Agatha Raisin and The Walkers of Dembley

Six

The following morning, James finally agreed to Agatha's suggestion that she should talk directly to Alice and Gemma and see what she could find out and he should talk to Jeffrey, and after that, they would tell Bill Wong what they knew. As none of the people they wanted to interview was likely to be free before early evening, they decided to spend the day in Carsely, attending to household chores.

Neither had realized what an amount of gossip their taking off together for parts unknown would cause in the village, Mrs Mason having kept discreetly quiet.

Agatha's first caller after she had fed her cats was the vicar's wife, Mrs Bloxby.

"And where have you been?" asked Mrs Bloxby.

"We just went off on a little trip," said Agatha, rather proud of the fact that the vicar's wife obviously thought she and James were now 'a number'.

Mrs Bloxby's kind eyes surveyed Agatha's flushed and happy face. "You like Mr Lacey, do you not?"

"Oh, yes, we're great friends."

They were sitting in Agatha's garden. The cats rolled on the lawn in the sunlight. Great fleecy clouds ambled across the sky overhead. It was an idyllic day.

"I sometimes think," said the vicar's wife, leaning back in her chair and addressing a cloud, "that we are very quick to counsel young people while neglecting our contemporaries."

"Meaning?" asked Agatha.

Mrs Bloxby's mild eyes descended again to rest on Agatha's face. "Meaning that a lot of the old advice is still relevant in this wicked age, even for women such as ourselves. I have observed that men who get what they want outside marriage, particularly confirmed bachelors like James Lacey, are therefore content to stay unmarried."

"I am not having an affair with James," snapped Agatha.

"Oh, my dear, I thought...You must forgive me for jumping to the wrong conclusion." Mrs Bloxby gave a little laugh. "I should have realized - you are probably both investigating something. Do forgive me."

"That's all right," mumbled Agatha, "but don't tell anyone in the village we're on a case. It's supposed to be a secret."

"I should have known better. Do not think me impertinent. Mr Lacey is a very charming man. But he did have an affair with poor Mary, that woman who was murdered, and in that case I always thought it was a matter of casual sex."

No, thought Agatha, he was briefly in love with her, and remembered sharply all the pain she had felt.

As Mrs Bloxby began to talk of village matters, Agatha suddenly wished she herself had not been so honest. She wanted every woman in the village to think that she was having an affair with James. But now Mrs Bloxby, without revealing anything about the investigation, would contrive to let everyone know the friendship was innocent.

After the vicar's wife had left, Agatha decided to take herself down to Moreton-in-Marsh for a quiet lunch. She wanted to be alone and think about James and turn over everything he had said in her mind, always searching for some hint that his feelings might be warming towards her.

Moreton-in-Marsh is a busy Cotswold market town with a wide tree-lined main street on the Fosse Way, an old Roman military road. Ever since the Abbot of Westminster, who owned the land, decided to make use of the transport on the Fosse Way and a new Moreton was built in 1222, it has always been a favourite stopping place for travellers, the wool merchants of medieval times being replaced with tourists.

Agatha found a parking place after some difficulty. Even in the depths of winter, it is hard to find a parking place in Moreton, where the number of cars and the absence of people often puzzled Agatha. Where did so many car owners go? There wasn't enough work or enough shops to draw them all. Agatha went into the tourist information centre to see if she could pick up some pamphlets about rambling walks to take along on Saturday in order to show the Dembley Walkers she was a dedicated member. She read a tourist pamphlet on Moreton-in-Marsh to see if there was something about the old town she did not know. And there was. One pamphlet explained that the charter for the market had been granted by King Charles I in 1638. "Some years later," she read, "he stayed at the White Hart Royal, which was a well-known Coaching Inn, and was part of the Trust House Forte Hotel Group." Agatha had a brief and vivid picture of King Charles and his Cavaliers with their booted feet up on the hotel tables listening to the piped Muzak which was a feature of Trust House Forte Hotels.

After a look in a thrift shop, she went to the White Hart and ate a massive plate of lamb stew. She emerged later blinking into the sunlight, drugged with food, feeling the waistline of her skirt uncomfortably tight.

