A Spoonful of Poison (8 page)

“You’d better wear something more conservative. She and her partner are a couple of bitches.”

“I think I look rather smart in a sinister way.”

Agatha looked at Roy’s rather weak face topped with its crop of gelled dyed-black hair. “Very nice for London,” said Agatha with rare tact. “But a bit too exotic for down here.”

Agatha felt a twinge of reluctance as they approached the village on the following day. The police unit was still in evidence, but apart from that, the village seemed to have sunk back into its usual rural torpor.

“We’ll call at the vicarage first,” said Agatha. “I’m employed by the vicar to solve this case.”

“Must we?” complained Roy. “I don’t like holy people.”

“You like Mrs. Bloxby.”

“That’s different. Everyone likes Mrs. Bloxby.”

The door was opened by Trixie. She was wearing a white-lace vintage morning dress. Agatha’s expert eye, honed by working in the past for various couture houses, estimated it was genuine and must have cost a mint.

“Lovely dress,” said Agatha. “Your husband at home?”

“Yes, go through to the garden.”

They followed her. Trixie’s blonde hair flowed down her back. She’s really rather sexy in a feral way, thought Agatha. Without that dress and hair, she wouldn’t get far in the attraction stakes with her mean features.

The vicar was seated at a garden table under the shade of a cedar tree with the accountant, Arnold Birntweather. Mr. Chance looked up and saw Agatha. The sun flashed on his thick glasses as Agatha and Roy approached, giving him a blind look.

“Welcome!” he cried. “We’re just going over the accounts.”

Agatha introduced Roy. “Sit down,” urged the vicar. “We are just deciding who gets what out of the money. We cannot take it all for the church when there are so many needy charities.”

Trixie appeared, carrying a tray with a jug of lemonade and glasses.

Agatha said, “I forgot to introduce Roy to you, Trixie. This is a friend of mine, Roy Silver.”

Trixie cast Roy an amused look. Agatha could only be glad that Roy had changed into a conservative shirt and trousers. She had already put Trixie down as a bitch.

Trixie set down the tray and then put an arm around Arnold’s bent shoulders. “Stop fussing over the accounts on such a lovely day,” she cooed.

Arnold smiled but said, “They’ve got to be done.”

“Oh, nonsense, have some lemonade.”

Arnold let out a cry as Trixie poured lemonade over the account papers.

“I’m so very sorry,” said Trixie. “Here. I’ll take them away and dry them.”

Agatha noticed a washing line at the end of the garden. “We could peg them up on the washing line,” she said. “They’d be dry in no time. Has the writing been washed away?”

“No, it’s still quite clear,” said Arnold.

“Come along. I’ll help you,” said Agatha. “No, don’t anyone else bother. I’m an expert at this sort of thing.”

She carried the spoiled papers down to the end of the garden and carefully pinned them up, her mind working furiously. Trixie is wearing an expensive dress. She did that deliberately. Trixie must have been stealing from the funds.

“Where is the money kept, Arnold?” she asked.

“In the vicarage.”

“I think you should take it yourself and put it in a safe deposit box in the bank. Think about it. Someone who has committed murder wouldn’t stop short at a robbery.”

The vicar came to join them. “My poor wife begs to be excused. She is very distressed.”

“It’s all right,” said Arnold. “Thanks to Mrs. Raisin’s idea, there is no harm done.”

“Please call me Agatha.”

“Very well. Agatha. Although I find this modern
business of calling acquaintances by their first names very … familiar. Agatha has had a splendid idea.”

He outlined the idea for putting all the money in a safe deposit box.

“Excellent,” enthused the vicar. “It certainly is not safe to keep so much money at the vicarage. I’ll go and bag it up. Perhaps we can each have a key to the box, Arnold?”

“Just for yourself and Arnold,” said Agatha quickly. “No one else.”

“Of course.”

There was no sign of Trixie when they entered the vicarage. The money was packed into bags. Then Agatha and Roy escorted Arnold to his bank and waited while he made arrangements for the safe deposit box and saw the money safely stowed away. “I forgot that Mr. Chance should have come with us to sign for the other key,” said Arnold as they left the bank.

Back in the village, they refused Arnold’s invitation to join him for tea in his cottage.

