier than her own dislike of her appearance. She could remember, as a child, praying that she would wake up one morning with curly blond hair and green eyes.

“I belong to the Mircester Savoy Players,” said Gareth. “You must come and see us. Sometimes I either sing or produce. I'm producing
The Mikado
.”

“Maybe another time,” said Agatha. “Have you heard anything more that might be useful to me?”

“Not really. Of course there were a lot of squabbles amongst the cast. Like a professional company, we have our fair share of prima donnas.”

“Who, for example?”

He furrowed his brow and then burst out laughing. “The lot of them, I think.”

“So was the late Bert the cause of any of these squabbles?”

“Let me see. Pixie wanted the green smoke cancelled because she said it made her cough. Bert called her an old frump and she went into hysterics. Wait a bit! She shouted out something about did his wife know who he was screwing.”

“To which he replied?”

“‘If I were married to a used-up bit of shit like you, I might think of being unfaithful to my wife. But I'm not so why don't you…' Well, you can guess the rest.”

“Anyone else?”

“George Southern, the comedian, was going to take Bert to court. George put a whoopee cushion in the trap so that when Bert made his exit at one rehearsal there was the sound of a loud fart. He came roaring back up like the pantomime demon he's supposed to be and punched George on the nose. It was all soothed over.”

“Dear me, so many suspects. I've lost my programme. Have you got a spare?”

“Right here.” He handed her one.

“It's quite a small cast,” said Agatha. “The principals, I mean. Mother Hubbard is someone called Bessie Burdock. There seemed to be no storyline at all. There was one scene where Mother Hubbard chases the schoolchildren who did that tap dancing thing, in and out of a large cardboard shoe. Then Jack hands her some beans and she chases him as well. No beanstalk. Jack threatened by giant and saved by Puss in Boots played by Pixie. Double role?”

“Yes, she played Red Riding Hood as well.”

“Blimey! Who played the wolf? Not mentioned here.”

“The wolf changed his mind and said he would not be associated with such rubbish.”

“And he is?”

“The English teacher at Mircester High School.”

“And did he quarrel with Bert?”

“Yes. Told him the whole panto was an ego trip for Bert. If you remember, Bert makes an entrance and exit by the trap, but other times he simply walks on stage.”

“And was that part of the nonexistent plot?”

“Well, no.”

“But as the producer, surely you could have stopped him?”

“He said if I did, he would say I had been diddling one of the school kids. You know all the scandals at the BBC at the moment with everyone coming out of the woodwork to say they were sexually assaulted? Well, mud sticks. I couldn't risk it. I'll never produce another panto for them again.”

“What happened to the last producer?”

“He died of a heart attack.”

“I heard you had a flaming row with Bert,” said Agatha cautiously. “Was that about the slander?”

“Yes.”

“Didn't threaten to kill him or anything like that?”

“I did. So you see how terribly important it is for you to find the murderer.”

“I'll do my best. Now, murders are usually committed by the nearest and dearest.”

“You can forget that one,” said Gareth, turning red. “Gwen Simple is a saint and the son, a quiet, well-mannered boy.”

“You know the family well?”

“I knew Gwen before she was married. I would have proposed to her myself, but I was married at the time and Bert snapped her up.”

No hope here, thought Agatha. He's obviously still carrying a torch for Gwen.

Aloud, she said, “I think it's time you introduced me to the blacksmith.”

“I'll get my coat.”

*   *   *

The blacksmith was shoeing a horse. “We'd better wait until he's finished,” said Gareth. “The work used to be done by a farrier, but he died a few years ago and Harry took on the extra work.”

Agatha and Gareth sat on a couple of battered chairs in the workshop. Gates and railings, grills and pieces of wrought ironwork lay about them.

A thin wintry sun slanted through the open door where hens, sounding like rusty gates, pecked in the yard outside. Harry had trimmed the hoof and was attaching the horseshoe. I wonder what it would be like, thought Agatha, to work with one's hands and never have to exercise one's brain about who it was murdered whom.

