A Spoonful of Poison

Chapter Eleven

TONI WAS SITTING that evening with her friend Sharon when the phone rang. It was Harry.

“I just wondered how you were getting on,” he said.

“I’m fine,” said Toni, and then, in a rush, she went on, “I’m not really. Agatha wants to set me up in my own detective agency and I don’t think I can do it. I don’t know anything about running a business.”

“I wonder why she’s doing that,” said Harry. “I tell you what, I’ll take a year off from university and help you set up. I’m bored with Cambridge and I miss the detective work.”

“No ties?” asked Toni anxiously.

“No, no. Strictly business. It would be exciting.”

Toni felt a wave of relief. “If you’re free, drop round and we’ll talk about it.”

“Be with you in minutes.”

“Who was that?” asked Sharon.

“Harry.”

“Not the fellow who wants you to read them Frenchies and go to crap opera?”

“Yes, but he says it’s strictly business and I do need the help. He’s coming round.”

“Great. I’m dying to see what this wannabe professor looks like.”

Harry arrived so quickly that Toni wondered if he had been lurking at the corner of her street.

Sharon eyed him with surprise. Harry, who had once worn a nose stud and shaved his head, now had a crop of wavy brown hair above a square handsome face. He was dressed smart-casual. Toni introduced them.

“Let’s get started,” said Harry. “Is Agatha hiring the staff for you?”

“No, she wants me to hire young people.”

“Does she want you to fail?” asked Harry. “I mean, a retired copper like Patrick is a boon.”

“Why would she want me to fail?”

“Well, not fail. I’ve seen you on television. You have been taking the limelight away from her.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Toni.

“Oh, go for it. What about a name?”

“She wants me to call it Spring, as in youth.”

“We can’t have that. What about Gilmour Detective Agency?”

“I suggested that and she turned it down.”

“She is jealous. Let me think.”

“Why not just call it The Detective Agency?” said Sharon.

“Oh, I like that,” said Harry. “She’ll go for it because it sounds modest at first. When we get set up, we’ll put the The in italics. Now, we need a secretary.”

“I could do that,” said Sharon. “I’m good on computers.”

“You’ve got the job,” said Toni quickly because Harry was looking doubtfully at the appearance Sharon made that evening. She had dyed her masses of hair blonde with aubergine streaks, and her plump figure was encased in tight jeans torn at the knee and a pink sequinned crop top showing a bulge of fake-tanned midriff.

“What about Betty Talent?” asked Sharon. “You know, Miss Iron Knickers, the school swot. Ever so clever she was.”

“She’s probably at university,” said Toni.

“No, she went abroad for a gap year and got some sort of tropical bug. She’s been recovering. I’ve got her number.”

“Why? You were always jeering at her,” said Toni.

“When I heard she was ill, I felt sorry for her,” said Sharon. “I was sure nobody would go to see her, so I took her a box of chocolates. She’s pretty nice when you get to know her.”

“Everyone, including me, will need to be on trial,” said Harry. “You’d better warn her. She may not want the job.”

“I’ll phone her.” Sharon retreated to a corner of the room.

“Look,” said Toni. “Agatha’s paying for all this, so she’ll probably want a say in what we call the agency.”

“I’ll fund it,” said Harry. “An uncle of mine died recently and left me a lot of money. You make it pay and I’ll get my money back.”

Charles, who had turned up unexpectedly, was sitting at the moment with Agatha in the village pub, the Red Lion, listening as Agatha tried to justify setting Toni up in her own detective agency.

He waited until she had finished and then said carefully, “You’re hoping it’ll keep her out of the limelight.”

“How dare you! I’m not petty.”

“Just jealous.”

“Well, if this is going to be the general reaction,” said Agatha huffily, “I’ll cancel the whole idea.” Agatha reflected that the only person these days who seemed to be pleased with her was old Mrs. Brother, whom she had phoned earlier to give her a full report of the arrest of Trixie. Her phone rang. “Yes, Toni,” Charles heard her say and then watched with amusement the growing dismay on Agatha’s face. Then he heard her say, “And you’re going to do the whole thing yourself? Find premises? If I’m going to pay for this, I should at least have a say… What? Harry is going to fund it? My Harry? Harry Beam? Oh, well, if that’s the way you feel. Good luck.”

She rang off and stared at the table, looking moodily at the cigarette burns and remembering the glory days when she could light a cigarette.

“So Harry Beam is going to run the show?” asked Charles.

“Yes, it’s a good idea,” said Agatha, struggling to be fair. “I’m sure they’ll make a go of it.”

