Agatha Raisin The Deadly Dance

FOUR

“WHO does this Jeremy Laggat-Brown work for?” asked Charles over breakfast.

“Think it was something like Chater’s.”

“Good firm. Lombard Street. I know someone there. I’ll give them a ring.”

When Charles went to the phone, Agatha sipped her coffee and smoked a cigarette, wishing it were like the old days when she hadn’t set up as a professional detective and had only the one case to bother about.

Charles came back, grinning. “Now here’s a thing. Laggat-Brown isn’t with them any more. He’s set up his own business— import/export.”

“Importing and exporting what?”

“Electronic bits and pieces. Got an office up a dingy stair inFetter Lane, according to my old school pal. Our Jeremy travels a lot. Seems to be a one-man operation, with a secretary to look after things when he’s not there.”

“Why did he leave Chater’s?”

“Evidently said he was tired of stockbroking.”

“No leaving under a cloud, anything like that?”

“I’ll push further.”

“I should really put you on the books,” began Agatha, then added hurriedly as she saw a mercenary gleam in Charles’s eyes, “but I’m overstretched as it is.”

He sighed. “To think Cassandra won the lottery. Doesn’t seem fair. Only poor people should win the lottery.”

“Like you?”

“Like me.”

“Charles, one of your suits would feed a family for a year.”

“Which reminds me, I haven’t paid my tailor’s bill. You said something about the Felliets who used to own the manor. I know George. Was at school with him. Why are you interested in the Felliets?”

“I thought they might be able to tell us more about the Laggat-Browns than the Laggat-Browns have been telling me. Do you know where they live?”

“Let me think. I know. Ancombe. They’ll be in the phone book. By the way, I took your assistant, Emma, out for lunch yesterday.”

“Did you? That’s nice. Should we go and visit the Felliets?”

“All right. Like old times. What about the detective agency?”

“They don’t need me at the moment. Runs itself. Emma and a retired detective I’ve hired can deal with everything.”

The Felliets turned out to live in a small cottage on the outskirts of Ancombe. Even small cottages in the Cotswolds now cost quite a lot of money, but as Charles held open the garden gate for her, Agatha reflected that it must have been a sore climb-down for the Felliets to have to give up their manor-house for this.

A small rotund man in his mid-forties wearing stone-washed jeans and an open-necked striped shirt answered the door. “Why, Charles,” he exclaimed, “what brings you here? Haven’t seen you in yonks. Come in.”

They followed him into a little living-room. Agatha glanced around. It was as if a country-house drawing-room had been scaled right down. There were pretty pieces of antique furniture, and family portraits crowded the walls.

“My wife’s out,” said George Felliet, “but I’ve got a pot of coffee in the kitchen. That do?”

“Fine,” said Charles. “Agatha, George. George, Agatha.”

“We don’t have a sit-in kitchen,” said George. “Wait there and I’ll fetch the coffee.”

“His old man was a bit of a gambler,” said Charles while they waited. “Then the death duties took a lot of what they had.”

“Is he a baronet like you?”

“Yes, very old family. The manor-house had been in the family for centuries.” “Pity.”

George came in bearing a tray. “Here we go. Milk, Agatha?” “Black will do.”

“Charles, help yourself. Now, what brings you?”

“Agatha is a detective,” said Charles, “and she’s investigating that shooting at the manor. Have you any idea why someone would want to shoot their daughter?”

“No. Had it been the Laggat-Brown woman, I could have understood it. Did you see what she did to the manor? No soul. The name isn’t really Laggat-Brown.”

“Oh, what is it?”

“Ryan. For some reason Jeremy Ryan decided that Laggat-Brown sounded better and changed it by deed poll.”

“You’d think he’d have chosen something grander,” said Charles.

“I tell you, that lot have only a veneer of sophistication. Underneath, they’re as common as muck. She made her money out of Daddy’s business. And do you know what that was?”

“No.”

“Dog biscuits.”

“You’re being snobbish, George. Nothing up with dog biscuits.”

George sighed. His rubicund face and small mouth gave him the look of a hurt baby.

“I am, I know. It was just the way she went on. Rubbing salt in the wound. Kept saying things like, ‘If you can’t afford to keep up a place like this, it’s much more sensible to sell it to someone like me who can.’ Dealt with us with a mixture of pity and contempt. I really hate that woman. And if I really hate that woman, then, believe me, she’s rubbed someone else up the wrong way.”

“Where’s the wife?” asked Charles.

“Down in the village, shopping.”

“And Felicity?”

“She’s abroad. Travels a lot.”

“What does she do at the moment?”

“Assistant in some dress shop.”

“Which dress shop?”