Agatha had parked the car near the church. “We’ll walk from here,” she said. “Must get some exercise.”

“So what was that all about?” asked Roy. “Don’t you trust the vicar?”

“I don’t trust his wife. First, that gown she was wearing cost a fortune. Secondly, she deliberately spilled
lemonade over the accounts. Thirdly, I think she’s getting her harpy fingers into the money.”

“But what about that poor accountant? What if someone forces him to get the money and then bumps him off?”

Agatha stood stock-still. Then she said, “Snakes and bastards. I might be risking his life. Back to Arnold’s we go.”

Agatha explained carefully to Arnold that he should give her the key and let it be known that she had it. The elderly accountant looked relieved. “I do feel all that money is a great responsibility. The manager at the bank was very helpful. He said I could use a little room there to do the accounts and that means the money does not need to leave the bank. Then when I have counted it thoroughly—I thought I had already done so, but there seem to be some discrepancies—it can go into a separate account and then cheques can be sent to the various beneficiaries.”

“You mean, money is missing?”

“Oh, I am sure it is all down to my faulty eyesight. Here is the key. I will collect it from you when I need it at your office if you will supply me with the address.”

Agatha handed him a card. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “When it gets to the chequebook stage, there is no reason for anyone else to have to sign the cheques.”

“I had thought of two signatures, mine and Mr. Chance.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Agatha briskly.

“Now you’ve put your own life at risk,” said Roy as they walked back to their original parking place.

“I think I’ve made it all too complicated for dear Trixie.”

“What if it’s someone else?”

“There is no one else. Oh, here comes the lady of the manor.”

Miss Triast-Perkins came slowly towards them. “Have you just come from the vicarage?” she asked.

“We were there earlier,” said Agatha.

“Was Mrs. Chance wearing a lace gown?”

“Yes, she was.”

“Now that is too bad of her. That was one of my grandmother’s gowns. I lent it to her for amateur theatricals, to be worn carefully onstage but not around the house. I shall go and get it back now. I should never have lent it to her.”

Miss Triast-Perkins tottered off on a pair on unsuitable high-heeled sandals.

“Now, what have I done?” said Agatha gloomily.

“Maybe it’s the vicar.”

“Maybe it’s just Arnold’s eyesight,” said Agatha. “I should have gone over the books with him. I wonder if
those papers have been collected off the washing line, or Trixie’s found some way to destroy them.”

“You’ve really got your knife into the vicar’s wife. Why?”

Agatha shrugged. “I can’t help feeling she deliberately poured lemonade over those papers.”

“Well, let’s call at the vicarage and find out.”

At the vicarage, Arthur Chance greeted them with surprise, and to their questions he answered that, yes, the papers had dried quickly and George Selby had just left to take them to the accountant.

“So there you are,” said Roy cheerfully as they walked back through the village. “Who’s George Selby?”

“Just one of the parishioners. Here we are. Brace yourself to meet Maggie Tubby and Phyllis Tolling.”

Phyllis answered the door. “Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “Who’s this? The office boy?”

“Roy Silver is a friend of mine,” snapped Agatha. “We want to talk to Maggie.”

“Come in and get it over with. She’s in her shed in the garden.”

They followed her through the cottage into the garden and to a large shed at the end. The door was open and Maggie could be seen working at a potter’s wheel. When she saw them, Maggie switched off the wheel, leaving an as yet unshaped lump of clay on it.

She looked amused. “What now?”

“It appears as if your plum jam had the most LSD in it,” said Agatha.

“These are gorgeous,” exclaimed Roy, examining a bench laden with coffee cups, bowls and vases, all in beautiful coloured glazes. “You could sell them at the top shops in London.”

“I already do,” said Maggie.

“Really? How much is this bowl?”

“About two hundred pounds.”

“Blimey,” said Roy. “You should have a flat in Kensington instead of living in this poky cottage.”

“We are perfectly happy living in this village, thank you. Or rather, we were before a serpent called Agatha Raisin came into our lives.”

Agatha said loudly, “Can we get to the point? Why had your jam got such a lot of the drug in it?”

“Blessed if I know. Maybe it was the first to hand. I mean, if someone was trying to drug people, they wouldn’t be too careful about delicately measuring out the drops. Now would they?”

