Agatha Raisin The Deadly Dance

SIX

“WE’RE in luck,” said Charles. “God bless the Asians. He’s got a surgery at two o’clock this afternoon. We’ll have a quick bite to eat. How are we going to handle this? Ask him outright? Or are you going to pretend to be ill and then drop it into the conversation?”

“Ask him outright. I’ll phone Roy. I feel guilty about him.” Agatha rang her home number but there was no reply.

They had a sandwich in a pub and then went back to the surgery. There were already five people waiting. Agatha went up to the receptionist and handed her card over. “We would like a few words with Dr. Singh.”

The receptionist was an enormous woman. Her thighs spilled over the typing chair. Her huge bosom cast a shadow over the keyboard in front of her. Her head was surprisingly small despite triple chins. Agatha guessed she could not be any more than thirty yearsold. Her appearance conjured up memories of a seaside holiday where one got one’s photograph taken by sticking one’s head through a life-sized cardboard cut-out of the fairground’s fat lady.

“You’ll need to wait until all the patients have been seen to,” she said. “Take a seat.”

So they did and waited and waited. Agatha tried to contact Roy several times, phoning Roy’s mobile phone as well as her own home number, but failing each time to get a reply.

At last they were told that Dr. Singh would see them. Dr. Singh was a small neat man, dark-skinned, wearing glasses and a white coat, as thin as his receptionist was fat.

“I have already spoken to the police,” he began. “I see you are a private detective, Mrs. Raisin. I assume you wish to ask about the sleeping pills I was supposed to have prescribed.”

“Yes,” said Agatha eagerly.

“Mr. Harrison Peterson was a temporary patient. He suffered from high blood pressure. I prescribed high blood pressure pills. The police showed me the bottle. Someone had carefully extracted a label from another bottle, a bottle of barbiturates, steamed off the label—I should guess—on the bottle of high blood pressure medicine and then replaced it with the part that stated the medicine was sleeping pills. Then they pasted on the section with my name and the name of the pharmacy.”

“So it must have been murder,” said Charles.

Outside, Agatha said excitedly, “So the case is open again. How did the murderer get him to take the sleeping pills?”

“Can’t think. I wonder what the results of the autopsy were,” said Charles as they walked to the car-park. “I mean, he may not have taken sleeping pills. He knew his killer. No sign of forced entry. They have a drink. The murderer doctors Peterson’s drink with that date-rape drug, whatever it’s called, and then, when he passes out, smothers him with a pillow or pinches his nostrils and then sets the scene.”

“You know what this means? We’re back at the beginning,” mourned Agatha, “and I don’t know where to start.”

“Phone Patrick and see if he’s got an address for the wife.”

Agatha phoned Patrick and told him what they had found out. Then Charles heard her say excitedly, “You’ve found the wife? Where is she? Hang on a minute.”

Holding the phone under her ear, she took a notebook and pen out of her bag and wrote something down. “I’ll go and see her,” said Agatha. “The murderer was obviously someone that Peterson knew.”

When she rang off, she said to Charles, “She’s living in Telegraph Road in Shipston-on-Stour.”

“I think we should go back and get Roy,” said Charles cautiously. “He must be feeling a bit neglected.”

“I’ll try him again,” said Agatha. Again she tried her home number and Roy’s mobile phone number without success.

“He’s not sitting waiting for us,” she said. “Let’s just go and see this wife. It won’t take long.”

“It’s too bad of Agatha to leave you like this,” Emma was saying.

Roy shrugged. “She might have been trying to phone me but I left my mobile on the table beside the bed.”

“Why don’t you phone her?”

“I forget her mobile number all the time. Now that’s in my address book on the table beside the bed as well. You don’t have it, do you?”

Emma had one of Agatha’s cards with both home and mobile number on it. If she gave it to Roy, Agatha might come back with dear Charles. On the other hand, the longer she stayed away and the angrier Roy got, the more Agatha would be shown up in a bad light. Anything that might disaffect Charles as well was all to the good.

