Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body

Chapter Four

Agatha, who liked watching fictional forensic programmes on the television, was often amazed at how slow the real-life forensic process was. Christmas came and went. She spent a solitary Christmas persuading herself that it was just another day. Then came a blustery January, an icy February and so into March and the timid beginning of the English spring.

In January, she had endured that long overdue hip operation. Thanks to her active life, she made a speedy recovery, but then put the whole business of the operation out of her mind. She did not want to admit, even to herself, that she had needed it. The very words "hip operation" screamed old.

Patrick Mulligan reported from his sources that Miriam had been killed by a blow to the head with something like a hammer. The fire investigators found that the electricity had been switched off. The fire had started at the Aga cooker in the kitchen.

There was no sign of forced entry. The maid had been found, questioned, cleared of suspicion and deported. Agatha had been very busy with other cases and her interest in the case had died, mainly for monetary reasons. No one was paying her to investigate, Britain was in a recession, and the agency needed all the paying cases it could get.

On a blustery Sunday in late March when the Cotswolds were full of more daffodils than anyone could remember having seen before, she opened her door and found a tall, handsome man standing on her doorstep. Agatha was immediately aware of the fact that she hadn't a bit of make-up on.

"Mrs. Raisin?"

"Yes. You are . . . ?"

"I'm Tom Courtney, Miriam's son."

"Do come in." Agatha stood aside to let him past. "Go straight through to the kitchen." Agatha did not want to put her guest in the living room because the chairs were soft and she found it awkward to struggle out of them.

"You have a charming cottage," he said.

He was tall with a lightly tanned face, black hair and brown eyes. Agatha guessed his age to be somewhere in his early forties.

"Do sit down," said Agatha. "I am sorry for your loss."

"Don't be. I was very close to my father, but I didn't see much of my mother."

"You live in the States now?"

"Yes, in New York."

"I believe you have a sister."

"Amy. She's still in the States. She's married to a doctor in Philadelphia."

"I didn't see either of you at the funeral," said Agatha.

"I couldn't bring myself to come over. I paid for it, of course, and made the arrangements long distance."

"Dear me. Why did you dislike your mother so much?"

He shrugged. "She bitched my poor father to hell and gone. He died of a heart attack when we were small. Amy and I were brought up by a succession of nannies and then we were both sent to schools in Switzerland. Then universities in the States. We went home as little as possible. Believe me, it was a relief when she moved over here. I work as a lawyer."

"So why have you come to see me?"

"Unfinished business. My mother left everything to Amy and me. Quite a lot. She was a bit of a miser. Not on the big things like expensive schools for us and so on but on niggling things like cheap meals or eating at other people's expense as much as possible, things like that. But I really want to know who killed her, and then I can get on with my life. I heard that she had hired you to find out who murdered John Sunday. I would like to hire you to find out who killed my mother."

"I'll do my best," said Agatha. "I feel if I could find out who murdered John Sunday, then I would find out who murdered your mother. She said to a friend of mine the night she was murdered that she knew something."

He smiled at her, a charming smile that lit up his handsome face. Agatha was even more painfully aware of the fact that not only did she have no make-up on but that she was wearing a tent-like blouse, a cotton skirt and slippers.

"Would you excuse me a moment?" she said hurriedly. She eased herself to her feet, always dimly afraid that the terrible hip pain would come back.

"Hip replacement?" he asked sympathetically.

"No!" lied Agatha. "Just took a tumble." Hip replacement, indeed. So aging.

Upstairs, she carefully made up her face and brushed her hair until it shone. She was just struggling into a trouser suit when her doorbell rang. Tom shouted from downstairs, "Don't worry. I'll get it."

As she finally made her way downstairs, she could hear laughter from the kitchen. She opened the kitchen door and went in. Toni was sitting at the table facing Tom. Her blond hair was been newly cut in a short elfin style, making her eyes look large. She was wearing jeans and half boots with a black sweater. A scarlet Puffa jacket hung over the back of her chair.

"Can I help you?" Toni jumped to her feet. "How's the hip replacement? Healing up okay?"

"What hip replacement?" said Agatha repressively. "Let's talk about something else. I gather you've introduced yourselves."

"Indeed," said Tom in his almost accentless English. "I didn't know detectives were that pretty off the television screen."

"You don't have an American accent," said Toni.

"As I was explaining to Mrs. Raisin here, I was schooled in Switzerland so I missed out on the American accent."

"Mr. Courtney," began Agatha.

"Tom, please."

"Right. I'm Agatha. Here's my card. If you call at the office on Monday morning, we'll draw up a contract for you. I'll tell you how far we'd got."

Agatha succinctly outlined all the interviews. When she had finished, Toni said, "You've forgotten the Beagles and the Summers. You sent me to interview them."

"Right. But as I remember you didn't get much."

"They were all so old and creaky."

Tom smiled. "Are you very sure? I remember at your age that people like me and Agatha here would seem creaky."

I'd like to throw something, thought Agatha savagely.

"Oh, no," said Toni, charmingly flustered. "I mean, neither you nor Agatha are old."

"Bless the girl," laughed Tom.