Was there something about women of a certain age, she wondered, that, when they wanted to attract a man, instead of getting on the exercise bicycle, they stuffed themselves with food?

For his part, James had had a bar lunch at the Red Lion and had endured a lot of sly teasing of the what-have-you-been-doing-with-our-Agatha variety. As he walked home, he wondered whether Agatha's reputation was being damaged and then decided it was not. Provided there was no truth in the rumours, they would soon die out.

He found he was anxious to get on with the investigation, and as he walked down Lilac Lane, he saw Agatha getting out of her car and hailed her.

"I think we'd better get going," he said. "I want to bump into Jeffrey as he comes out of the school as if by accident and take him for a drink. What about you?"

"I'll just knock on Alice's front door and say I've come to ask her advice about boots," said Agatha, feeling lethargic and heavy and wishing she had not eaten so much.

She fell asleep in the car - they had used her car for the journey back to Carsely and James was driving it - and awoke to hear James saying in an amused voice, "I didn't know you snored, Agatha."

"Sorry," she said. "Had too much to eat at lunch."

She wished she could always look and feel bandbox-fresh for him. She felt old and began to worry about those wrinkles on her upper lip. Surely they hadn't been there before she went to London. That's what PR did for you, she thought sadly. James had very good eyesight. When he looked at her, she could feel his blue eyes fastening on those wrinkles. How could a man want to kiss any woman with those nasty little wrinkles above her mouth?

Agatha did not know that James felt most at ease with her when she was quiet and crushed. She felt she had to be always 'on stage' for him.

He dropped her off near Alice's and went on to their own flat, leaving the car outside and setting out on foot for the school.

Children of all shades were tumbling out of the school gates. He still found it strange to hear Indian and Pakistani children calling to each other in broad Midlands accents. Although their faces did not have the pinched, white, unhealthy appearance of the native British, they held that flat, discontented look of the underprivileged.

He saw Jeffrey strolling out and drew back a little and then began to follow him. Finally James speeded up and crossed a busy street to the other side, crossed back again, and came face to face with Jeffrey and hailed him. "Hot day," said James. "Care for a drink?"

"All right," said Jeffrey.

James noticed Jeffrey no longer eyed him with suspicion. The reason for that soon came out when they were seated in a pub called the Fleece, Jeffrey saying he was tired of the crowd at the Grapes.

"You shouldn't let that wife of yours wear the trousers," said Jeffrey, raising a pint of bitter. "Cheers."

James was about to protest but then decided that the role of hen-pecked husband was putting him in a sympathetic light. "Oh, I don't know," he said easily. "I suppose when you've been married as long as we have, you get so you don't notice it. But I would have judged you to favour equal rights for women."

"Equal rights, yes," said Jeffrey moodily, "but not domination."

"Was Jessica like that, the dead woman?" asked James. And then added quickly, "Sorry, I forgot you were close to her."

Jeffrey shrugged. "She was a convenient lay," he said. "But then, you never can tell with women. They say they're liberated, they say they only want sex, and the next thing they're pushing you around. What that wife of yours needs is a good punch in the mouth."

"But if you advocate rights for women, then you shouldn't be advocating punches in the mouth," said James.

"Why not? They consider themselves equal to men, then treat them like men. If a man gives you any lip, you sock him one. Why not sock a woman?"

"Apt to end up in prison," said James.

"Then just walk away from it. I'll never get married." Jeffrey flexed his muscles. "Plenty of crumpet out there."

James suddenly found himself disliking Jeffrey intensely. He had heard of such men but had never met one before, the type who claim to hold liberal views and underneath hold the same views as any American redneck. Liberal views on women as held by the Jeffreys of this world were simply a convenient way of talking some woman into bed and having sex without responsibility.

With a conscious effort, he forced himself to laugh, man to man.

"Who do you think murdered Jessica?" he asked.

"I think it was one of the women," said Jeffrey. "Our Jessica was bisexual. Alice was jealous of her because she was after Gemma. Then she messed about a bit with our Deborah, and God knows what she got up to with Mary. I mean, think about Mary. She was probably the last one to see Jessica alive. That business about having food poisoning! She could have made that up to give herself an alibi."