Roy was sitting in Emma’s living-room. He glanced out of the window and saw Agatha’s cleaner, Doris Simpson, walking past.

He shot up. “Mrs. Simpson. Ed forgotten about her. She’ll have a key.”

He rushed out, followed by Emma.

An hour later, at Moreton-in-Marsh station, Roy said, “You’ve been awfully kind to me, Emma. No, don’t bother walking over the bridge with me.” He kissed her on the cheek.

The opposite platform across the bridge was already full of people waiting for the London train. Clutching his travel bag, Roy strode off towards the bridge, thinking that anyone watching would be sure that Emma was his mother.

Emma watched him go and felt a little frisson of delightful naughtiness. She felt sure anyone watching would think that Roy was her young lover.

“Here’s Telegraph Road and a convenient car-park.” Charles turned into the car-park and stopped.

Agatha opened the passenger door and got out, wincing slightly as she did so.

“Rheumatism?” asked Charles.

“No,” snapped Agatha. “Just a slight cramp.”

Agatha had been aware for several weeks now of a naggingpain in her hip. But her mind shrieked against the very idea of her having rheumatism or arthritis. Those were ailments of the elderly, surely.

Joyce Peterson lived in a small cottage that leaned slightly towards the road.

Agatha’s hand hovered over the bell. “I wonder why she wasn’t invited to her son’s engagement party.”

“Ring the bell,” said Charles. “You’ll never find out if you don’t ask.”

“Why do I never phone first?” mourned Agatha.

“Because you’re an amateur.” Charles’s voice had an unfamiliar edge to it.

Agatha was just turning to stare at him in surprise when the door opened. A tall blonde woman answered the door. She was wearing tight jeans and a white shirt tied round her trim waist. Her beautiful, expressionless face was half hidden by a wing of her hair.

“Is Mrs. Peterson at home?”

“I am Mrs. Peterson, or was. What do you want?”

Agatha handed over her card. “We are investigating the murder of your husband.”

“Murder! But I was told it was suicide!”

“Please, may we come in? I am Agatha Raisin and this is Sir Charles Fraith. We’ll tell you all about it.”

She nodded and turned away. They followed her through a kitchen and into a long airy room at the back. Agatha was amazed. From the outside, the cottage looked as if it would not have any significant space at all. The room had obviously been extended out to take space from the long garden at the back.

It was tastefully furnished, a mixture of modern and some good antiques.

Joyce sat in an armchair by the open French windows. A gentle breeze floated in, bringing with it the scent of late roses from the garden. Charles and Agatha sat on a sofa opposite her.

She did not ask any questions, simply waited in silence.

Agatha explained how they had found out about the sleeping pills. Still, Joyce said nothing.

“Why weren’t you invited to your son’s engagement party?” asked Charles.

“I was invited but I preferred not to go. Much as I love my son, he said some unforgivable things when I divorced his father. I met the Laggat-Brown female once. Detestable woman. Jason crawls to her. Cassandra is all right, but silly and empty-headed.”

“Why did you divorce your husband?” asked Agatha.

“Why not? You mean I should have stood by a jailbird? He was charged with not only insider trading but pocketing money from clients’ accounts. Then there was another woman.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I checked his credit-card bills one day. There was a diamond necklace from Asprey’s, hotels and meals in Paris, perfume, clothes, all that. When I challenged him, he said the Paris trips were business and the presents were for clients. I was going to divorce him even if he hadn’t gone to prison. Prison simply made the divorce proceedings easier.”

“Did he know Mr. Laggat-Brown?” asked Charles.

“If he did, he never mentioned it.”

“What kind of man was your husband?”

The room was growing dark and there came a faint rumble of thunder in the distance.

“When I met him, he was very charming. A high-flyer. I like the good things of life. Then I had Jason. He was such a darling little boy.”

“You must have been married very young,” said Charles.