"Had they put the Christmas lights up?" asked Agatha. She turned to Tom. "You see, each Christmas their cottages were blazing with Christmas lights and John Sunday stopped them last Christmas. They were furious. Did they put the lights up after he was murdered, Toni?"

"They hadn't done when I called on them and then I never went back to Odley Cruesis."

"Will you rebuild the manor?" Agatha asked Tom.

"No, I'm selling the wreck to a builder. He's going to bulldoze the ruin and then build houses on the land."

"Was the place insured?"

"Yes, heavily."

Agatha asked, "Have the police enquired where you were the night your mother was murdered?"

"Of course. I was in the Cayman Islands on holiday. Plenty of witnesses."

The doorbell rang again. "You're a busy lady," commented Tom.

"I'll get it," said Toni. She came back followed by Roy Silver. Roy had once worked for Agatha when she had run her own public relations firm. He was still in PR. As a concession to a visit to the countryside, Roy was wearing a sports jacket, but underneath he sported a T-shirt with the logo Ready To Kill. He was a rather weedy young man with a weak, pale face and fine hair, cut short and gelled into small spikes all over his narrow head.

"Aggie, darling," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll just pop my bag in the spare room."

Agatha caught an amused look in Tom's eyes and said hurriedly, "My young friend used to work for me. You might have phoned, Roy."

"Came on an impulse. Read about all the Cotswolds mayhem in the papers and then nothing. I thought you might have asked me for Christmas. There I was on my little lone."

"I assumed everyone I knew would be booked up for Christmas," said Agatha defensively.

Roy went off upstairs. Agatha said, "I'd like to get back to Odley Cruesis and begin again. I don't like the idea of asking you to work on your day off, Toni. I'll let you know on Monday how I get on."

"Oh, I'm free," said Toni blithely.

Agatha silently cursed both Roy and Toni. No chance of being alone with Tom.

When Roy came back downstairs, Agatha said, "We're going detecting. You can stay here if you like."

"Dear Aggie, remember all the times I've spent ferreting around with you. Are we going to start today?"

"I'll get my notes," said Agatha, "and then we can split up."

When she returned, she said, "First of all, Tom, do you want to go back to where you are staying and wait results? Where are you staying?"

"At The George in Mircester. But I'd like to come with you."

Agatha brightened. She consulted her notes. "Right. Toni, if you and Roy could go and see Tilly Glossop again, she might open up to you. Tom and I will go and see the Beagles and the Summers. Probably a waste of time but I would like to see them for myself." The doorbell shrilled.

"Don't move. I'll get it." Toni ran to the door.

She came back with Mrs. Bloxby. "I hadn't seen you for a while," said the vicar's wife, "and wondered how you were getting on."

Agatha, who did not want another remark about her hip, flashed her friend a warning look. Mrs. Bloxby focussed on Tom for the first time. Agatha introduced them.

She's off again, thought Mrs. Bloxby. I should be worried about her, but she needed some man to bring the sparkle back.

"We're all going detecting," said Agatha.

"In that case, I won't keep you," said Mrs. Bloxby. "But why don't you all call at the vicarage for tea later and let me know how you get on?"

_______

Agatha elected to drive after a look at Tom's vehicle. It was a Range Rover and she cringed at the thought of climbing up into it. The day was still fine: blue sky, yellow daffodils, pink cherry blossoms and some purple stuff that Agatha didn't know the name of growing out of the old Cotswold walls.

"Young Roy seems a close friend of yours," said Tom.

"I suppose he is."

"Aren't you frightened of getting AIDS?"

Agatha nearly swerved into a ditch. She stopped the car and said in a thin voice, "I am not having an affair with Roy. I do not know whether he is homosexual or not. I never asked, it being none of my business, but it wouldn't matter if he were."

"But the close contact," said Tom.

Agatha glared at him. "Are you one of those freaks who think you can get it from lavatory seats?"

"Sorry," mumbled Tom. "I didn't take you for a liberal."

"You see before you," said Agatha, "an apolitical woman with a lot of common sense who doesn't listen to folk stories or ill-informed scares. Now, can we get on?"

They drove on in silence, Agatha's interest in Tom extinguished. As they were driving into Odley Cruesis, Tom said, "Maybe I shouldn't have said that. I lost a good friend to AIDS."

"What happened?" asked Agatha acidly. "Did her boyfriend breathe on her?"

"Him. He died. It was awful. I've been frightened of that horrible disease ever since."

"Ah, that explains it," said Agatha, suddenly cheerful again. "Here we are. I think the Beagles are in the first cottage."

The cottage had probably once been a farm labourer's cottage. It was made of red brick with a slate roof. The path up to the front door was of red brick as well. A glorious magnolia tree was just coming into flower in the little front garden.

Agatha rang the bell. An elderly man answered the door. He was small and round-shouldered and wearing two pullovers over a frayed shirt and baggy stained trousers. His face was wrinkled. Spare lines of greased hair covered a freckled scalp. His faded blue eyes looked at Agatha "So it's you. Nosy parker."

"This is Thomas Courtney, Miriam's son," said Agatha.

"Oh, I do be right sorry. Come along in. The missus is poorly today."