“You know, Aggie, if she’d been a failure, you’d have hated yourself. Let it go. What ever happened to that drug pusher, Zak somebody?”

“The police got him.”

“I heard he got out on bail.”

“Oh, God. He said he would break my legs.”

Betty Talent seemed a quiet, dowdy girl. She had no-colour hair scraped back from a small neat face. She was very thin. Her one beauty was her eyes, which were very large and brown flecked with green. She was wearing a long jacket over a straight skirt, a white blouse buttoned up to the neck, and flat shoes.

But when it came to costing what they would need to set up the business, Betty turned out to be a genius. As she crunched the numbers, her eyes began to glow with enthusiasm.

“This is great,” said Harry. “When we get some money in, we’ll start to buy surveillance equipment. I think we should start off with just us-that’s Toni Gilmour as boss, me, Harry Beam, Sharon…?”

“Gold.”

“Sharon Gold and Betty Talent.”

“I’ve got a bottle of champagne a local newspaper gave me,” said Toni. “Let’s drink a toast to The Detective Agency.”

When she came back with the bottle and glasses, Betty said, “You said you would fund this, Harry. Will you have to get the money from your father?”

“No, an uncle of mine died and left me a lot. No worries.”

On the Saturday morning Agatha received a visit from Mrs. Bloxby. “I wondered if you would like to come with me to Comfrey Magna,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I feel poor Mr. Chance could do with some consolation.”

“He’ll hate me,” said Agatha. “I’m the one who got his wife banged up.”

“I think it would help if you could explain to him what actually happened. If he still believes his wife innocent, he could be in great pain.”

Curiosity got the better of Agatha. “Right, I’ll go.”

There was a faint mist curling around the boles of the trees and coloured leaves sailed lazily down onto the road. As she drove the now-familiar road to Comfrey Magna, Agatha wondered what to wear for James’s engagement party. Then she thought of hair extensions. Trixie had looked good with them. But not blonde, thought Agatha. I tried blonde once and it didn’t work. I wonder what his fiancee looks like. Please, God, let her look like a bag.

Agatha parked in front of the church. As they walked across the graveyard, she remembered the first time she had seen George. What a terrible mistake it had been to fall for good looks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t much help to you in finding out about Mrs. Chance’s background,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “but I did try.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” said Agatha. “I wonder if George is still around.”

“No. That bit of news I did hear. He married Miss Corrie and they have gone to Cornwall on their honeymoon.”

“Good luck to her.” Agatha rang the bell.

To her surprise, the door was answered by Phyllis Tolling. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “What do you want?”

“We have called to see Mr. Chance.”

“It’s hardly a good time. The poor man is still in shock.”

Then Agatha heard Arthur’s voice raised in song.

“When he thinks that he is past love,

That is when he meets his last love,

And he loves her like he never loved before.”

A smile crossed Phyllis’s face. “Come in,” she said.

Arthur was in the living room, surrounded by packing cases. “Hullo!” he hailed them. “Just packing away Trixie’s things. I don’t think she’ll be needing them for a long time. Tea?”

“That would be nice,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“I’ll get it, darling,” said Phyllis.

“Oh, you are good.” Arthur blew her a kiss.

Agatha decided that Arthur did not need any consoling words, so instead she asked, “I often wondered how you met Trixie.”

“It was just after my second wife died,” said the vicar.

Mrs. Bloxby looked at him nervously. “What did your wives die of?”

Arthur roared with laughter. “Frightened I bumped them off? No, Jane, the first had cancer and Cressida, the second, had a stroke, poor thing. I was holidaying in Brighton and I met Trixie by chance in the hotel lounge. She told me she was just divorced and began to cry. One thing led to another and we got married. Oh, tea. Splendid, splendid.”

“I’ll be through in the bedroom,” said Phyllis, putting down the tray. “I’ll go on packing up the clothes.”

“Good girl. What would I do without you?”

While they drank their tea, Mrs. Bloxby gently turned the conversation to general parish matters until they got up to leave.

“What did you think of that?” asked Agatha eagerly as they drove off.

“I think that Mr. Chance is a very lustful man.”

“A what?”

“Yes, one cannot always go by appearances.”

After Agatha had dropped Mrs. Bloxby off at the vicarage and had gone to her cottage, she found she was plagued with uneasiness.

She began to dread the thought of announcing to the others that Toni was going to start her own agency. They would think she was a jealous, petty woman.

“I think I am,” said Agatha gloomily to her cats. She phoned Toni. “Perhaps this new agency business is not such a good idea,” said Agatha. “Perhaps you should work for me for a few more years and-”

“But it’s a brilliant idea,” cried Toni. “We’ll be ready to start in several weeks.”