“I was eighteen. I wanted to keep the boy at home, but by the time he was eight, Harrison insisted he was sent away to prep school and then Winchester. He began to change. Very much his father’s boy. Little time for me.”

A sudden puff of wind lifted the wing of hair back from her face, and in the lamplight they saw her cheek was marred by a large bruise.

“That’s a nasty bruise,” said Charles.

“Silly of me,” she said. “I didn’t notice a cupboard door in the kitchen was open and walked right into it.”

There came the rattle of a key in the front door and a man’s voice called, “Joyce!”

“In here, dear.”

A tall man carrying a briefcase walked into the room. He was well-built and tanned with very light grey eyes. He was wearing a well-cut business suit.

“Mark, these people are detectives. They say that Harrison was murdered.”

Those eyes of his, as cold as chips of ice, fastened on Agatha and Charles. “You’re not the police, so get out of here.”

“But Mark—”

“Shut up. You two. Out!”

“You’d better go.” Joyce’s voice sounded weary.

Agatha turned in the doorway. “You have my card. If there’s anything I can do …”

“Just go.”

“Isn’t it amazing,” said Charles as they hurried to the car-park just as fat drops of rain were beginning to fall. “They marry one bastard, then as soon as they’re free, they marry another. I’ll never understand women.”

“I’ve just remembered something.” Agatha slid into the passenger seat. “I forgot to leave Roy a key. That’s why he didn’t answer any of my calls.”

“Oh, Aggie. Of all the things. You’ll just need to hope he’s found refuge with Mrs. Bloxby.”

In Agatha’s cottage, there were two notes on the kitchen table. One was from Doris Simpson saying she had let the cats out after feeding them. The other was from Roy. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, you old bat, but if it hadn’t been for Emma I would have had a rotten time. Doris Simpson finally let me in. I’m off to London. No point in staying. Roy.”

“Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha.

“Your trouble,” said Charles, who had read the note over her shoulder, “is that now you’re running around being a professional detective, you think your friends are to be picked up and left at will.”

The doorbell rang. “You get it, Charles,” said Agatha. “I’ll try Roy on his mobile.”

Charles opened the door. Emma stood there, fresh makeup, golden trouser suit, shielded from the rain under a golfing umbrella.

“Oh, come in,” said Charles. “Agatha’s on the phone.” He led the way into the kitchen. “Can I get you something?”

“No, Em all right, Charles. I’ve been thinking. I owe you not one but two lunches. My turn next.”

And she gazed at Charles with simple adoration in her eyes.

Alarm bells went off in Charles’s head. “That’s very kind of you, Emma, but Em afraid I have to leave. Got things to attend to.”

Emma’s face fell. Agatha came into the kitchen. “Oh, it’s you, Emma. Thank you for looking after, Roy. He’s been singing your praises.”

“Has he forgiven you?” asked Emma.

“Oh, yes,” said Agatha and Charles noticed a flicker of disappointment in Emma’s eyes.

Agatha had mollified Roy by promising to travel up to London and buy him the best meal in town.

“Isn’t it a pity,” said Emma brightly. “Charles has just told me he is leaving.”

Agatha’s bearlike eyes focused on Charles. “But we’ve got so much to find out.”

“Sorry, Aggie. Got to go. I haven’t unpacked my bag, so I’ll be off.”

“Ed better go, too,” said Emma, anxious to hang on to Charles until the very last minute.

“Can’t I persuade you to stay?” asked Agatha, following them to the door.

“Sorry.” Charles picked up his bag and kissed her on the cheek.

He walked out to his car with Emma following. “Goodbye,” she said, turning her cheek towards him for a kiss. Charles pretended not to notice. He slung his bag in the boot and then got into the driver’s seat.

Emma walked to her cottage and stood on the doorstep, waving and waving until his car had turned the coiner of Lilac Lane and disappeared.

Agatha felt forlorn.