“Charles, I’m getting angry about all these questions. One would think you suspected the Felliet family of having tried to kill that lumpy daughter of hers.”

“I’m sorry, George,” said Charles. “I’m so used to going around with Agatha trying to find out who murdered whom that I get a bit carried away. Let’s talk about other things.”

Agatha drank her coffee and listened to their reminiscences and longed for a cigarette, but could see no sign of an ashtray anywhere.

At last Charles decided to leave. As they drove off, he said, “Poor old George. I really did rile him up with all those questions. It can’t be anything to do with them. I wish we had the powers of the police. Maybe it would be easier for us to find Peterson then. You know, Agatha, you said you’d engaged that retired detective. Retired detectives usually keep up their contacts in the police. Might be better to let him take over for a bit.”

Agatha grinned ruefully. “And leave me with all the lost cats, dogs and children? Still, it might be worth a try.”

Charles accompanied her to the office. Patrick Mullen was dictating notes to Miss Simms, who was typing them out on her computer with such long nails that Agatha wondered how she managed.

Emma was sitting on the sofa with a small Yorkshire terrier at her feet. “I’ve phoned the owner,” said Emma. “She’s coming round.”

She did not look at Charles, who said breezily, “Hi, Emma!”

Emma murmured something and bent down to stroke the dog.

“Patrick,” said Agatha, “stop what you’re doing. I need you on this shooting case.”

The owner of the dog came in as Agatha was talking and was effusive in her thanks.

When she had left, Emma consulted her notes. Another missing teenager, seventeen-year-old girl called Kimberly Bright. Emma sighed. Charles came and sat beside her. “You look fed up. What’s up?”

“Eve got to start looking for a missing seventeen-year-old. It’s difficult for me because there’s such a generation gap, I don’t know anything about how they behave these days.”

“Miss Simms would know,” said Charles. He interrupted Agatha. “Agatha, Emma’s got a seventeen-year-old to look for. Miss Simms might have a better idea about how to go about it. Why don’t you let her have a go and Emma can do the typing?”

“Ooh, I’d love to try,” said Miss Simms.

“Oh, all right,” said Agatha. “Give Miss Simms the file, Emma. I’m taking Patrick out for an early lunch so I can continue filling him in on all the details.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. He reflected that Agatha, preoccupied as she now was, could be amazingly rude and insensitive.

“I’m sure Emma could do with a break as well,” he said. “Ell take you to lunch, Emma.”

Emma flushed up with pleasure. But her face fell when Agatha snapped, “And who’s going to answer the phones?”

“I’ll stay here,” said Miss Simms. “It’ll give me a chance to study the photographs and read up on where you’ve looked, Emma.”

Emma was momentarily diverted by the thought that it was ridiculous that a young woman like Miss Simms should call her by her first name and yet she herself was somehow bound by the ladies’ society tradition of second names only.

Then, to her dismay, Agatha turned in the doorway and said* “Sorry, Charles, I should have asked you as well.”

“Yes, you should. But I’ve asked Emma to lunch, so run along.”

So Emma was in seventh heaven. Excited as a schoolgirl, she chattered about her life all through lunch, saying that her husband had bullied her and that her colleagues had bullied her. She was sure that she was bringing out the strong protective side of Charles’s character, not knowing that he didn’t have one and was damning her as a professional victim.

“This Jeremy Laggat-Brown who used to be Ryan,’’ said Patrick over lunch. “His Paris alibi checks out?”

“Watertight. And why should he want to shoot his OWE daughter?”

“Well, I’ll start in Herris Cum Magna and then I’ll speak to Jason Peterson this evening,” said Patrick.

“You can’t. He’s in Bermuda, remember?”

“Forgot. I’ve still got contacts in the police. Before you asked me, I decided to do a bit of checking up on my own. I’ll find out from them what they’re doing about tracing Harrison Peterson. They’ll have the airports and ports covered, I know that, but I don’t want to go over old ground locally. Also, I’ll check the libraries for old reports about his fraud case and get a photograph.”

“Have the police found out yet what kind of gun was used?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Now, that’s a very interesting thing. It was a sniper rifle. A Parker-Hale M-85. It’s a first-rate sniper rifle, capable of precision fire up to ranges of nine hundred metres. The weapon has a silent safety catch, a threaded muzzle for flash suppressor, and an integral dovetail mount that accepts a variety of sights. Sort of thing a professional assassin would use.”

“I don’t think a professional assassin would bother to send a threatening letter first,” Agatha pointed out.

“True. This rifle is made by Sable Defence Industries here in the UK. Police are going through the books there, trying to trace all the rifles that have been sold.”

. “Have forensics found out anything else?”