"And do the police suspect you?" asked James. "I mean, you being her lover and all that."

"They probably still do. But I didn't do it, so they can ask all the questions they like. Do you know the filth even searched my flat? "What are you looking for?" I asked them. "A spade?""

"I'm surprised," ventured James, "that you don't think Sir Charles did it."

A sneer marred Jeffrey's face. "That sort don't even fart without asking permission from the police. Besides, he's got lots of people there to do the dirty for him. But I think it was a woman. Women are vicious." He looked pointedly at his empty tankard, and James quickly ordered another.

"Oh, well, let's talk about something else," said James. "I'm thinking of settling in Ireland."

"Which part?" asked Jeffrey sharply.

"The south, of course. I write books, or try to write books, anyway. My mother's Irish," lied James. "Do you know, if you're a writer you don't have to pay taxes?"

"Yes, grand country, so it is." Jeffrey's Midlands accent had faded, to be replaced by a slightly Irish one.

"The only trouble," said James, handing money over the bar for the drinks, "is that writer friends tell me that the IRA come calling and tell the writer that since he's not paying taxes, he can jolly well pay towards the Cause."

"And why not?" demanded Jeffrey truculently. "Why should they live off the fat of the land and not pay for it?"

"I suppose you have a point," said James, wondering what it would be like to punch Jeffrey in the mouth.

Agatha took a quick look around Alice's flat while Alice was in the kitchen making coffee. There was distinct evidence of two contrasting personalities. The bookshelves were divided between heavy political tomes and paperback romances. On the low coffee-table was stacked Marxism Today alongside Woman's Weekly. There was a pottery wheel over by the window and a large stuffed pink teddy bear sat on the sofa.

Alice came back in carrying two cups of coffee. She smiled at Agatha. "I'm glad you've come to me for advice about boots, but I've got a surprise for you. Not boots - trainers, or sneakers, as our American cousins call them. Like these." She stuck out a foot. Agatha wondered why great white trainers on female feet should look so threatening. "They'll set you back about forty pounds," boomed Alice. "But worth every penny. I can walk for miles and never get sore feet. Why did you want to join us?"

"Why do you think?" Agatha ruefully patted her waistline. "I find jogging too energetic, and a walk in the country is just the thing for getting my weight down and seeing a bit of the scenery. The trouble with driving everywhere is that one might as well be in London. It's hard to appreciate the countryside when all you ever see of it is trees and fields whizzing past the car windows."

"Not to mention adding to the pollution problem," said Alice. "Jessica always said..." Her eyes filled with tears, and she turned her head away and said gruffly, "Sorry, I still miss her."

"It must have been a great blow to you," murmured Agatha.

"It's the guilt, you see." Alice took out a man's handkerchief and gave her nose a vigorous blow. "She came here looking for a bed and I threw her out. I thought she was after my Gemma. If only we had all stayed friends, we would have gone with her and this terrible murder would never have happened."

"Who do you think did it?" asked Agatha.

"Oh, Sir Charles Fraith. But being who he is, we'll never see justice done. There's one law for the rich and another for the poor. He lied about being in London when she was killed. He was seen threatening her, but he'll pull all sorts of strings and we'll never hear another word about it."

"Don't you think it might have been Jeffrey Benson?" ventured Agatha. "He seems to have been her lover."

"How did you know that?"

"Gossip at the walkers' meeting," said Agatha.

"Humph. The bourgeois lack of loyalty among that lot sometimes amazes me. No, I don't think Jeffrey did it, but the police will want to pin it on him so that their dear Sir Charles will escape scot-free. Oh, here's Gemma."

Gemma walked in. She gave Agatha a sidelong smile.

"What have you got there?" asked Agatha, looking at a couple of videos that Gemma was carrying.

"I thought we might watch these tonight," said Gemma. "I've got Mad Maniac and Serial Passion."

Alice sighed. "I'm not going to watch that American rubbish."

"Suit yourself," said Gemma. "Any chocky biccies?"

