The Blood of an Englishman (6 page)

She then headed off for Evesham, planning a long day of restoration. First, she got a nonsurgical facelift at Beau Monde and then headed for her hairdresser, Cheryl at Achille, to get her hair tinted.

Evesham does not specialise in luxury goods and Boots did not have her favourite perfume, but she thought she had enough Mademoiselle Coco left at home. When she finally walked to the car park in Evesham, the weather had changed and a thaw had settled in. I hope this doesn't mean flooding, fretted Agatha. What if the River Mir floods again and Mircester is cut off?

That night, she tossed and turned, hearing snow falling from the thatched roof above her head.

*   *   *

In the morning, she laid out her clothes for the day: a royal blue wool tailored jacket with a matching short skirt and high black suede boots. Over it, she planned to wear a white fun fur. She had her usual breakfast of one cup of black coffee and two Benson cigarettes before working on her make-up.

Still worried about floods, she left early, having some difficulty in driving because the heels on her boots were very high. The roads weren't too bad and so she arrived at the George Hotel car park exactly one hour too early. She fought off the temptation to go into the bar and have a couple of stiff gin and tonics.

How the minutes dragged! How incredibly boring were the programmes on the radio! She finally switched to Radio 3 in time to hear the announcer say, “And now we have a little-known symphony by Hans Guttenberger.” Agatha switched it off, muttering, “The reason it's little known, you pompous pratt, is because nobody wanted to hear it.”

At long last, the dial of her watch showed five minutes to one. She got out of her car and began to tittup across the melted snow of the car park on her high heels. Her foot slipped and she skidded forward and ended up under a parked car with her head poking out.

“Engine trouble?” asked a small man looking down at her. “Can I help?”

“Help me out of here,” wailed Agatha. “I slipped.”

He bent down, and grunting and groaning, pulled her out. Agatha staggered to her feet. Her white coat was ruined. She thanked her rescuer, stormed into the George, demanded to see the manager, and berated him about failing to salt the car park.

She was in full intimidating voice when suddenly she saw John walking into the hotel. “You'll hear from me later,” she said to the manager, and turning, greeted John.

“I'll leave this mess of a coat in the cloakroom. I slipped and fell,” said Agatha.

“Poor you. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I'm fine. I'll meet you in the bar.”

Agatha went to the bar as quickly as her boots would allow and asked for a double gin and tonic and downed it in almost one gulp, feeling the blessed alcohol coursing through her veins.

John appeared at her elbow. He was wearing a well-tailored suit, a striped shirt and a blue silk tie which matched his eyes. “What'll you have?” asked Agatha.

“What's that you've got there?”

“Just tonic,” lied Agatha. “But I could do with something stronger. What about you?”

“Just a half of lager.”

Agatha ordered another gin and tonic for herself and the lager for John. Then to her horror, John said, “I'll pay for these.”

“No! You're my guest,” said Agatha, but the barman had handed John the bill.

John insisted on paying. “We'll take our drinks to the table,” said Agatha.

Why did I ever think I could wear these wretched boots? she mourned. And now he'll think I'm a lush.

When they were seated in the dining room, Agatha said, “I lied about that first drink because I felt I needed one after that silly fall in the car park. I didn't want you to think I was a drunk.”

“No, I wouldn't think that.” He smiled into her eyes. “Your skin is too perfect. I brought you along a couple of tickets for
The Mikado
. Monday is the opening night and we're having a party afterwards.”

“I would love to come,” said Agatha, her eyes shining.

He asked her about her work and Agatha was happy to talk, trying not to tell highly embroidered stories and failing as usual. She suddenly realised she had been monopolising the conversation and asked him why he became a schoolteacher.

“You think it's a boring job?” he asked.

“I think these days the life of any schoolteacher is fraught with danger,” said Agatha. “So why school teaching?”

“I am one of the last of the Mr. Chips,” he said. “If I can inspire just one pupil to go on to university, then it is worth anything.”

“I think you could inspire anyone,” said Agatha.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.”