"What is up with her?" asked Tom sharply.

"Her do have a bit of a cold."

"I might wait in the car," said Tom nervously.

"It's just a cold!" exclaimed Agatha. "Not the black plague."

"Very well," he said reluctantly.

Mrs. Beagle was crouched in an armchair beside the fire. The room smelled strongly of urine, coal smoke and wintergreen.

"Here's Miriam's boy," said her husband.

Mrs. Beagle was as wrapped up as her husband and every bit as stooped and wrinkled. Agatha mentally removed them from her list of suspects. She estimated they would both have difficulty getting across the street, let alone murdering John Sunday.

Agatha looked around her, but there was nowhere in the small parlour to sit down. Charlie Beagle had sunk down into an armchair facing his wife. There was a battered sofa but two large somnolent dogs were stretched on it.

"Did you see anyone near the manor before it went alight?" asked Agatha.

"In the middle of the night!" said Charlie. "Us were asleep. Didn't hear about it till morning."

"About John Sunday," pursued Agatha, "you were at that protest meeting."

"And a fat lot of good that did," said Mrs. Beagle. "Jabber, jabber, talk, talk. Nothing could be done about that horrible man."

"Apart from Miriam and Miss Simms, did anyone else leave the room?"

"Not that I noticed," said Charlie. "But me and the missus, our sight isn't as good as it used to be. But good riddance to Sunday, I say. He was after stopping us putting up the Christmas lights. Such a display we had every year. We was in the Cotswold Journal. I'll show you. They sent me a photo and Fred Summer got one as well."

He shuffled over to a table by the window, piled high with magazines, newspapers and photos.

"Here we are. Just you look at that!"

Agatha studied a colour photograph showing the two cottages. The outsides were covered with Christmas lights. The Summers had a plastic Santa and plastic reindeer riding on the roof and the Beagles had a lit-up plastic creche in their front garden. Perhaps the only thing John Sunday did in his life that became it, thought Agatha, who had seen a performance of Macbeth once, was blacking out this monstrosity.

Then her bearlike eyes narrowed. Surely Charlie couldn't be that infirm if he had got the plastic Santa up on the roof, not to mention wiring up all those lights.

"What a lot of work," she said. "It must have taken you ages."

"I starts around the end of October, yes. Bit by bit."

"And did you get that Santa up on the roof all by yourself?"

"Easy. There's a skylight. I just push it up through there."

"Do you want to ask anything?" Agatha turned to Tom, who was standing with a handkerchief covering his mouth and nose.

He gave a muffled "No."

They took their leave. "You really are terrified of infection," said Agatha when they were outside.

"I hate colds."

"I don't think there's much point in interviewing the Summers," said Agatha. "On the other hand, they might have seen something."

"Do you mind if I wait outside?"

"Not at all," said Agatha, her interest in him dying by the minute.

The Summers seemed mirror images of the Beagles, expect that Fred Summer looked fitter. His wife also had a cold and was coughing miserably. Agatha felt the air was full of germs and began to sympathise with Tom.

Fred's story was almost the same as that of Charles Beagle. They had visited the vicarage, more in the hope of some cakes and tea than out of any hope that something about Sunday might be resolved. There was one piece of additional information. Fred and Charlie used to compete to see which one of them could have the most dazzling display at Christmas, but as they both got older, they had begun to help each other.

Agatha thanked them and left. Tom was standing outside, a light breeze ruffling his hair. He looked so handsome that Agatha felt a lurch in her stomach. It suddenly seemed a long time since she had enjoyed any sex whatsoever, and she felt her hormones raging.

Toni and Roy came rushing up to join them. Toni looked excited. "Tilly Glossop was out," she said, "but her neighbour, a Mrs. Crinch, came out to talk to us. She does not like Tilly. She said that Sunday was a frequent visitor but that the day before the murder, she heard Sunday and Tilly having a terrible row. When he left Tilly's cottage, Sunday shouted, 'Get it through your head, we're finished.' To which Tilly said, 'You'll be sorry.' "

"I think what we should do," said Agatha, "is accept Mrs. Bloxby's offer of tea and go through what we've got. We'll need to dig up all we can about Tilly."

Mrs. Bloxby suggested they should take their tea in the garden as the day was fine and it would give Mrs. Raisin a chance to smoke.

"You smoke!" exclaimed Tom. "Don't you know what you are doing to your lungs? And what about other people? Have you never heard of passive smoking?"

"We are out in the open air," said Agatha huffily as they helped Mrs. Bloxby to arrange chairs round the table in the garden.

Mrs. Bloxby watched the emotions chasing each other across Agatha's face as she looked at Tom: an odd mixture of exasperation, disappointment and lust. Odd, thought Mrs. Bloxby. I never thought of Mrs. Raisin as a lustful person. More of a romantic. Does she not realise that inside that handsome exterior is probably a very prissy man? Just look at the way he is polishing that already clean seat with his handkerchief.

Toni and Roy arrived to join them, saying they had not been able to find Tilly Glossop, and all the other villagers had shunned them as if they had the plague.