“I'm amazed the horse is so patient,” said Agatha.

“Doesn't hurt. Like getting your nails manicured,” said Gareth.

At last the blacksmith had finished. “What is it?” he demanded.

Gareth introduced Agatha. Harry was a powerful man and loomed threateningly over Agatha.

“Look here,” he said. “You find out who murdered Bert and I'll shake that man's hand. The world's a better place without him.”

“But what a horrible way to die!” protested Agatha.

“Aar, right up the goolies he got it. Serves him right. Got a decent wife. No reason to get his leg over half the village.”

“Anyone in particular?” asked Agatha.

“I ain't one to spread the muck around now that bastard's dead. You're a detective, ain't you? Find out yourself.”

A thin woman huddled in a shabby tweed coat came into the shed carrying a flask and a mug. “I brought your tea, Harry,” she said.

“Put it down on the bench and get out o' here,” he said.

She scuttled off, her head bent. I would like to get her alone, thought Agatha. She's been crying.

“Well, go on,” roared the blacksmith.

*   *   *

“That's his work,” said Agatha outside. “Where's his home?”

“It's a cottage round the back. I wouldn't go there if I were you. If Harry catches you, he'll be furious.”

“Oh, come on,” said Agatha impatiently.

“Actually, I've got a lot to do.” Gareth hurried off, leaving Agatha glaring after him.

She squared her shoulders and went round the back of the shed.

The blacksmith's home was a plain redbrick building with a scarred front door that looked as if someone had periodically tried to kick their way in. The window frames were badly in need of painting.

The door was standing open. Agatha rapped on it and called out, “Anyone home?”

Mrs. Crosswith emerged from the dark nether regions of the house. She had discarded her coat and was wearing an apron made out of an old sack. From her straggly unkempt hair down to her old cracked shoes she looked like a photograph of rural poverty in the forties. Her faded face showed vestiges of what had once been a pretty woman. There was a purple bruise on one cheek.

Impulsively, Agatha asked, “Does your husband beat you?”

One red hand crept up to cover the bruise. “Only when he has had the drink taken,” she said mournfully.

“Do you have children?” demanded Agatha.

“No.”

“Then let's get you into a shelter for battered women. You don't need to put up with this treatment.”

“You leave my Harry alone,” she shrieked. “You come round here, interfering. Get yourself a man.”

Agatha turned away in disgust. A clod of earth struck her on the back of the head. She swung round, picked up the clod and hurled it straight at the blacksmith's wife. It struck her full in the face.

Running back to her car, Agatha drove off as quickly as possible and then parked some distance away, switched off the engine and began to claw bits of earth from her hair.

There was a rap at the car window and Agatha shied nervously, expecting to see the furious face of the blacksmith. But it was Charles Fraith, smiling at her. Agatha lowered the window. “Have you been rolling on the ground with the local fellows?” he asked.

“No. I've just been assaulted by the blacksmith's wife. I need junk food. I'm going to the nearest McDonald's.”

Charles went round the other side of her car and let himself into the passenger seat. “The nearest McDonald's is in Evesham,” he said.

“Don't care,” muttered Agatha, switching on the engine. “I'll tell you all about it when we get there.”

*   *   *

“Rather like some sex,” said Charles, wiping his fingers after disposing of a Big Mac. “Better in the anticipation than the reality.”

Do you mean sex with me? Agatha wanted to ask, but feared the answer and started to talk about the little she knew about the case. A lump of earth she had missed fell out of her hair onto the table. An employee rushed forward with a damp cloth and cleared it up.

“So why did the blacksmith's wife throw a clod of earth at you?” asked Charles.

A shaft of sunlight came through the window and lit up his neat, composed features, barbered hair and tailored clothes.

“I think she's one of those martyrs,” said Agatha bitterly. “I bet if I'd got her out of there and she got a divorce, the next thing you know, she'd be off with the same sort of man. She's eminently beatable. You know the type. They crave sympathy like a drug. I think the blacksmith did it. He was the one that put the trap in.”