Agatha Raisin The Perfect Paragon

FIVE

THEY came in, holding hands, and beaming all around. Agatha wished in that moment that Harry Beam was out. The young man was slumped on the sofa with a can of Diet Coke in his hand. He was wearing a denim jacket and jeans torn at the knees.

“I have happy news,” said Smedley. “I no longer need your services. It was all a mistake. I am afraid I am so in love with Mabel that I am inclined to be stupidly jealous.”

As if he saw, hovering on Agatha’s lips, the question, “What were you doing in Bath with a young lady?” he added quickly, “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of asking you for a refund and please bill me for any expenses.”

“Thank you,” said Agatha, wondering whether to bill him for expenses for a trip to Bath and then rejecting the idea. He had already paid a great deal of money. She was supposed to have been spying on Mrs. Smedley, not Mr. Then she wondered why he was not asking for any of his money back.

“I am very pleased that things have worked out for you, Mr. and Mrs. Smedley. May I offer you some coffee?”

“No, we must be off,” he said jovially.

Harry Beam appeared to rouse himself from some sort of torpor. “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got on your arm, Mrs. Smedley.”

She was carrying a light jacket and immediately put it on. For one moment, something unpleasant flicked at the back of Smedley’s eyes as he surveyed Harry.

“And who are you, might I ask?”

“Harry Beam, detective. I’m on undercover work.”

“From your appearance, it must be something really unsavoury. Come, Mabel.”

When they had left, Agatha asked, “Was there really a bruise? I wasn’t looking.”

“A whopping great one, as if someone had grabbed her arm and twisted it.”

“If he’s hurting her, she should go to the police.” Patrick came in and Agatha told him the Smedley case was over. He was followed by Phil, who said he had good photos of Trixie and Fairy.

“Right, Phil,” said Agatha. “We’ll get down to the mall. Patrick, the latest is that Jessica was not raped but it was made to look that way. This boyfriend appears to have a clear alibi, but go and see if you can talk to him. He might have something interesting to say about Jessica that he’s forgotten.”

“This murder looks like the work of an amateur,” said Patrick. ‘These days most people would know that with DNA they’d soon find out she hadn’t been raped.”

“Maybe not. They might assume the police would think a condom had been used. Whoever did it didn’t know she was a virgin.”

“What about me?” asked Harry.

“There are two outstanding divorce cases, both well-to-do people, so you’ll need to blend in. Different clothes and no studs.”

She expected him to protest, but he gave a laconic “Okay.”

“Mrs. Freedman will give you the files.”

“You’ve got the photographer,” said Harry. “You want me to take a camera?”

Agatha was reluctant to surrender Phil. He was proving to have a good insight into things.

“Come down to my car,” said Phil, “and I’ll fix you up with a proper camera and a telescopic lens.”

“Cool.”

“What should I be working on?” asked Patrick.

“See if you can have a chat with Burt Haviland.”

Agatha and Phil set out for the mall. The recent rain had left the skies grey and the air muggy and stifling.

They went back to the clock and, armed with the pictures of Trixie, Fairy and Jessica, began to quiz the shopkeepers round about, but although four of them recognized the girls, it was always the same story. They had seen them waiting but after that had not noticed anything else.

“I think it’s time we went back and saw the parents,” said Agatha. “The body won’t have been released for burial yet, so they’ll probably just be sitting around. I’d like to ask them about Burt Haviland. That sounds like a name out of a romance. Be interesting to find out if he changed his name at any time.”

Mrs. Bradley opened the door to them, looking like a zombie. Agatha guessed she had probably been prescribed tranquillizers.

“Oh, Mrs. Raisin. So kind of you to still offer to find Jessica’s murderer. Do come in.”

Her voice had a soft Gloucestershire burr.

They went into a pleasant living room. There was a large photograph of Jessica on the sideboard, looking every inch the correct English schoolgirl.

Pretty net curtains fluttered at the open windows and the room was full of domestic clutter: books and magazines, videos, and a discarded piece of knitting.

“Is your husband home?” asked Agatha.

“He’s gone back to work at the ice cream factory. He says it keeps his mind off the horror of it all.”

“You should try one of those bereavement counselling classes,” said Agatha gently. “Tranquillizers only keep the grief damped down and it can erupt worse later on. I’ll find out where the nearest one is for you.”