After tea and cakes had been served, Mrs. Bloxby asked how they were getting on. Agatha outlined the little they had found. When she had finished, she said, "I don't know what's happened to Bill Wong. He usually calls round. I thought that after the death of Sunday he would come to see me. I tried phoning but he is always busy."

"Oh, I quite forgot to tell you!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloxby. "He called me on the telephone some time ago, saying that Detective Sergeant Collins watches him like a hawk and Wilkes said he was to give you no help whatsoever because he did not want outsiders meddling in police work."

"Considering the crimes I've solved for the police in the past, I do think that's a bit thick," said Agatha. "I might drive over later and see if he's at home. Have you heard any gossip about Tilly Glossop?"

"Only that she is not very well liked. There are remarkably few newcomers in Odley Cruesis, compared to the other villages, but such as they are complain that she is very rude to them. May Dinwoody and Carrie Brother are quite popular. Miss Brother is considered an eccentric. What makes you think that the death of Mrs. Courtney and the death of Mr. Sunday are connected?"

"It stands to reason," said Agatha. "She told Charles she had remembered something. Miriam probably told whoever it was and they decided to kill her."

"But the killing of Mrs. Courtney was quite elaborate," said Toni, "whereas the killing of John Sunday looks more as if someone just stabbed him in a rage."

Tom gave a laugh. "It's a good thing I have a solid alibi or I would be number one suspect." He took a packet of moist disinfectant tissues out of his pocket and began to clean his hands.

Agatha gave a little sigh. There he sat, the epitome of manhood with his handsome face, his strong throat and his strong figure, fussing away like an old woman.

"Where are you staying, Mr. Courtney?" asked Mrs. Bloxby.

"At The George in Mircester."

"Do you plan to stay long?"

"Just until all the legal business is settled. Pretty nearly finished. I should be off back to the States in a week or two."

"I heard you have a sister," said Mrs. Bloxby.

"Yes, Amy. She's leaving all the business side of things to me. Mother left everything equally to the two of us."

"Her death must have come as a terrible shock to you both."

"Well, ma'am, it did and then it didn't. Mother had a bad knack of rubbing people up the wrong way."

"But surely she cannot have been the type of lady to drive anyone to murder!"

"To tell you the truth, I've been racking my brains and cannot really think of anyone," said Tom ruefully.

Agatha wondered why Roy, usually a chatterbox, was so silent. She looked across at him and saw he had fallen asleep, the spring sunlight bathing his thin face. For the first time, Agatha wondered why he had come on a visit without phoning first. He had done only that before when he was in some sort of trouble.

"Roy!" she said sharply.

"Eh, what?"

"I'm going to drive into Mircester to try to have a word with Bill. Want to come?"

Roy straightened up and rubbed his eyes. "Right you are."

"Perhaps we could all meet at my hotel for dinner tonight. Eight o'clock?" said Tom.

"I can't," said Toni. "I promised Sharon I'd go to a disco with her."

"And I, alas, have parish duties," said Mrs. Bloxby.

"We'd love to," said Agatha, wondering if she could persuade Roy to stay in for the evening. Tom was a bit fussy, that was all.

On the road to Mircester, Agatha said to Roy, "Out with it."

"Out with what?"

"I feel something's bothering you."

"Oh, that," said Roy bleakly. "I suppose it's no big deal. It's just that I've lost all interest in the job."

"Who are you handling at the moment?"

"Paper Panties."

"I thought those things went out with the sixties."

"They want them back and I've got to get the media interested."

"So? You just do your job as usual. You know what it's like, Roy. Remember all the lousy accounts I had to cope with."

"I don't get on well with foreigners."

"What kind of foreigners?"

"Bulgarian. The girls are pretty, the ones they get to model the panties. But the people who run the company treat me like dirt. In fact, they're pretty threatening. In fact, they give me the impression that if they don't get maximum coverage, I'll end up off Westminster Bridge."

"I'm surprised at your boss taking them on."

"They sent an English rep to the office to set it up. Very correct, upper-class twit type. I want out of it."

Agatha furrowed her brow in thought. Then she said, "Oh, I've got it. Sometime today we'll stop off and get some cheap stationery, put on gloves and send a nice anonymous letter to the vice squad saying it's a front for prostitution and the models are sex slaves."

"Aggie!"

"Well, think about it. The police will feel compelled to investigate. You tell your boss that the reputation of his firm is in danger and you'll be off the hook."

"But forensics!" wailed Roy. "What if we even breathe on the paper!"

"You've been watching too much CSI on television. Have I ever let you down?"

"Well . . ."

"Leave it to me."

They were in luck. Bill Wong's formidable parents were out shopping. Bill's mother was a Gloucestershire woman and his father was originally from Hong Kong. Agatha thought they were both horrible, but Bill adored his parents.

"You've been avoiding me," accused Agatha when Bill opened the door to them.

"It's Collins. Wilkes wants me to have nothing to do with you and she watches me all the time."

"Well, she isn't around now," said Agatha cheerfully. "Let us in. We need to talk."

Bill led them into the lounge. There was a new three-piece suite covered in plastic. "You'd better get that plastic off before the warm weather comes," commented Agatha, "or it'll stick like hell."

"Oh, it'll keep it clean for a bit," said Bill. "What's going on?"