"In the tin over there," said Alice with a weak, indulgent smile. "Such a child," she whispered to Agatha.

Gemma caught Agatha's eye and winked. Agatha began to wonder about Gemma. Who exactly was this little shop-girl who went in for a lesbian affair and liked watching videos about serial killers? She remembered from the reviews that the two films Gemma had chosen to watch were particularly nasty.

But Alice had caught that wink and she suddenly stood up and loomed over Agatha. "I don't want to hurry you off," she said, "but I've got a lot to do."

"Of course." Agatha got to her feet as well. "See you Saturday."

Agatha was glad to get out of there. On reflection, she decided that there was something quite frightening about Alice and Gemma.

Agatha and James were just having a cup of coffee and sharing notes when there was a ring at the doorbell. James went to open the door and found Bill Wong standing there. He came in and looked thoughtfully about him.

"What are you two up to?" he demanded. "And don't tell me it's because you've decided to shack up together. You could have done that in Carsely."

"Sit down, Bill," said Agatha. "We were going to phone you. I told you Deborah Camden had asked me to investigate the case on behalf of Sir Charles. Wait till you hear what we found out."

He listened, his face growing grim as they reeled off the new evidence they had found: Kelvin had had a row with Jessica; Deborah had been seen driving out of Dembley on the Saturday afternoon in the direction of the Barfield estate; Peter and Terry never usually worked on Saturday afternoons and yet had opted to work the Saturday of the murder; and Jeffrey Benson appeared to be an IRA sympathizer.

"And how long were you going to sit on this evidence if I hadn't called round?" demanded Bill furiously. "We'll need to pull Deborah and Kelvin in again. And what of this Irish business? There was a bomb went off in the High Street here two years ago and a child was killed. I thought I had heard Jeffrey's name before. Two Irishmen were reported to have been staying in his flat the night before the bombing. He denied the whole thing and we had no evidence to hold him. But this time he's really going to sweat."

"We were going to phone you this evening," said James. "It's no use being angry with us, Bill, and telling us to keep out of it. You'd never have found all this out without our help. How did you find us?"

"Sir Charles told me where you were. He appeared to think that the hiring of you showed him to be innocent. I'd better get down to police headquarters right away, and you two are coming with me!"

Later that evening Jeffrey Benson was returning from the Grapes. As he turned the corner of the street where he lived, he saw two men standing and looking up at his block of flats. There was something familiar about them, about the grey suits and grey faces. He recognized one of them. It was the man who had questioned him after the bombing. The man from MI5. He walked quickly away and went to a phone box. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and found a number and dialled. When a voice answered, he said, "Benson here, Dembley. They're waiting to question me again about that business two years ago."

"Then do what you did two years ago and keep your mouth shut," said the voice.

"But they'll keep me in for days and grill me," said Jeffrey, his voice sounding weak and frightened and not at all like his usual robust tones.

"You know what to do." The voice was cold. "Keep your mouth shut or we'll shut it for you."

"If that's all the help you are," shouted Jeffrey, "I've a good mind to tell them the lot and ask for protection."

"Just remember, there's no protection from us," said the voice.

Jeffrey walked out into a shifting world full of death and violence. For the first time in years, he thought of his mother. Like a lost child, he walked back to his street and approached the two men.

"Looking for me?" he said.

Deborah had all her clothes spread out on the bed when the police came for her. She had been trying to think what to wear on Saturday. She had studied society magazines, but all they showed were pictures of people at balls and parties. They did not show any pictures of people at a country-house dinner.

And when they started to question her about that Saturday, she was terrified that they might arrest her and that she might never get to Barfield House for dinner.

Bill Wong called on Agatha and James the following morning. He looked weary.

"We can't hold Deborah," he said. "She said she had started to drive out in the hope of stopping Jessica making a scene, but then had turned back to Dembley before she got to the estate. She's stuck to her story, although we questioned her over and over again. She said she turned back because she was frightened of Jessica, then she said she had lied to us because she was frightened of being accused of the murder.