“Only that we’re dealing with one very cool customer. He wore gloves and swept his way out of the box-room so there would be no fingerprints. The corridor and stairs are thickly carpeted.”

“He didn’t need to leave in a rush,” said Agatha bitterly. “I mean, the police went into the house, but I don’t think they even went in to the box-room. Just pushed the door open and looked. Well, good hunting. To tell you the truth, I’m not enjoying this detective agency business much. I hate the missing teenager ones because the parents are naturally distraught and it’s awfully hard trying to find someone the police were unable to.”

“The whole police force will search far and wide for a missing child,” said Patrick, “but once they reach the late teens, the search isn’t so urgent. What are Sam and Douglas doing?”

“Adultery cases. They pay well.”

“I’ll get off to Herris Cum Magna.”

“Wait a minute. Harrison Peterson was seen on the day of the party in Herris Cum Magna. Who saw him?”

“I got a tip-off. A Mrs. Blandford. I’ll start with her.”

Agatha made her way back to the office. Patrick had made her feel like an amateur. Why hadn’t she tried to get Bill to tell her the name of the person who had spotted Harrison?

To her annoyance, the office was locked. She unlocked the door and walked in. Emma had left a note. “Not feeling very well. Had to go home and lie down. Miss Simms is out on that job. Emma.”

The afternoon dragged on. Miss Simms did not return and there was no sign of Charles. At last Agatha locked up and went home, calling first at Emma’s cottage, but there was no reply.

She went into her own cottage, calling, “Charles!” The house was silent. She went upstairs to the spare bedroom. Charles had arrived with an overnight bag. It was gone. Agatha realized she had offended him and knew from experience that an offended Charles could stay away for quite a long time.

She went downstairs again just as the phone started to ring. It was Roy Silver, her one-time assistant, on the other end of the line.

“Aggie!” he cried. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. Feel like doing some free-lance PR?”

“I can’t, Roy. I’ve started up my own detective agency.”

“How exciting. Can I come down this weekend for a visit?”

“Of course. Are you driving down or taking the train?”

“The train. We’re coming into the wong-kind-of-the-leaves-on-the-line season and the trains will probably run late. I’ll be down Friday about eight o’clock.”

“Fine.”

Agatha brightened up at the prospect of seeing Roy again, but she missed Charles. She went through to her desk with some computer disks which had the detective agency’s accounts logged on them, put the disks in and began to go through the figures.

She noticed that she was beginning to actually show a small profit despite all the staff she had employed. The adultery cases were paying well and they were beginning to get quite a few from divorce lawyers.

She closed down the computer and was just about to phone Charles when her phone rang.

“Jeremy Laggat-Brown,” said the voice at the other end. “Remember me?”

“Of course.”

“Have you had dinner yet?” “No, not yet.”

“How about coming out to have a bite to eat with me?” “That would be nice,” said Agatha cautiously. “Will your wife be there?”

“Catherine’s got a Women’s Institute meeting tonight.” “Well, in that case .. .”

“Pick you up at eight? Where are you?” Agatha had put her home phone number along with the office number on her card but not her home address. She gave him directions. Then, when she replaced the receiver and looked at the clock, she let out a squawk. It was half past seven.

She fled up the stairs and began to tear clothes out of her wardrobe and place them on the bed. Then she decided she was wasting valuable time wondering what to wear when she should be making up her face.

Agatha at last descended the stairs just as the doorbell rang wearing a black sheath dress and very high heels and carrying a cashmere stole.

She opened the door and noticed with a sinking heart that Jeremy was dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt.

“You look grand,” he said.

“Maybe too grand. Should I change into something casual?”

“No, you’re fine as you are.”

Remember, Agatha cautioned herself, as she eased herself into his Mercedes, he may not be married but he’s living with his ex-wife and she thinks they’re getting together again.

He took her to a newly opened French restaurant in Broadway. “Shall I order for us?” he asked.

“Please,” said Agatha on her best behaviour, although she privately thought he might at least have suggested she look at the menu.

When he had placed the order, he smiled at her with those deep blue eyes. James has blue eyes, thought Agatha, a sharp memory of her husband invading her brain. “Tell me about yourself and how you got into the detective business,” he asked.

He was a good listener and Agatha loved to talk about herself and her adventures and so it was lucky for him that she did not really notice much what she was eating, although she did register that the confit de canard seemed to consist of rubbery pieces of near-raw duck in a sort of watery jam.

Over brandy and coffee, Agatha suddenly realized just how much she had been monopolizing the evening’s conversation.

“You haven’t told me a bit about yourself,” she said guiltily. “How did you get into the import/export business?”