Charles drove down to Moreton-in-Marsh and parked by the war memorial. He took out his mobile phone and called Agatha. “Feel like dinner?”

“Yes, but I thought you’d gone!”

“I’m parked by the war memorial in Moreton. Come down and collect me and I’ll tell you about it.”

Over a pub dinner, Agatha exclaimed again, “I can’t believe it. Emma!”

“That’s the reason for the new hairdo and the new clothes.” “Emma’s such a simple, friendly person. Surely you must be mistaken.”

“No, I’m not. She could be dangerous.” “How?”

“I just feel uneasy about it. I’ll creep back with you. I’m sure she goes to bed early. You haven’t really talked much about Laggat-Brown, now that we’re on the subject of romance.”

“I had dinner with him and he seemed very pleasant.”

“He’s my prime suspect.”

“Come on, Charles. He’s got a cast-iron alibi and he wouldn’t want to murder his own daughter. It’s obvious he adores her. My money’s on Jason. He’s the only one with a motive.”

“But to kill his own father! Wait a bit. That’s out. He was in Bermuda.”

“So he was.-We seem to be going round and round.”

“What about Joyce Peterson’s new squeeze? Maybe he’s fanatically jealous of the ex and wanted revenge. Maybe he meant to shoot Jason. You know, Aggie, if it hadn’t been for that death threat, we wouldn’t be in such a muddle. What if the death threat was a blind? What if the intended target wasn’t Cassandra? Don’t you see, she’s the stumbling block. As long as we keep looking on Cassandra as the intended victim, we’ll get nowhere. So let’s take Jason as a possible.”

“Can’t see why,” Agatha said.

“What about Mrs. Laggat-Brown?”

“Possible. Husband’s in the clear. What about the Felliets?”

“I know George very well and I can’t imagine him doing anything murderous.”

“What about the daughter? She might know something about the Laggat-Browns.”

“I never met her. I believe Felicity is very beautiful.”

“It’s a long shot. Could you phone Sir George and ask if he now knows where she is?”

“He’ll wonder why we’re asking. I think I should drop along to Ancombe tomorrow and ask him in the way of conversation. Say I happened to be passing by.”

Emma heard the sound of a car turning into Lilac Lane and ran upstairs to the landing and looked out.

Charles and Agatha got out. They were laughing at something. At me? thought Emma, and put her arms across her body and hugged herself in a paroxysm of jealousy.

In that moment, she hated Agatha Raisin. As she prepared herself for bed that night and then lay down under the duvet, she fantasized that with Agatha out of the way, Charles would turn to her. He obviously had a penchant for older women. If Agatha was killed during an investigation, no one would ever think of Emma. Of course, she wouldn’t actually do it. Would she?

Charles strolled through Ancombe the next morning. Agatha had driven him down to Moreton to collect his car. She had gone off to the office and he had decided to drive to Ancombe, park his car a little ways from where the Felliets lived and see if he could bump into George as if by accident.

He went into the general stores to buy cigarettes. He rarely smoked, usually preferring to “borrow” a cigarette from someone else, but this was one of the rare days when he really wanted a smoke.

As he entered the store, he heard the woman behind the counter saying, “That’ll be seven pounds and fifty pee, Lady Felliet.”

Charles forgot about the cigarettes. What was her first name? Something odd. Crystal, that was it.

He moved forward as Lady Felliet turned away from the counter. “It’s Crystal, isn’t it?”

She was a tall woman. He remembered she had been a blonde beauty when he used to go to deb dances in his early twenties. The blonde was now streaked with grey and worn in a knot at the back of her neck. Her hazel eyes were still beautiful, but two hard lines scored down either side of a mouth that had a discontented droop. She was wearing a tweed suit that had seen better days over a silk blouse, thick stockings and serviceable walking shoes.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Charles Fraith.”

“Charlie? Of course it’s you. Good heavens. George told me you’d called round the other day. What brings you here?”

“I’m staying with a friend in Carsely. Went out for a drive and suddenly felt I wanted a cigarette.”