"Kelvin has admitted to the row with Jessica. After intensive questioning it appears that he was so ashamed of his inability to lay her that he lied to us. Believe that if you want. Peter and Terry said they had volunteered for the extra work at the restaurant and changed shifts with two of the other waiters because no one was going out on that Saturday walk but Jessica. Now we get to Benson.

"He did house two Irishmen the night before the bombing. He swears blind he didn't know what they were going to do, that is if they did it. He's so terrified, he's told us all he knows and it's not much. We traced a phone number he gave us, but when we got there the four men who had been living in this house in Stratford had packed up and disappeared. They must have known he would sing. False names, rent paid cash, no contact with the neighbours. The usual dead end."

"I suppose he's under protective custody," said James.

"Not worth it. He's just one of those naive liberals who get sucked in. He'll never hear from them again, and more's the pity. But that's all MI5's pigeon. We're still working on the murder."

"I suppose the walk on Saturday is off," said Agatha.

"Oh, no, you may as well go along and keep your ears open. I can't stop you. But go carefully. Sir Charles is still under suspicion, but it could well be one of your rambling companions. Make sure they don't suspect you. Jeffrey talks to you about Ireland in a pub, James, and the next day MI5 comes calling. He might put two and two together."

When he had left, James and Agatha looked at each other for a long moment.

"I think you had better go home, Agatha," said James finally. "I don't like this."

But all in that moment the idea of giving up her precious role of Mrs Lacey was more frightening to Agatha than the idea of being murdered.

"I've got you to protect me," she said. "We haven't even had any breakfast. I'll make it."

She hummed to herself in the kitchen as she prepared a cheese omelette for both of them, so engrossed in her wifely role that she quite forgot that she had never really made an omelette.

James came into the kitchen in time to smell burning cheese and swipe the pan off the stove. "Go and sit down, Agatha," he said in a kindly voice. "You're obviously too worried to cook."

And so Agatha had all the humiliation of sitting there feeling useless while James whipped up two light cheese omelettes. He doesn't need a wife, mourned Agatha. If the road to a man's heart is through his stomach, then I haven't got a hope in hell.

"What about Mary Trapp?" asked James.

"Oh, her? Maybe we'll talk to her on the walk," said Agatha. "I mean, it'll begin to look odd if we call on another one of them."

"We didn't exactly call on Deborah or Kelvin," James pointed out. "Still, maybe you're right. We'll have a day off. Tell you what, we'll go to the movies and forget about the whole thing."

Agatha had quite decided the pursuit of James was hopeless and was so quiet and subdued for the rest of that day and evening that James enjoyed her company immensely. And that night he didn't even bother to put a chair under the handle of his bedroom door.

It was a subdued group of ramblers who set out from the Grapes that Saturday. Agatha was still without any romantic hopes and was wearing the trainers recommended by Alice. She felt they made her feet look enormous, but what did it all matter anyway? There was nothing to look forward to now at her age but an early grave.

Jeffrey Benson was suffering from total loss of ego. When he remembered the way he had cringed before his interrogators, he felt like bursting into tears. Then, when he had begged them for protection and they had told him in an almost fatherly way that he was of no account to anyone, he was just one of the saps the IRA had used, he had felt totally demoralized.

It was obvious that Alice and Gemma had had some sort of row because Gemma, wearing a brief pair of shorts and unsuitable, thin sandals, was talking animatedly to Mary Trapp while Alice lumbered behind, scowling. Peter and Terry were whispering together. James wondered how soon it would be before the ramblers connected him and Agatha with the sudden renewal of police interest and how the police had come by the new information. The one thing, he thought, that might save himself and Agatha from discovery was the walkers' lack of interest in anything other than their own immediate affairs. He looked down at Agatha, who was glooming along beside him, and decided it was time they reinforced the marital couple bit and said sharply to her, "What's the matter with you, dear? You look as if you've lost your last penny"

"Oh, shut up, pillock," snapped Agatha, correctly guessing what he was up to and glad of a way to release her pent-up frustrations. "It's a wonder you didn't ask that little tart from the library along."

"How dare you speak to me like that," said James. "Jeffrey's right. You need a punch in the mouth."