Was it her imagination, or did those eyes go hard for a moment? Then he smiled. “You have been doing your work. I got fed up stockbroking. I originally trained as an electronics engineer. I knew several of the top firms and so it was easy to start importing and exporting electronics. But surely this is all very boring. Have you found Harrison Peterson?”

“One of my staff, a retired police detective, is out looking for him. I suppose he must be the guilty party. Did you know him?”

“Only slightly when I was a stockbroker myself. I don’t know that I approve of Cassandra’s engagement to Jason. There’s bad blood in that family.”

“Do you think that Jason might have been in with his father in a plot to kill Cassandra?”

“Why should he?”

“They’ve made joint wills, Cassandra and Jason. And you know that Cassandra won the lottery. I hope that’s not the case because the pair of them are together in Bermuda.”

“Seems silly. Makes Jason or his father the obvious suspect. Jason is devoted to his father by all accounts.”

“Where’s the mother? Whoever tried to shoot Cassandra had a female accomplice.”

“Jason never forgave her for divorcing his father. I don’t know where she’s living.^

Agatha sighed. “You see? So many questions I forgot to ask. The police have probably found her.”

Jeremy called for the bill and Agatha excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. As she repaired her make-up, she began to fret. Will he ask me out again? Why on earth did I talk so much?

“Oh, grow up, Agatha!” she snarled at her reflection in the mirror. “He may not be married but he’s as good as.”

She went out. He rose to his feet. “I’ve enjoyed the evening immensely. We must do this again.”

After a short pause in which Agatha had just been about to demand, “When?” and thought better of it, she said instead, “I should enjoy that very much.”

He drove her home. She invited him in for a drink, but he replied that he should be getting home. Agatha went into her cottage feeling rather flat.

She checked her phone for messages and found there was one. It was from Patrick Mullen. “I’ve tracked Harrison Peterson. He’s staying at a small pub that lets rooms called The Hereford in Evesham. We’re meeting him tomorrow at ten. He says he’s got a lot to tell us. I tried to get him to talk this evening. I didn’t see him. He talked through the door. Should I go to the police with this?”

Agatha quickly phoned Patrick. “Don’t go to the police,” she ordered. “This is our coup. I’ll see you in the office at nine.”

Her evening with Jeremy was quickly forgotten. Agatha could barely sleep that night for excitement.

In the office the following morning, Agatha was only momentarily diverted by Emma’s appearance. Emma’s hair was now dyed blonde and she was skilfully made up. She was wearing a black trouser-suit of expensive cut. Agatha briefly reflected that Emma now looked like one of those well-preserved, ginny, big-toothed women one occasionally saw at game fairs. Agatha forgot that Emma had claimed to be ill.

“So, Patrick,” she said, “how on earth did you get on to him?”

“I saw this Mrs. Blandford, a widow who lives in Herris Cum Magna. She knew him slightly. She gave him a cup of tea. She said he was sore at being left out of the engagement party. I said that was because his son didn’t know where he was and she said that Harrison had told her that his son had been in touch with him but had said that Mrs. Laggat-Brown had refused to invite Harrison.”

“The old cow. She never told me that.”

“I asked where Harrison was now and she got all shifty and said if she’d known that, she’d have told the police. I picked up that she’d a soft spot for Harrison. At last she said he’d said something about having a room in a pub in Evesham. I checked out the pubs that let rooms—very few of them—armed with a description and traced him to The Hereford.”

“Well done,” said Agatha. “Let’s get along there.”

As they drove towards Evesham, Patrick said uneasily, “Eve got a bad feeling about this. I feel we should have turned the whole thing over to the police.”

“Patrick, Mrs. Laggat-Brown is paying heavily for my services. If the police get to him first, she may give them all the credit and cut back on my fee and I’m just beginning to show a profit.”

“I know, I know. Just got a bad feeling in my water.”

The Hereford was situated near Evesham railway station. Patrick parked in the car-park. “The pub’11 still be closed,” said Agatha.

“It’s all right. You get to his room up a side staircase.”

“No security,” commented Agatha as Patrick opened the side door. “Anyone could walk in.”

“Well, they’re hardly expecting burglars in a dingy pub in Evesham. His room is number two.”

They mounted the uncarpeted staircase which smelt of stale beer. Patrick knocked on the door. “Harrison? It’s me. Patrick Mullen. Open up.”

There was no reply.

“Damn,” said Patrick. “Maybe he’s flown. I should have told the police last night, Agatha.” “Try the door,” urged Agatha.

He turned the handle and the door swung open. It was a small dark room furnished only with a wardrobe, a wash-basin, a table and chair and narrow bed.

And on that bed lay a man, face-down.