“Get your cigarettes and come home for coffee. We don’t see many people these days.”

Charles bought a packet of Bensons and joined her again. “It wasn’t so bad in the beginning,” said Crystal. “Oh, thank you.” Charles had taken the shopping basket from her. “I really should get one of those carts on wheels. But so naff.”

“Not any more,” said Charles. “What were you saying about the old days?”

“Well, not so far back. I make it sound like centuries. But that’s what it feels like sometimes. When we first moved here, we got invited for weekend house parties and things. People, however, do expect one to return hospitality. I gave a few dinner parties in our poky little cottage, but it didn’t work and finally the invitations stopped coming. I hate that Laggat-Brown creature.”

“Wasn’t her fault you lost your money, though.”

“True. But I mean the feelings of humiliation. She did crow over one. Here we are. George will be delighted.”

George did look pleased to see Charles. “Do you mind if I leave you boys to your coffee?” said Crystal. “I really must do some gardening.”

“Go ahead. I’ll make the coffee,” said George.

Charles followed him into the kitchen and waited while George boiled the kettle and put spoonfuls of instant coffee in two mugs. Charles recognized it as the cheapest instant coffee that could be bought.

“Right,” said George. “Grab your mug, old man, and follow me through.”

When they were seated, he went on, “I do feel sorry for Crystal. All this scrimping and saving is getting to her.”

“You could get a job,” said Charles.

George goggled at him. “No one will employ me at my age.”

“You’re only … what? Forty-four?”

“Forty-five. And where could I work?”

“Tesco’s supermarket at Stow are always advertising for staff.”

“My dear fellow, can you see me on the till? Crystal would die of shame.”

“They need people at supermarkets to stack the shelves. Or what about these all-night garages? They’re always looking for someone. It would pay your grocery bills. Doesn’t your daughter help out?”

“Felicity has expensive tastes. T really don’t think she has anything left over at the end of the month.” “What is she doing again?” “Working as personal assistant to some couturier.” “Where?”

“In Paris, where else? Rue Saint-Honore.” “Which couture house?”

“You do ask a lot of questions. Thierry Duval. Have you seen his fashions? Weird. Saw them on the telly. And the way the models have to walk these days. Just as if they’d wet their knickers.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Last Christmas. She came over. Seems to enjoy the work.” “I’d like to see a photograph of her.” “What’s all this interest in Felicity? She’s too young for you, Charles.”

Charles’s eyes swivelled around the room and came to rest on a studio photograph of a beautiful blonde. She had been photographed looking straight at the camera and leaning on her hands, a la Princess Di.

He pointed. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

“Yes, so what? Honestly, old man, you’ve changed. Can’t remember you firing questions at one the whole bloody time.”

“Sorry,” said Charles and began to chatter lightly about people they both knew, lacing it with enough scurrilous gossip that George forgot about all those strange questions and looked sorry when Charles said he had to leave.

Agatha was lucky in that the police, sure that Harrison Peterson’s death had been a suicide, had not ordered an intensive forensic search of the room and the stairs leading to it. By the time they got around to it, the room and the stairs had been scrubbed clean and the room itself had a new tenant. She had been worried about their footprints on the stairs or a stray one of her hairs somewhere in the room.

Emma was being singularly sweet to Agatha that morning. Agatha must never guess what she, Emma, had planned for her, although she reminded herself from time to time that it was only a fantasy to dispel her jealousy and rage.

Charles came into the office during the morning and gave Agatha his report of Felicity Felliet. He had decided not to bother explaining to Emma why he was still around. “Paris, again,” said Agatha. “I wonder what she was doing the night of the party.”

“We could run over and ask her. Plane there, plane back. One day should do it.”

Emma dug her newly painted fingernails into her hands. The pair of them in romantic Paris!

“What about tomorrow?” asked Agatha.

“It’ll need to be the day after. I’m hosting the village fete at the house. Anyway, what now?”