“What about Harry? Are you sure he doesn’t have an ulterior motive?”

“Oh, no. He’s as excited as I am. I don’t know how to thank you. If it’s as successful as I hope it will be, I can pay you back all the money you spent on me.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Agatha. “Good luck.”

She rang off and glared balefully at her cats. “Just thank your stars I’m not a cat-kicking person.”

There was a ring at the doorbell. Agatha rushed to answer it and found Bill Wong on the doorstep.

“Come in,” she cried. “I’ve got some coffee ready.”

“I had a phone call from Toni,” said Bill and Agatha’s heart sank. “She told me all about this new-agency idea, said it was your idea. Why did you want to get rid of your best detective?”

“I felt I was holding her back,” Agatha lied.

“You felt she was stealing your thunder,” said Bill.

“That’s not the reason!”

“Let’s talk about something else. Zak is out on bail.”

“So I heard.”

“Well, he promised to testify against Trixie and bail was part of the deal. Then she confessed, but it was too late to reverse it. Don’t worry. He’s in deep enough trouble without coming after you. Anything else happening?”

Agatha told him about Arthur Chance. “He’ll probably marry Phyllis,” she said.

“He’s old, he’s wrinkled, he’s got grey hair and thick glasses. Why do people like that get all the luck when you and I are stuck with singlehood, Agatha?”

“Think about it, Bill. Would you have married Trixie or given Phyllis a second look?”

He grinned. “Not really. Doing anything today?”

“No.”

“Feel like a trip to Bramley Park?”

“What! The place with the swings and roundabouts and the roller coaster?”

“That’s the place. Come on. I’ve never been on a roller coaster.”

Agatha enjoyed herself immensely and screamed for the whole length of the roller coaster ride.

She drove home in the evening feeling tired and happy.

Agatha checked her answering service. There was one message from Cherry Upfield. She said, “I’ve got some more information on Trixie if you need it. I’ll be home all evening.”

Agatha phoned her to say that she would call on her in the morning but got no reply. She then called Toni. Sharon answered the phone. “She’s not here,” she said. “We were out all day and then she got a phone call from some woman saying she had more information on Trixie, so she’s just shot off.”

Why both of us? wondered Agatha, slowly replacing the phone. Agatha then phoned Bill on his mobile, praying he would answer. Mrs. Wong disapproved of his using his mobile in the house and he usually had it switched off. To her relief he answered and she quickly told him about the message. “I don’t like it,” said Agatha. “I think it might have something to do with Zak.”

“Then stay there,” ordered Bill. “I’ll get some men and go over.”

But Agatha couldn’t rest. She felt sure Toni was in danger. She rushed to her car and set off, driving at furious speed towards Cheltenham.

She parked at the end of the close and cautiously made her way on foot. She walked past Cherry’s house. The lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. Agatha walked to the other end of the close and found a lane leading round to the back.

She looked back and counted the number of houses and then entered the lane, counting her way along until she was sure she was at the back of Cherry’s house.

She tried the garden gate and found it was open. She took a small pencil torch out of her handbag and made her way cautiously up to the back of the house.

I wish I had a gun, she thought. Where are the police?

She tried the handle of the kitchen door. It wasn’t locked. She eased her way in, flicking her torch this way and that, looking for a weapon.

The beam of the torch fell on an overflowing litterbin. Agatha looked around the shelves and took down a bottle of cooking oil and poured it over the contents of the bin. Then she took out her lighter and lit the top of the rubbish.

With the bottle of oil in her hand, she stood behind the kitchen door. The rubbish went up with a roar. “Hurry up,” muttered Agatha. “I’m going to be fried to a crisp.”

She eased the kitchen door open so that the flames could be seen from the living room. She heard a curse and Zak erupted into the kitchen. He opened the back door and kicked the flaming bin of rubbish into the garden. He stood with his hands on his hips and was about to turn around when Agatha struck him on the head with the bottle of oil. He sank to his knees, but he was not unconscious. Terrified, Agatha began to throw everything she could get off the shelves straight at him just as she heard the police come bursting into the house.

“In here!” screamed Agatha, hurling a container of drinking chocolate at Zak, followed by half a dozen eggs.

The police, headed by Bill, charged into the kitchen. Zak was handcuffed and dragged upright, egg and cocoa and other foodstuffs dripping off him.

“Toni!” cried Agatha, pushing her way into the living room.

A policeman was releasing Toni and Cherry, who had been tied to two upright chairs and gagged.