“Thank you.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, rolling down silently, one after the other.

“I’ll make tea,” said Phil.

Mrs. Bradley mopped her eyes with a tissue.

“Did you know Jessica had a boyfriend?”

She looked at Agatha in amazement. “No, was it one of the boys at school?”

“It was a man of thirty-five called Burt Haviland. Works in sales at Smedleys Electronics.”

“She said nothing of this to us.”

“It appears Jessica may have been frightened you’d stop him seeing her because he was so much older. He appears to have been very much in love with her. He has an alibi. Mrs. Bradley, your daughter was not raped. The police will no doubt inform you. Jessica was a virgin.”

“My poor little girl.” She began to cry again.

Agatha suddenly wished she was the type of woman who would find it easy to cross the room and give Mrs. Bradley a comforting hug, but she wasn’t, so she made what she hoped were sympathetic noises.

Phil came in with the tea things. “I’ve made yours very sweet,” he said to Mrs. Bradley. “Good for shock.”

She gave him a weak smile and sipped her tea.

Seeing she was once more composed, Agatha asked, “May we see Jessica’s room?”

“Please go upstairs. It’s at the top on the left. I won’t go up with you. I can’t.”

Agatha and Phil went up the stairs and pushed open the door of Jessica’s room. They each pulled on a pair of latex gloves. It looked the usual teenager’s room with posters of pop stars on the walls, but with more books than usual. There was a computer desk against the wall but no computer. Agatha guessed the police must have taken it away to find out if she had been communicating with anyone on the Internet.

She pulled open the drawer on the desk. “I suppose if she had a diary, the police will have that as well. Unless she hid it. Where would a teenager hide a diary?”

“Don’t know,” said Phil. “Let’s search.”

They began to search everywhere in the room. There was a chest of drawers. Agatha pulled out each drawer and felt underneath. Nothing.

“Let’s try the desk.” There were three drawers. Agatha began to slide them out one by one. The bottom drawer stuck a little and Agatha gave it an impatient wrench. It clattered onto the floor and a packet of letters which had been taped to the underside of the drawer spilled across the floor.

They gathered up the letters. They were all addressed to Jessica, care of Sommers. “That’s Trixie and her address,” said Agatha. “She must have been using Trixie to get letters from her boyfriend.” She gently spread out the envelopes on the desk.

“We’ll split them up. There are twelve here. You take six and I’ll take the other.”

They turned out to be passionate love letters from Burt. It was evident he hoped to marry her as soon as she had finished school.

“There’s something here,” said Phil. “He says in this letter that he’s worried that Jessica was letting her friends blackmail her into going clubbing with them. ‘If Trixie and Fairy are threatening to tell your teachers, then let them. I don’t like you going around with that precious pair. The other thing with them is just a laugh, just work.’”

“That’s interesting. What other thing? It’s time we had a talk with those girls after school.”

“What do we do with the letters? Hand them over to the police?”

“No, there’s nothing there that can really help them.”

“Yes, there is,” said Phil. “It sheds a new light on why she was seen with Trixie and Fairy. And I wonder as well about that ‘other thing’ she refers to.”

“Let’s leave poor Jessica a bit of privacy. We’ll put them back. I mean, it’s awfully romantic to send letters in this day and age instead of texting and emailing.”

They went downstairs and Agatha asked Mrs. Bradley, “Weren’t you worried about Jessica going out clubbing?”

“Yes, I was. But she had changed. She said all the girls did it. She was always home on time until the last night.”

“Did the police take away her computer?”

“They wanted to check if she’d been in contact with anyone on the Internet, but I told them my husband was always afraid of girls getting into one of those chat rooms and meeting a pervert and he used to check all her emails.”

The Bradleys were turning out to be stricter than Agatha had imagined. “Did Jessica have a mobile phone?”

“Frank, that’s my husband, wouldn’t let her have one. She begged for one, but he said that perverts were texting schoolgirls. I suppose that’s why we let her go clubbing, but just the once a week. We didn’t want to put too many restrictions on her and they do grow up so fast these days.”

They promised to let Mrs. Bradley know as soon as they found anything and left.