“I rather like that. We should have fun at the party.”

Agatha dragged her soaring mind back to earth. “Have you no idea who might have murdered Bert?”

“Not a one. He was generally disliked. But murder! Can't think of anyone vicious enough. I'm happy for Gwen. She says she loved her husband, but how can she love anyone like that?”

“But she is performing in
The Mikado.
”

“Gwen is a real trouper.”

Agatha experienced a sharp stab of jealousy. She said sharply, “Oh, come on. It's only an amateur show, not Covent Garden, and her husband isn't buried yet.”

Those blue eyes of his suddenly looked as hard as sapphires. “I don't expect someone like you to understand.”

Agatha backpedalled like mad. “Of course, she will want to do anything to keep her mind off it,” she said. “The show must go on.”

He flashed that smile of his that made her feel as if her bones were melting. “There you are! I should have known you would really understand.”

He glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation. “I am so sorry. I have a rehearsal. Got to run.”

“I'll settle this,” said Agatha. “See you on Monday.”

After she had gone, she found to her delight that the meal was free, compliments of the hotel to make up for the unsalted car park and they had had her fun fur express cleaned.

She took off her boots and dug a pair of flat shoes out of the glove compartment, putting them on with a sigh of relief.

Now, what on earth am I going to wear on Monday? thought Agatha.

 

Chapter Four

By Sunday evening Agatha's bedroom was a mess. Clothes lay strewn everywhere. She glared sourly at her fun fur. Why call the damn thing “fun” when she would feel better off in mink. Why were the animal libbers so much against mink when the ferrety little creatures were roaming about destroying the native fauna of Britain?

Monday came. Agatha called in at the office to make sure all the cases were being covered. She sat down and studied the report from Phil. He had achieved a long interview with Gwen Simple. Gwen had denied that her husband was a philanderer. She had gone on at length about how much she would miss him. Then Agatha's eyes sharpened. Clever Phil had run Kimberley to earth. But interviewed with her parents, she denied having accused Bert Simple of having tried to molest her. She claimed it was only a joke which had turned out badly.

“I don't believe a word of it,” muttered Agatha.

He had also interviewed the blacksmith, Pixie Turner and George Southern. The interview with George Southern was the one that had been singularly unsuccessful. In fact, Southern had threatened to call the police, saying he was a victim of harassment. Phil's comment was, “Southern is frightened. He knows something.”

Agatha had still to find someone to take with her to
The Mikado
. She had considered Mrs. Bloxby. But she did not want her clever friend to find out about her interest in John Hale. Toni interrupted her thoughts. “I'm free at the moment. Would you like me to take a look at Winter Parva?”

Agatha surveyed her beautiful assistant. Her conscience troubled her. Toni was a brilliant detective but she wanted to keep the girl clear of John Hale. On the other hand, the case needed to be solved.

“Maybe one thing,” said Agatha. “There's a schoolgirl called Kimberley Buxton. She claimed to have been assaulted by Bert Simple and now denies the whole thing. You're nearer her in age. See if you can get her to confide in you. Don't go to the school! Wait until she is home or on the way home.” She unclipped a photograph. “Phil snatched this shot of her.”

“Anything this morning?” asked Toni.

“I'll give you these notes. There's something fishy about George Southern. See if you can get anything out of him.”

“Are you going over there yourself?”

“I think I'll sit here. Take a copy of the notes. I'll study them and see if I can think of anything. Where's Simon?”

“That divorce case.”

“And Patrick?”

“The supermarket job.”

“Okay. You run along.”

But Agatha did not study the notes. She fretted over what to wear. The day was cold and frosty. Her mind ranged back and forwards over the clothes in her wardrobe. Of course, she could go to Bicester where they had model gowns at knock-down prices. But that would mean neglecting the case. Sod the case, thought Agatha, putting on her coat.

She bumped into Phil in the doorway. “Going to see someone,” she said. “Are you doing anything this evening?”

“No. Why?”

“I've got a spare ticket for
The Mikado.
There's a party afterwards.”