Toni got shakily to her feet. Agatha hugged her and said, “Oh, I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Toni gave her a watery smile and said, “I didn’t know you cared,” and burst into tears.

It was to be a long night. Agatha was strongly reprimanded for not staying out of it. Toni protested, saying Zak had threatened that as soon as Agatha arrived he was going to break both their legs and flee the country. She said that she was sure when he heard the police arriving, he would have broken her legs and fled out the back way. Cherry said she had been forced at knifepoint into making the phone calls before she, too, had been tied up.

The press had got wind of a story and were waiting outside the police station. Toni, although warned by Collins not to say a word, made a statement saying her life had been saved by the best detective in the world, Agatha Raisin, but that she could not say any more until the trial.

Well, that’s that, thought Agatha as she wearily drove home. Life goes on. All the loose ends tied up except for the death of George’s wife. I’ll probably never know now.

Fred and George Selby were celebrating their honeymoon in a picturesque hotel high on the cliffs near the Cornish village of Tryvithek. George had gone down to the bar for a drink, where Fred was to join him when she was ready.

She was just collecting her handbag when she noticed George had left his mobile phone. Curiosity overcame her. She wondered if he had any text messages. She clicked them on. She stared down at the first one in horror. It read, “Will you really have the money soon, my darling? Can’t wait. Love, Gilda.”

Fred sank slowly down onto the bed. Her knees were trembling. She remembered the article about Gilda. She remembered all the awful rumours about the death of George’s last wife. She thought about the wills they had made out and how they had insured each other’s lives. She began to burn up with a furious rage.

“Hullo, darling,” said George as Fred walked into the bar. “You look a bit pale. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Ready for our walk?”

“Don’t you go near the cliffs tonight,” warned the barman. “It’s blowing up something rough and it’s all dark out there.”

“We’ll be fine,” said George, taking Fred’s arm. “We’ll probably walk down to the village.”

If he goes to the village, thought Fred, I might begin to think I imagined that message. He must love me!

But George said, “Look there’s a moon. And I do like to walk the cliffs and see the giant waves pounding at the foot of them.”

“Let go of my arm,” said Fred. “I want to swing my arms as I walk. It’s a bit cold. Let’s go back in.”

“Just a bit further,” said George. He walked to the cliff’s edge, his thick fair hair blowing in the wind. “Come and look at this. The waves are enormous.”

Fred felt a numb, blank misery. Like a sleepwalker she advanced on her husband, who was peering over the edge. With all her strength, she gave him one almighty push. The tussocky grass under his feet was slippery with recent rain. He skidded right over the edge, his cry of despair being lost in the roar of the waves and the screech of the wind as he plunged downwards.

Fred sat down on the wet grass behind a large outcrop of rock and opened her handbag. She took out a packet of skunk, and sheltering it from the wind by opening her coat, she rolled a joint and lit it. She breathed the smoke deep into her lungs.

She smoked on until the whole episode began to seem like a bad dream. Poor silly George, she thought. Gone forever. I’ll give him a nice funeral if they ever find the body.

She peered round the rock and let out a scream. A head and shoulders were appearing above the cliff. George had fallen onto a ledge below. He was bruised, battered, frightened and furious.

Fred ran forward and began to kick at his face. He grabbed one of her ankles. She stamped down ferociously on his other hand. He lost his grip and plunged backwards, taking her with him. Still struggling and cursing, they spiralled down and disappeared beneath the boiling sea.

A day later, Agatha answered her door early in the morning to find Mrs. Bloxby on her doorstep. “Have you seen the news this morning?” cried Mrs. Bloxby.

“No, I’m just up. Come in and tell me about it.”

“It’s about Mr. Selby,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Gorgeous George. What about him?”

“He’s dead!”

“How?”

“A local at that place in Cornwall where they were on honeymoon was walking his dog along the cliffs when he heard cries and shone his torch. He saw a man hanging onto the cliff edge for dear life while a woman was stamping on his fingers. He said the man had the woman by the ankle. He ran forward, but they both plunged into the sea. The coastguard are out looking for the bodies. The witness said it looked as if the man had already been over the cliff and was trying to get back up. What do you think of that?”

Agatha sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. “It looks as if Fred got wised up to him some way. It really looks now as if George might have wound up poor Sybilla to kill his wife. Maybe Fred knew about it and tried to get him first. I never liked that girl, but now I’m heartily sorry for her, and I hope somewhere up in heaven the first Mrs. Selby is having a good laugh.”

“That’s sacrilegious, Mrs. Raisin.”

“That’s human, Mrs. Bloxby.”