“Why,” asked Agatha as she got into the passenger seat of Phil’s old Ford, “would Trixie and Fairy blackmail her into going out with them?”

“Jealousy,” said Phil. “Good scholar. Probably wanted to make her as low as they are.”

“I’m starving,” said Agatha. “Let’s have something to eat.”

Agatha’s mobile phone rang just as they were finishing lunch. It was Bill Wong. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Just left Mrs. Bradley’s house. Why?”

“The Smedleys came to see you this morning, didn’t they?”

“Yes, both of them. Very lovey-dovey. Smedley asked me to drop the case. Why?”

“Smedley’s just been found dead in his office. We think it’s poisoning. You’d better come here to police headquarters and make a statement.”

Agatha and Phil were interviewed by Bill Wong and Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes.

Agatha told them about the visit of the Smedleys. Then she remembered about Harry noticing a bruise on Mrs. Smedley’s arm. “He could have been beating her. Oh, there’s something else.” She told them about being with Roy in Bath and seeing Smedley with a young woman.

“Description?” snapped Wilkes.

“Lots of red hair, sort of pretty but with a pale face and a rabbity mouth. Good figure.”

“We’ll look into it. Could be one of his employees. Sounds like his secretary. All right. From the teginning. They came into your office this morning …”

“Didn’t you get it the first time?” demanded Agatha crossly. But Bill Wong flashed her a warning look so she went over the whole thing again.

Finally they were told they were free to go. “She must have cracked and poisoned him,” said Agatha outside police headquarters.

“They’ll have a hard time proving that if she wasn’t at the office with him,” said Phil. “Maybe it was that rabbity girl. Anyway, it’s police business now.”

They went back to the office. Patrick Mullen phoned. “I tracked down Burt at a shop in Oxford. We went for a coffee. I swear the man’s sincere and in a miserable state of grief.”

“Two things, Patrick. Can you catch him again and ask him about a red-haired, rabbity-looking girl who might work at Smedleys Electronics? I saw her with Smedley in Bath on Sunday. Smedley’s been poisoned. It isn’t anything to do with us any more but I’d really like to know who she is. And ask him about Fairy and Trixie. Evidently they were threatening to tell the school about him unless Jessica hung out with them. Also she was into something with them that she described as being just work.”

“Will do.”

Agatha rang off and asked, “What now?”

“What about, say, talking to Trixie’s parents while we wait for the pair to get back from school?” said Phil.

“There’s an idea. Let’s go. Mrs. Freedman, could you find out about a bereavement class and phone the information to Mrs. Bradley? And is there any news from Harry?”

“Nothing. I’ll find out about the bereavement class right away.”

Agatha had expected Mrs. Sommers would prove to be a hardfaced blowsy woman, but it transpired she was small and meek and harassed-looking with pale blue eyes and neat hair.

“We are investigating the death of Jessica,” began Agatha, “and wondered if we might ask you a few questions.”

“Come in. That poor girl.”

The living room was almost a mirror image of the Bradleys’: three-piece suite, coffee table, but no books.

When they were seated, Mrs. Sommers asked anxiously, “How can I help?”

“Jessica had a boyfriend, a much older boyfriend,” said Agatha. “In a letter Jessica received from this boyfriend, it appears that Trixie and Fairy had told Jessica that if she didn’t hang out with them, they would tell her teachers that she was going out with this man.”

Agatha expected a hot denial, something on the lines of, “My daughter would never do a thing like that,” but Mrs. Sommers looked sad. “I don’t know what to do with my daughter, and that’s the truth. My husband won’t hear a word against her. He gives her too much pocket money and just laughs when I protest at her clubbing and wearing make-up. ‘You’re in the dark ages,’ he says. ‘Let her have her fun when she’s young.’”

“So you think Trixie might have been blackmailing Jessica?”

“That’s too strong. She might have teased her about it.”

The front door crashed open. “Trixie?” called her mother. Trixie and Fairy sauntered in and stopped short at the sight of Agatha and Phil.

“What are you doing home from school so early?” asked Mrs. Sommers.

“Sports. We don’t do sports,” said Trixie.

“Is it true you threatened to tell Jessica’s teachers that she was seeing an older man if she didn’t hang out with you?” asked Agatha.

“Naw. Well, maybe we might have teased her a bit. We was friends. Wasn’t we, Fairy?”