"What's that?" Mary Trapp swung around. "How dare you advocate violence against women, Jeffrey!"

"Ah'm sick o' this bickering," said Kelvin. He looked stonily at Agatha and James. "You two should keep your quarrels out o' public. There's nothing mair sickening than a marital row."

"How would you know, Kelvin?" jeered Alice. "You can't even get a girlfriend."

Kelvin stood stock-still, his face flaming. "Ah'm sick o' the lot of ye. Ah'm going home."

"Now, then," said Peter. "Birds in their little nests agree. Are we out for a nice walk, or aren't we?"

They all walked on in silence. But as they reached the outskirts of Dembley, rusting recession-hit factories on either side of them, the grey clouds above parted and the sun shone down. Spirits began to lift. Gemma began to sing 'One Man Went to Mow', and they all joined in.

By the time they reached the edge of the land across which they were to walk, they were all in a fairly good mood.

They consulted the map and the old book Jeffrey had found. "There should be signs," said Jeffrey. "But this is the way. Let's go."

They all climbed over a stile and along the edge of one field, but then they came up against a padlocked gate. Leaning on the other side of the gate was a large, brutal-looking man with a shotgun.

"Get off my land," he shouted. "Poxy ramblers. I'd shoot the lot of you."

"Who are you?" demanded Jeffrey, moving to the front of the group.

"My name is Harry Ratcliffe," said the farmer, "and you're on my land."

"You've got no right to order us off," said Jeffrey wrathfully. He brandished the map. "This is a legitimate right of way"

"Ah, to hell with you," said Ratcliffe. "Left-wing buggers. Why don't you go and get a job and cut your hair?"

Jeffrey could not bear one more humiliation. He thrust the map into Agatha's hands, vaulted over the gate, and aimed a punch at the farmer. The farmer blocked his arm and swung his fist, which landed with a smack on Jeffrey's nose.

"Let that be a lesson to you," shouted Ratcliffe. "I'm going for my dogs."

He strode off. James climbed over the gate and knelt beside Jeffrey. He mopped at the blood with his handkerchief and felt gingerly along the bridge of Jeffrey's nose. "You're lucky," he said. "Nothing broken. We'd best get you back before he turns the dogs on us. You'll feel better after a drink and then we'll go to the police." The injured Jeffrey was tenderly helped back over the gate. Fussing over him, they led their injured leader from the field.

They have a point, thought Agatha in surprise; some of these landowners are right bastards. She almost forgot about the murder. The attack on Jeffrey had drawn them all together wonderfully. By the time they were seated in the Grapes, the old Agatha had surfaced and was explaining how she would consult a lawyer and make sure the right of way was opened up.

Jeffrey, recovered after James had bought him two double brandies, said he did not want to go to the police, but he was grateful to Agatha for volunteering to make life hot for Ratcliffe. They all proceeded to drink quite a lot and everything was going merrily until Deborah was overheard asking Agatha what she should wear to dinner at Barfield House.

Mary Trapp rounded on her. "Never tell me you're going there! That's the enemy."

Deborah blushed painfully. "Sir Charles is all right," she said defensively. "He's not like Ratcliffe!"

"You are betraying your class," said Alice ponderously.

"Wear a pretty blouse and skirt," said James, addressing Deborah.

She looked at him in surprise. "But I bought a black velvet dinner gown from the thrift shop."

"Too overdressed," said James. "When in doubt, dress down, not up."

"You never were one of us, Deborah," said Jeffrey. "Trust you to go over to the other side."

Deborah did not say anything. She simply walked out of the pub. She was not going to let anything take the gloss off the forthcoming evening.

They watched her go and then fell to berating Ratcliffe over again until cheerfulness was restored.

James and Agatha walked companionably home. "We'll get changed and go out for dinner," said James, and all Agatha's hopes flooded back into her tipsy brain and she startled James by accompanying him out to the hotel dining-room in a short black dress with a very low neckline indeed, very high heels, and very much make-up.

It was a good thing, thought James, that he had not advised Agatha to dress down. Dressing down for the evening was obviously a foreign idea to Agatha Raisin!