All Agatha’s resentment and dislike of Trixie switched to these two women. She suddenly wished the murderer would turn out to be one of them, or both. She felt like throwing some sort of bomb into what she damned as their smug, patronizing lives.

Phyllis, who had been standing behind Agatha, said, “Perhaps you should go back to murder number one.”

Agatha swung round. “Mrs. Andrews?”

“No, Sarah Selby.”

“Why her?”

“Well, dear George was in need of funds, Sarah Selby was heavily insured. Sybilla Triast-Perkins was besotted with George. Work it out.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with this case,” said Agatha.

“Why?”

“Mr. George Selby seems genuinely to be grieving the death of his wife.”

“That’s what he would like everyone to think.”

Agatha was exasperated. “Have you any proof?”

“Just intuition. I am not dazzled by George’s green eyes the way you seem to be.”

“I am a hard-working detective. I am not dazzled by anyone. I’ve been trying to find out why Maggie’s jam sample seems to have contained the most of the drug.”

“Then find out who did it and you’ll get your answer. Please leave.”

Toni was at that moment walking slowly home, feeling that at her age she ought to have a date for Saturday evening.

She heard herself being hailed and swung round. Harry Beam, Agatha’s former young detective, came running up to meet her. “How are things?” he asked.

“I suppose they’re pretty much what they were when you were working for Agatha,” said Toni, “except for the village drugging case.”

“I’d like to hear about that. Got time for a drink?”

“Sure. There’s a pub over there. But it’ll be noisy. I tell you what, come up to my place. We could buy some beer at the corner shop.”

Soon they were ensconced in Toni’s flat. After throwing out the shabby bits of furniture that had come with the flat, Toni had set about buying her own. It was a pleasant mixture of cheap assemble-it-yourself pieces and two Victorian and Edwardian ones that Toni had picked up at junk shops. A Victorian wide-seated chair was covered in chintz to disguise the fact that it had only three legs, with a sawed-down broom handle making up the missing fourth. The Edwardian bureau had water damage but had been polished to a high shine to hide its deficiencies. The only new item was a small two-seater sofa, sold cheap because it was in a brilliant shade of purple.

“This is nice,” said Harry, looking around.

“Agatha found the flat for me. She’s awfully generous.”

“You must be a very good detective,” said Harry cynically. “She’s just protecting her assets. She probably hopes you’ll be so grateful, you’ll never leave. Do you live rent-free?”

“No, she bought it for me, but I’m paying her rent each month.”

Harry was casually but expensively dressed. He had stopped shaving his head and wearing studs and earrings. Toni noticed that the jacket he had taken off and slung over the back of the sofa was of fine soft suede and his sweater cashmere.

He was tall with a strong pleasant face.

“I never really got a chance to talk to you at Agatha’s Christmas party,” said Toni, handing him a bottle of beer. “Has the university term finished?”

“Not yet. I’m home for the weekend to see my parents. Tell me about this village case.”

Toni succinctly told him everything they had found out so far.

Harry seized on one fact when Toni had finished. “You mean to say Agatha’s got the key to the strongbox?”

“So she says.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Do you think so? I think the money will be quite safe. I think some loony put LSD in the jam and won’t try anything again.”

“Look here. I’d like to see this village. I’ve got my bike parked in the square. Why don’t we take a trip over?”

“All right,” said Toni. “Maybe we’ll find out something.”

T
ONI ENJOYED HER RIDE
on the back of Harry’s motorbike. He parked beside the churchyard wall.

“That was ace,” cried Toni, removing her helmet and handing it to Harry.

“It’s a good way of getting around Cambridge,” said Harry. “The traffic can be awful. Goodness, it’s quiet here. You’d never think it was a Saturday.”

The cobbled village street led down from the churchyard, the cottages on either side leaning towards the road, like so many elderly people, looking for support. Somewhere up on the hills surrounding the village came the sound of a tractor. A dog barked from the other end of the street. But all those sounds seemed to do was intensify the silence. It was very hot despite a little breeze.

“Where do you want to start?” asked Toni. She turned round and saw Agatha’s car. She suddenly did not want her day with Harry to be spoiled by encountering Agatha.