Fairy moved a wad of gum to the other side of her mouth and volunteered, “Yeah.”

“Were you doing any sort of work with Jessica after school?”

They stared at her with flat eyes.

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?” pursued Agatha.

“Maybe her boyfriend.”

“He has a cast-iron alibi. Anyone else? Boy at school?”

“Naw. She was crazy about her fellow. Said they was going to get married. Can we go to my room, Mum? This is boring.”

They’re old, so old, thought Agatha, with their flat, dead eyes. I wonder if they do drugs. I must ask Bill if that club has ever been raided.

“Run along,” said Mrs. Sommers. She smiled weakly at Agatha. “It’s all a front, you know. Trixie will soon grow out of it.”

“Wait a bit,” said Agatha to the girls. “Did you see her at the club the night she was murdered?”

“Sure,” said Fairy. “She was there but she started rabbiting on about having to get home, so we left her to it.”

With that, they both slouched out of the room.

“Didn’t get much there,” said Agatha outside. “Now what?”

“Maybe send young Harry back to the club this evening,” suggested Phil. “He might be able to find out more.”

Agatha made an appointment with Richard Rasdall, the masseur in Stow-on-the-Wold, for early evening. All her hip needed, surely, was a bit of massage. The massage room was in the bathroom above a sweet shop called The Honey Pot.

Lyn Rasdall, Richard’s pretty wife, looked up from serving chocolates and said, “You know the way. He’s waiting for you.”

Agatha climbed up the steep stairs at the back of the shop where Richard was standing on the landing. He retreated while she stripped down to her knickers, covered herself with a large bath towel and climbed on the table.

When Richard came in, Agatha said, “I’ve got a little twinge of pain in my hip.”

“Arthritis?”

“Of course not! I’m too young!”

“Can hit at any age. If I were you, I’d get that hip x-rayed. But let me see what I can do.”

While he worked on her, Agatha told him about trying to find Jessica’s murderer.

“It may turn out to be some stranger who just picked her up on the road,” said Richard.

“I don’t think she’d have got in a car with a stranger. Not these days.”

“She was stabbed, wasn’t she? She could have been forced to get in.”

“With a gun, maybe. But a knife?”

“Maybe whoever it was saw her standing, waiting to cross. You said you didn’t think she’d use the bridge at that time of night. He might have looked quite safe. Middleaged. Gets out the car and says, ‘Are you all right?’ She replies that she’s going home. He asks, ‘Where’s home?’ She tells him. ‘Funny thing,’ he says, ‘I just happen to be going that way. Hop in.’ Was she murdered in the car?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should ask.”

When Agatha left—pain in the hip gone, arthritis—rubbish!—she took out her mobile phone and called Bill Wong.

“Was Jessica murdered in a car? What do forensics say?” she asked.

“Looks that way. Not enough blood at the scene. She could have been murdered anywhere and then dumped. We’re going on television tonight again to appeal to any driver who might have seen her.”

“The other thing. Has Mrs. Smedley been accused of murdering her husband?”

“He was poisoned in his office. She was in the church in Ancombe all morning, cleaning the brass and doing the flowers. We’ve got nothing to hold her on.”

“What about that girl I saw him with?”

“His secretary. She said her mother, who lives in Bath, was poorly, so he drove her over.”

“Come on! What were they doing listening to the band?”

“We checked up. Mother is in a residential home in Bath. Yes, they did call on her. Maybe they decided to enjoy the sunshine. Relax, Agatha, it’s not your case.”

Agatha rang off and went home and fed her cats. Doris Simpson, her cleaner, had probably fed them earlier, but feeding them made Agatha feel less guilty for leaving them so much on their own.

She started to heat up her own dinner. And then she stiffened. There was the sound of movement upstairs. She looked wildly around for a weapon and seized a bottle of spray detergent. She stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Me, Charles,” came a voice. “Be down in a minute.”

I’m going to take my keys away from him, vowed Agatha. He might have phoned to warn me he was coming.

She said as much when Charles pattered down the stairs.

He kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry. I’ll phone next time.”

“What happened to your gorgeous lady?”

“You’ll never believe it.”

“Try me.”

“I was just moving in for the kill when she pushed me away and said she couldn’t because she had found God.”