"Miriam Courtney's son has arrived. He wants me to find out who killed his mother."

"Why now?" asked Bill in his soft Gloucestershire accent. He had a pleasant round face with almond-shaped eyes. "I mean, he didn't even bother to turn up for the funeral. Neither did his sister."

"It seems as if Miriam had as little to do with them as possible and they didn't like her one little bit. He's over to supervise the selling of the property. That's why he's suddenly turned up."

"But you would think he would call on the police first before hiring a private detective."

"I am very good at my job," said Agatha.

"But people normally only hire a private detective in such circumstances as a last resort. They question the police first."

"Have you got anything?" asked Agatha.

"No, and we've tried and tried. It's a very close-knit village. Take the case of John Sunday. He was so unpopular all round that any number of people could have wanted him dead."

"Tilly Glossop in particular," said Agatha, and told him Toni's news.

"We've interrogated her several times," said Bill. "Saying to someone, 'You'll be sorry,' is hardly a reason to arrest them."

"And Tom Courtney was definitely in the Cayman Islands?"

"Yes."

"And the sister?"

"In Philadelphia. She's married to a Dr. Bairns."

"And the doctor vouches for her?"

"He was away at a medical conference in Seattle. But she was staying with a friend, Harriet Temple. Believe me, they were checked out. And Miriam did tell Charles that she was onto something. And before she went to bed on the night she was killed, she phoned the vicar's wife and said she knew who had done it."

"I didn't know that," said Agatha excitedly. "That could mean either Penelope or her husband did it."

"Of course we thought of that. But Mrs. Timson's cleaner was ill and she phoned her to see how she was getting on and told her what Miriam had said. The cleaner, a Mrs. Radley, promptly got on the phone to a lot of people in the village. We questioned them all. But the ones she called had in their turn called others. Everyone must have known."

"It's a puzzle." Agatha sighed. "The two murders seem so different. The killing of John Sunday almost seems like a spur-of-the-moment thing, whereas the murder of Miriam looks like cold-blooded planning."

"That's a leap in the dark," said Bill, "and it doesn't add up. She tells Charles she's onto something and the next thing, she's dead. Sherry?"

"Please," said Roy, who had been wondering whether to tell Bill about Agatha's mad idea of how to get him away from the Bulgarians.

Bill went through to the kitchen and reappeared with a little silver tray holding three minuscule glasses of sherry. Roy's face fell. He knew Agatha would not want him to tell Bill about her plans for the Bulgarians but felt that a stiff drink might have given him the necessary courage.

"I think Tom Courtney looks suspicious," said Roy. "I mean, the motive is usually money, isn't it?"

"The first thing we thought of, but, like I said, his alibi checks out. And the sister is vouched for by her friend."

"It's a pity," mused Agatha, "that it couldn't be either the son or daughter. I mean, how convenient to already have a murder in the village. The police were bound to think both murders were connected."

"We still do," said Bill. "You're right, though; the murder of Miriam appears to have been carefully planned. Someone passing the manor saw the lights go out and then the flickering light of a candle, as if Miriam was going down the stairs to look at the fuse box. The fire was started because when she was struck down, the candle she might have been holding ended up in a pan of fat."

"Can they tell all that? The house was a blazing inferno. I didn't think there would be any evidence left."

"They traced the source of the fire to the stove, analysed the remains of the pan and found evidence of candle grease. The fuse box was nearly intact, being protected by a heavy metal cover. The electricity had definitely been switched off."

"Who was it who was just passing so late at night?"

"Carrie Brother."

"And what's her reason for being out so late?"

"She said her little doggie needed to go pee-pee, to quote her words."

"I think she's barmy," said Agatha.

Bill shook his head. "A bit eccentric, that's all. Is it any use, Agatha, telling you yet again to keep out of it?"

"Not in the slightest. I'm employed by Tom Courtney and I need the money."

"Do you know anything about Bulgarians in London?" asked Roy.

"No, he doesn't," said Agatha. "We've got to rush. Come along, Roy."

Roy quailed before the gimlet gleam in Agatha's bearlike eyes. "What Bulgarians?" asked Bill as Agatha hustled Roy out of the house.

"Never mind," Agatha called back.

Back in Carsely, Roy wandered around the cottage moodily while Agatha composed an anonymous letter to the police. Finally she popped the letter in an envelope. "I'd better not mail this here," she muttered. "If they see a Carsely postmark, they'll track me down. Roy!" she called.

"What is it?" he asked nervously.

"I want you to mail this in London. I'll put it in a bigger envelope so you don't get your fingerprints on it. Just take it out and pop it in a pillar box." She stripped off her gloves and then noticed the look of relief in Roy's eyes. "And don't think you can tear it up and chuck it away when you get to London. If I don't see anything in the news about a raid, I'll know you've weaselled out. It's for your own good! Now, I would like to have dinner with Tom on my own this evening. I think he rather fancies me and I may get more out of him. He might remember something about his mother that he hasn't told me."

"He doesn't fancy you a bit," said Roy crossly. "I'm your friend. You should be looking after me."

"Roy, it's work. We're in the middle of a recession and I need this job."