“That would be nice.”

“I'll pick you up at seven thirty.”

I mean old Phil doesn't look as if I could be romantically interested in him, thought Agatha cheerfully. He's old.

*   *   *

She had slight misgivings when she picked up Phil that evening. He was in full black-tie gear and his silver hair was brushed until it shone. I wish he looked a bit dowdier, thought Agatha. She was wearing a gold dress decked with little gold beads.

There seemed to be some delay to the opening of the operetta. Then Gareth Craven, introducing himself as the producer, appeared in front of the curtains. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Unfortunately John Hale will not be appearing tonight. He has a bad cold. His place will be taken by George Southern.”

“Oh, no!” said Agatha. “He's horrible. Let's go.”

“Agatha,” said Phil firmly, “we have a good chance to study the members of the cast, particularly Gwen Simple. I feel it would be a good idea to watch the show.”

“Okay,” said Agatha gloomily, banishing romantic dreams of serving John hot soup in front of a log fire.

The show began. With a wig and heavy make-up on, George Southern was just about passable as Nanki-poo. He sang, “A Wand' ring Minstrel I,” in a pleasant tenor, quite unlike the voice he had used to roar out the songs at the pantomime.

Agatha hoped to escape outside for a cigarette at the interval, but the audience was warned that there was only to be a break of two minutes.

The second act opened with the Three Little Maids. Gwen Simple sang “The Sun Whose Rays Are All Ablaze” in what even Agatha had to admit was a perfect soprano.

Then she leaned forward in her seat. Dominating the stage was a large box, covered in fancy paper and tied up with tinsel ribbon. The maids kept eyeing it. There seemed to be some sort of holdup backstage. “It's a present for me,” said Gwen. Obviously improvising, she knelt down and unwrapped the box and threw the lid open.

Gwen let out one long scream, put her hands to her face and fainted dead away as the curtains were hurriedly closed.

“Come on, Phil,” said Agatha. “We'd better get backstage.” As they made their way out of the theatre, they could hear Gareth Craven telling the audience there had been an accident and to collect their money from the box office.

*   *   *

Fortunately, the stage door man was not at his post. They hurried along the corridors to the sound of screams and yells, stopping short in the wings.

On the brightly lit stage, Gwen was being supported by her “maids” at the side. A crowd of people were clustered around the box. Agatha thrust her way to the front and stared down at the contents. The severed head of George Southern stared up at her from the blood-soaked interior of the box.

Agatha saw she was next to Gareth Craven. “Where's the rest of him?” she asked.

“In his dressing room, I suppose,” said Gareth through white lips.

Inspector Wilkes strode onto the stage, followed by three detectives, one of whom was Agatha's friend, Bill Wong.

“Clear the stage,” he shouted. “Is there a green room?”

“Yes,” said Gareth.

“Get everyone along there and nobody leaves until the police have taken statements.” He glared at Agatha. “And that goes for you, too.”

He summoned two policemen who were waiting in the wings. “Make sure everyone is in the green room and no one is to leave.”

*   *   *

The green room was laid out for the after-show party. Efficient Phil commandeered two chairs for them and went to fetch Agatha a drink.

Everyone was white faced. Gwen had started to cry. Phil returned with a large gin and tonic. Agatha took a gulp. She saw Gareth looking at her and summoned him.

“Who played the Lord High Executioner? I seem to have lost my programme.”

“Colin Blain.”

The door to the green room crashed open. Inspector Wilkes surveyed the crowded room, his face a mask of contempt.

“Where is Mr. Southern?” he shouted.

“He's dead!” wailed someone.

“That head is a fake,” said Wilkes bitterly. “Someone's idea of a practical joke.”

Over the buzz of relieved voices, Agatha stood up and shouted, “You'll probably find him at home.”

“And what gives you that idea, Mrs. Raisin?”

“He's a comedian. It was probably his idea of a joke.”

“You can all go home,” said Wilkes.

“Come on,” said Agatha to Phil. “Let's get to Winter Parva.”