“Excellent,” said Agatha cynically. “I must try that next time. What a put-down! I mean, there really is no answer to that.”

“I haven’t noticed men queuing up to get you into bed.”

They were just glaring at each other when the doorbell rang.

Agatha went to answer it and found Mrs. Mabel Smedley standing on the doorstep.

“Come in,” said Agatha.

She led Mabel into the kitchen. Charles wandered off into the sitting room.

“Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Please sit down. You must be very upset.”

Mabel did not look upset. She was dry-eyed and composed. Agatha sat down opposite, reached for her cigarettes and then decided against smoking.

“It’s like this,” said Mabel. “My husband has been poisoned at work. The police have been questioning me all day—as if I had anything to do with it! I want you to find out who killed my husband.”

“Very well,” said Agatha. “I will get Mrs. Freedman to draw you up a contract. Now, did he have any enemies?”

“No, everyone loved Robert.”

Agatha gave a little sigh. “Look, I do not want to add to your grief, but I cannot envisage everyone loving Mr. Smedley. I mean, someone must have hated him enough to poison him. Do they know how the poison was administered?”

“In his morning coffee.”

“And who took him his coffee?”

“His secretary, Joyce Wilson.”

“Does Joyce have red hair?”

“Yes.”

“I saw Joyce with your husband in Bath last Sunday.”

Did her eyes glint a fraction? But she said in an even voice, “Robert told me about that. Poor Joyce had been to visit her mother.”

“So he wasn’t having an affair?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He was devoted to me—so much so that he employed you to spy on me.”

“And that didn’t make you angry?”

“I thought it was rather sweet. Do you know there’s smoke pouring out of your oven?”

“Blast!” Agatha shot to her feet and switched it off and then opened the back door to dispel the smoke. She normally microwaved her meals but had found that the lasagne she had bought for dinner was of the kind that needs to be cooked in the oven.

“Mrs. Smedley …”

“Mabel, please.”

“Right, then, Mabel. My assistant noticed you had a bad bruise on your arm.”

She gave a merry little laugh. Agatha was suddenly sure that merry little laugh had been well rehearsed. “I’m very clumsy. I’m always banging into things.”

“We’ll leave that for a moment. How do you wish me to start?”

“I own the company. I shall sell it, of course. I have told the staff to be prepared to be interviewed by you.”

“I’ll start with Joyce. Surely she is under suspicion since she gave him the coffee.”

“No, she says she took a new jar out of the cupboard. It was instant coffee. He always took four lumps of sugar in his coffee and I think that must have been what masked the taste of the poison.”

“I’ll try to start tomorrow, but the police will be swarming all over the place.”

Mabel rose to her feet. “I will leave you to it. Do your best. Robert’s murderer must not go unpunished.”

“Have you got Joyce’s address?”

She opened her handbag and took out a notebook. “I’ll write it down for you.” Agatha gave her a piece of paper and a pen.

“I might try her home tomorrow,” said Agatha. “She might decide to stay away from work.”

Agatha saw Mabel out and then went into the sitting room where Charles was sprawled in front of the television.

“This lack of curiosity is not like you.”

“She made a bit of a fool of me, so I’m prejudiced. I listened at the door. She did it. Must have. All this business of ‘Find the murderer of my husband’ is just a blind.”

“I don’t know. I’ll be interested to see what this Joyce has to say for herself.”

“I’ll come with you. I’m bored.”

“I won’t need photos. I’ll phone Phil now and tell him to hitch up with Harry.”

She dialled Phil’s mobile. When he answered, she could hear thudding music in the background.

“Where are you?”

“At the disco with Harry.”

“You’ll stick out like a sore thumb!”

“They don’t know I’m with him. I said I was taking photos for the local paper. The faces might come in handy.”

“Can you go outside? I can barely hear you.”

“Right.”

She told Phil about Mrs. Smedley’s visit, ending up by saying, “You and Harry work on the other cases tomorrow and tell Patrick to keep on the Jessica case and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She rang off.

“What’s that terrible smell?” asked Charles.

“That was dinner.”

“I’ll phone out for a pizza. Don’t feel like going anywhere.”

“Me neither,” said Agatha. “I can hardly wait to see what Joyce has to say for herself.”