“I think we should try to catch Bill Wong. See if he can tell us anything more. What are you doing, Emma? What about that missing cat, Biggies?”

“Just about to go out on it,” said Emma.

Bill Wong saw them in one of the interviewing rooms. “I hope you have something to tell me,” he said. “I’m not supposed to help private detectives.”

“We heard a rumour that Harrison Peterson’s death was murder,” said Agatha.

“Nothing’s in the papers yet,” said Bill. “Where did you hear that?”

“I can’t tell you that, Bill.”

“Then I can’t tell you anything either.”

“Probably because you don’t know anything,” said Charles.

“Look.” Bill surveyed both of them. “Wilkes happened to be around when I got the message that you wanted to see me. He told me to get rid of you, fast. On the other hand, I’ll be in the Wheat-sheaf at lunch-time.”

“See you there. Come along, Charles.”

As Emma trudged around the streets of Mircester, looking for the missing Biggies, she turned over what Charles had said that morning. He was hosting a village fete. She could mingle with the crowds and watch him and see if there was any other female he was interested in. She had read up on him in the local newspapers and learned that he had been married to a Frenchwoman and was now divorced.

It would be better fun than looking for this cat. Agatha had two cats. Emma was beginning to hate cats.

She turned into the street where Biggies’s owner lived. Emma peered over the hedge into the garden. Biggies was sunning himself on the lawn. She thought quickly. She knew the owner, a widow, Mrs. Porteous, would be out at work.

Emma opened the garden gate and pounced on the sleeping cat. She thrust it into the cat carrier she was carrying with her. She decided to take Biggies home with her. He could be considered missing for another day and that would give her time to go to the fete. It was amazing how many cat owners didn’t just wait for their precious animals to reappear.

She put the carrier with the now angry cat in the back of her car, which she had parked a few streets away. Then she wondered uneasily if Mrs. Porteous knew her cat had returned and had left it out in the garden while she went to work. Emma flipped open her address book and found the work number and dialled.

“This is Emma Comfrey,” she said. “Just to let you know we’re still looking.”

“Oh, bless you,” said Mrs. Porteous. Her voice became quavery. “I worry the whole time about him. I fear he might be dead.”

“There, there,” said Emma. “Em working all day long looking for him.”

Bill Wong had nothing to tell them that they didn’t know already. But they were able to tell him about Joyce Peterson’s violent partner.

“She didn’t tell us she was living with anyone,” said Bill. “We had a devil of a job tracing her. How did you catch up with her?” “Someone told us.”

“I wonder who that someone was. Anyway, you say this Mark is violent. What gave you that idea?”

“She had an enormous bruise on her cheek. She said she had walked into an open cupboard door, which is a battered woman’s variation on the theme of41 fell downstairs’.”

“We’d better check him out. Got a second name for him?”

“No, just Mark. He might have killed Harrison Peterson in a jealous rage.”

“I hope not,” said Bill.

“Why?”

“Because that would mean that we would still be left with the shooting at the Laggat-Browns. This Mark would have ho reason to want to kill the daughter. It’s one of those cases that’s going to drag on and on. I haven’t had time to do anything in the garden, and despite last night’s rain, it’s as dry as a bone. Do you think there’s something in this global warming business?”

Said Charles, “It was evidently as hot as hell in medieval times. Give it another hundred or so years and we’ll have another mini ice age.”

“What now?” asked Charles after they had said goodbye to Bill.

“Paris, I suppose. While you’re playing lord of the manor at your fete, I’ll take a day off and run up to London and take Roy out.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing some work?”

“I’ve got staff. Why keep a kennelful of dogs and bark myself?”

Emma’s face lit up when Agatha said she was going up to London to see Roy on the following day.

“Such a dear boy,” she said, and added coyly, “Give him my love.”

“Will do.”

With Agatha out of the road, thought Emma, she could deliver the pesky cat to its grateful owner and have the whole day free.