"Oh, all right," said Roy. "I'll maybe go to the pub."

That evening, after Agatha had departed in a wave of French perfume, Roy, restless, decided to drive over to Odley Cruesis. He fancied himself as a detective. Maybe if he found out something significant, Agatha would offer him a job and he could escape the PR business.

He drove off through the leafy lanes with the car window open, breathing in the scents of the country evening. He noticed there were lights on in the church hall, a square building next to the old Norman church. Roy parked the car and went into the hall. A bingo session was under way. Villagers were crouched over their cards while Penelope Timson read out the numbers in a high, strangulated voice.

Roy took a seat at the back on the hall. When Penelope finally called a break for refreshment and everyone rose to hurry over to a side table where there was a tea urn and plates piled high with sandwiches and cakes, Roy had a brilliant idea. He was addicted to watching the television series Poirot, based on the books of Agatha Christie. He particularly liked the bit where the great detective accused one after the other in the last scene before unmasking the murderer. He ran quickly up to the microphone and called out, "Your attention, please!"

Faces turned towards him. "I am Roy Silver," he announced, "and I am investigating these murders. I know who did it. I shall wait outside. All the guilty person has to do is come to me and confess. I will intercede with the police to help ease the sentence. Thank you."

Roy left the hall amid a startled silence. As he waited outside, he was very pleased with himself. Of course he didn't expect the murderer to approach him. But he did expect the villagers to crowd round him and discuss the murders. Maybe he could pick up some information that Agatha had missed.

After half an hour, he could hear Penelope's voice inside the hall once more raised as she called out the bingo numbers.

He was beginning to feel silly but decided to wait on. He stood beside his car in the darkness. The village had gone "green" by opting to have the street lights switched off. The silhouettes of the old cottages crouched around him in the dark, hunched and sinister.

Roy doggedly waited for the bingo session to finish. At last it was over and they all filed out. No one spoke. Not even to each other. They spread out towards their various homes as if he didn't exist. When the last one had gone and he saw Penelope locking up the hall, he approached her. "Mrs. Timson!" She started and swung round. Penelope looked at him severely. "That was a silly joke."

"Wasn't a joke," protested Roy shrilly.

"Oh, just leave, young man," said Penelope wearily.

Roy walked slowly back to his car. A small moon was riding high above, casting black shadows across the road in front of him. A breeze had risen and the sounds of it in the leaves of the trees sounded like whispering, menacing voices. He gave himself a shake. The country life was definitely not for him.

A savage blow from behind struck him on the back of the head. He fell forwards. As he fell, his fluorescent phone slipped out of his jacket pocket and lay on the road in front of his dimming eyes. With his last bit of strength, he pressed the number three, where he had Agatha's phone number logged. "Get help," he croaked. "Murdered." And then he lost consciousness.

Tilly Glossop phoned Mrs. Timson. "That peculiar young man is lying on the road beside his car. Do you think there's something up with him?"

"Drunk," said the vicar's wife succinctly. "Leave him to sleep it off."

_______

Agatha was aglow with alcohol and lust. Tom had paid her many compliments so that she felt young and attractive again.

Over coffee, he said, "I have some very good brandy in my room. Why don't we go up there?"

This is it, thought Agatha. Now or never. Just once, just once, before I'm very old. Take mental inventory. Legs shaved, armpits ditto. Should she have got a Brazilian? Too late now.

But when they entered his hotel room, she did wish he would take her in his arms and kiss her. He poured her a measure of brandy and then one for himself and sat next to her on a slippery sofa in the small sitting room of his suite. He smiled. "To us and to the night ahead." They clinked glasses.

"I do like to get certain things out of the way first," he said. "Have you ever had any sexually transmitted diseases?"

Agatha looked at him with eyes of stone. "Anything else or do you have a very long catalogue?"

He grinned boyishly. "Don't know how it is, but I never could bear pubic hair on a woman."

"Neither can a paedophile. Listen, Tom, this is one horrible mistake. If you want to lay down terms like this, I suggest you go somewhere and pay for it. Now, if you don't mind--"

Her mobile rang. She was later to thank God for the crassness of Tom's approach or she might never have answered it. She listened in alarm to Roy's message.

"It's Roy! He's hurt."

She called the police, she called the ambulance, and then got to her feet and hurried to the door. "You've been drinking. You can't drive," exclaimed Tom.

"Oh, bug off, nancy boy," hissed Agatha, and ran out of the room.

When Agatha got to Odley Cruesis, she saw the police were already there and Roy was being loaded into an ambulance. She saw Bill Wong and hurried towards him. "Is Roy alive?"

"Just. It's a bad blow."

"I'll go in the ambulance with him."

"Agatha, you've been drinking."

"So what? I'm not going to drive the ambulance."

Agatha waited miserably at the hospital and was soon joined by Toni and Sharon. Bill had phoned Toni. "Any idea who did this?" asked Agatha.

Toni shook her head. "But it seems that Roy went to a bingo meeting at the village hall and claimed he knew the identity of the murderer and the murderer should speak to him outside and confess all."

"I should never have given him that boxed set of Poirot for Christmas," mourned Agatha. "What on earth came over him? And which of the murders was he talking about? It must be the first one because he knew I was having dinner with Tom."

"Here's Bill," said Sharon.

"It's bad," said Bill. "There's bleeding in the brain. They're operating now. You may as well all go home. There's nothing more you can do here."

"Will he live?"

"They don't know. But evidently for such a weak-looking fellow, he's got a skull like iron and that might save him."

"Didn't anyone see anything?"

Bill told her about the call to the vicar's wife.

"But that's ridiculous!" exclaimed Agatha. "Roy tells them he knows the identity of the murderer, then he's reported lying on the road and no one thinks they should go and have a look at him?"

"According to village report, they estimate he was drunk and sleeping it off."

"Any idea what struck him?"

"Blunt instrument. Maybe a hammer. I don't like Sergeant Collins, but I was glad of her because she ripped into all these villagers, banging on doors, waking them up, shouting at them--it would have done your heart glad, Agatha. Now, go home."

"Maybe I can sit by his bed," pleaded Agatha, "and, you know, talk to him."

"Agatha, it's not a soap. He's not in a coma. He's under anaesthetic on an operating table getting a couple of holes drilled in his head. You'll maybe be able to see him in the morning. Go home and get some sleep."

Agatha was just wearily climbing into bed when the door opened and Charles strolled in.

"Roy's been hit on the head," said Agatha. "He might not live."

She burst into tears. Charles sat down on the bed and hugged her until she had finished crying. "Now, tell me all about it."

So Agatha did. When she had finished, Charles said, "I've been wondering about Tom Courtney."

"Why him?" asked Agatha. "Anyway he was having dinner with me while someone was trying to kill Roy. And why would he want to kill John Sunday?"

"Oh, I just thought that maybe he had already planned to bump off Mum and torch the place and wanted Grudge out of the way before any objections to an expensive building site started up. So he was having dinner with you and you're back at dawn still smelling of Mademoiselle Coco. Did you get seduced?"

"The call about Roy interrupted dinner, thank God. Do you know he asked me if I had shaved?"

Charles ran a hand over Agatha's face. "Smooth as a baby's bum. Oh, you mean the other end. What larks! What a chat-up line!"

"Leave me alone now, Charles. I've set the alarm. I've got to get back to the hospital first thing. And then there's Sharon's eyes."

"What about them?"

But a gentle snore was the only reply.

Three hours later Agatha was back on the road to Mircester Hospital with Charles driving. "I don't suppose you want to work for Tom again," commented Charles. "Do look at these stupid wood pigeons. All over the road."

"Not really," said Agatha. "But he may be connected to the murders somehow or he may know someone who is. I'll forget about last night and go on as usual."

"What about Sharon's eyes? You mumbled something before you fell asleep."

"Oh, that. Maybe it was because we were all so upset last night but the pupils of her eyes looked like pinpricks. I'll get Toni to find out how she's doing."

"Do you ever think about that jolly fling we had in the South of France?"

Agatha glanced quickly at Charles but his face was calm and neutral.

She manufactured a little laugh. "From time to time. I was so glad to escape from my dreadful fiance." Agatha had been briefly engaged to a villager who had taken her on holiday to Normandy. But he had turned out to be so awful that Agatha had had to phone Charles to come and rescue her. Then she and Charles had driven down to the south of France for a brief holiday.

"And that's all it was?"

"Just the way you put it yourself, dear," said Agatha in a thin voice. " 'Well, that was a bit of fun,' you said, 'but troubles at home and I've got to dash.' Never mind. Let's see how Roy is doing."

Roy looked like a fledgling abandoned by its mother. His head was shaved on one side. The matron came bustling in. "Relatives only."

"Aunt and uncle," said Agatha. "How are you doing?" she asked Roy.

"They're ever so pleased with me," said Roy. "I've got to rest up for a week and not get on any planes. I've got two holes in my head. Look! I feel like a bowling ball."

"Whatever possessed you to do such a dangerous thing?" asked Agatha.

"I thought I could stir something up, just like you. Anyway, I phoned Pedmans and they've given the Bulgarian account to Mary." Mary, a rival public relations officer, was always trying to poach Roy's accounts. "As soon as I get out of here, I'll hand in my notice."

"And do what?" asked Charles.

"Don't know. Maybe something in the country. I could work for you, Aggie."

"It's mostly work out in the countryside and villages, Roy. I always think of you as a town person."

Roy suddenly remembered the sinister darkness and silence of Odley Cruesis with not even one jolly red London bus to break the brooding fear of the place.

"I'll think of something anyway," he said brightly. "Do you know a British surgeon goes out to the Ukraine every year and performs these operations with a Black and Decker electric drill because they haven't the equipment out there?"

Bill Wong and Inspector Wilkes came in to interview Roy, and Agatha and Charles were banished to the waiting room. "I'll be off," said Charles. "See you later."

Agatha flicked through the glossy pages of a magazine. There were photographs of jolly people at openings of this and that and at hunt dinners. How happy they all look, she thought. How the camera lies. Nothing to show the raving row on the road home or the imminent divorce or the threat of bankruptcy or the social pain because Lady Bollocks-to-You snubbed the garage owner's wife. The magazine slipped from her lap and she fell asleep.

Charles came back late in the afternoon and woke Agatha up. "You've been asleep for hours," he said. "Toni and Sharon have been around and Phil and Patrick. Pedmans has sent a hamper from Fortnum and Mason and everyone seems to be eating bits out of it except Roy. His real uncle and aunt have turned up and are going to take him away tomorrow to look after him. Funny that, I never think of Roy as having any family at all."

They approached the room but were told by a nurse that Roy was asleep and it would be better to let him rest.

Agatha looked at her watch. "I'd better get to the office and find out if anyone has discovered anything."

"See you tomorrow," said Charles.

She watched his well-tailored back disappear along the corridor. Had that brief fling in the south of France meant anything to him? He had never mentioned it before today. She took a small mirror out of her handbag and squawked in dismay at her face. Her mascara was lying in little black blobs under her eyes in that irritating way that supposedly waterproof mascara is apt to do. It was a magnifying mirror and she felt her pores made her face look like part of the surface of the moon.

By the time she had washed her face and repaired her make-up and had driven to the office, it was to find Mrs. Freedman just about to close up and Sharon brushing out her long tresses, blond streaked with purple.

She told them the latest news of Roy. "The others are all still over at that terrible village trying to find out something," said Mrs. Freedman. "Would you like me to stay on?"

"No, you can go. Sharon, I want a word with you."

Sharon threw down the hairbrush and retreated to her desk. "What is it now?"

Agatha waited until Mrs. Freedman had closed the office door behind her and then said, "What drugs are you taking?"

"I ain't taking none."

"Don't lie to me. What is it? Coke, crystal meth, heroin--what?"

"Nothing. Gotta go."

"The pupils of your eyes are tiny. You're on something. You can't work for me and be on drugs."

"What about you, you boozy old bat with your fags and gin?" demanded Sharon. "Stuff your job."

Sharon rushed out of the office, leaving only an aroma of sweat and cheap perfume behind her.

Why should I bother? thought Agatha mutinously. I'm not her mother.

_______

When she arrived at her cottage it was to find a large bouquet of pink roses on the kitchen table with a note from Doris, which read: "These arrived today. Got yourself a fellow?"

Agatha read the card attached to the roses. "Don't be mad at me. Love, Tom."

Freak, thought Agatha bitterly. She fed her cats and then carried the bunch of roses up to the vicarage. "These might look nice in the church," said Agatha, handing them to Mrs. Bloxby.

"How kind of you!"

"I'm afraid kindness doesn't enter into it. I'm getting rid of them."

"Come in anyway. We'll have coffee. How is Roy? I heard it all on the news."

"He's recovering all right."

Agatha sank down wearily into the feathered cushions on the old vicarage sofa. "The flowers are from Tom Courtney. He took me out to dinner last night. He asked me if I had any sexually transmitted diseases and then he asked me if I had shaved."

"Shaved! Oh, I see." The vicar's wife turned a little pink. "I never will understand the lack of romance in this modern age. We get a lot of couples coming to the vicarage for advice on marriage. They only do it, mainly, because the girl wants a church wedding and usually they've never been near the place since they were baptised. There was one young man who said to his fiancee in front of Alf, 'We're going to Antigua on our honeymoon so she'd better get to one of those tanning parlours and get an allover tan. Don't want her looking like a shark's belly on the beach.' It seems men can make demands these days and without even paying for it like the days when they had to go to a brothel."

"Nothing like the good old days." Agatha giggled.

"Well, no romance like there used to be. Nothing like a bit of frustration for engendering romance. You're surely not still going to go on working for him?"

"Sure. Money's short these days and he pays generously. It's funny. I have a gut feeling that Tom Courtney is the sort who might be capable of murdering his own mother, but he's got such a cast-iron alibi. I wonder, too, about that sister of his. I mean she could have got her friend to swear she was there at the time of the murder. Oh. I forgot. There's no record of her entering the UK."

"There is a such a great deal of money involved," said Mrs. Bloxby.

"They could have paid someone," said Agatha slowly. "I've a good mind to nip over to Philadelphia and take a look around. I know, I'll go back and see Roy and get him to put it about that I'm taking him off to a health resort and I'll be back in a few days."

_______

Roy was sitting up in bed, eating grapes from a huge basket of fruit on the table beside his bed. "Guess who's just been to see me, Aggie?"

"The fruit fairy?"

"Mr. Pedman himself! He brought me all that lovely fruit. Do you remember that idea of mine of sending an anonymous letter to the police saying the Bulgarians were into sex trafficking?"

"My idea, actually."

"Whatever. Anyway, it turns out to be true. Drugs as well as girls. Bitch, Mary, had been singing their praises and said I had only been reluctant to work for the vulgar Bulgars because I was running out of steam. She is definitely not the flavour of the month. I'm getting a raise in pay!"

"Okay. In return for my help--my help, mind--I want you to do something for me. Tell everyone who calls on you, including Bill--especially Bill--that I've gone off to a health farm for a few days and, no, you don't know which one."

"Do you want to see my picture in the local paper?"

"No, Narcissus. I'm off."