(15/30) The Deadly Dance (18 page)

“Wait a minute,” said Mrs. Bloxby. She covered the receiver with her hand, but Agatha could hear faint sounds of an altercation.

When Mrs. Bloxby came back on the phone, Agatha said hurriedly, “I’m really all right. Honestly. Roy’s coming tomorrow to stay.”

“If you’re sure …”

“Absolutely.”

The day before, the owner of the Sea View bed-and-breakfast—a view of the sea was only possible if one walked one hundred yards down the road—was becoming nervous about one of her guests.

This Mrs. Elder was a good customer and paid cash, but she had begun to talk to herself—not out loud, but her lips were constantly moving and her eyes glaring. The owner, Mrs. Blythe, was a widow and wished she had a man around to advise her. The holiday season was over and she had to rely on weekend visitors.

Emma, who had adopted the name of Mrs. Elder, had been in the television room. She passed Mrs. Blythe in the hall, her eyes glazed and her lips moving. Mrs. Blythe made up her mind. “Mrs. Elder!” she said sharply.

Emma started and focused on her.

“Em sorry this is such short notice, but Ell be needing your room.”

Emma stared at her for a long time. Mrs. Blythe expected her to protest, but Emma decided this was The Sign she had been waiting for. Time to go south.

“Thank you,” she said mildly. “I shall leave after breakfast.”

Mrs. Blythe watched her visitor mount the stairs. Why, Mrs. Elder had sounded quite normal.

Agatha was glad when morning dawned. She had drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep. The trouble with old thatched cottages was that beams creep and things rustle in the thatch. The first winds of autumn had risen during the night and the lilac tree in the front garden scraped its branches against the window.

She went down to the general stores as soon as they opened to buy treats for her cats. There were several other people in the shop and the atmosphere was frosty. Agatha was still being blamed by the villagers for having brought in violence from that outside world of murder and mayhem.

But Agatha was too worried and edgy to notice the atmosphere. She bought pate and cream and frozen fish for the cats, went home and fed them, and drove to her office in Mircester. The wind was sending leaves skittering across the road in front of her car. Autumn was the only time when Agatha missed London. One didn’t notice the seasons much in the city. But in autumn in the country, you could practically feel everything dying and became aware of your own mortality.

In the office, Patrick seemed to have everything in hand. Agatha decided to visit Harrison Peterson’s former wife, Joyce, again. Her new partner was obviously capable of violence.

Thoughts of Emma still at large floated uneasily through Agatha’s mind. But she wouldn’t dare try again. Would she?

The autumn mist of earlier.that morning had lifted and a small white sun shone down over the brown ploughed fields.

Agatha drove steadily along the Fosseway, her eyes flicking occasionally to the speed dial because the police with speed cameras had started using unmarked vehicles.

She turned off on the road down into Shipston-on-Stour and drove into the car-park opposite Joyce Peterson’s house. Agatha found the last parking place available with a feeling of triumph because a car which came in after her had to circle round and round, waiting for someone to leave.

She did not know that PC Betty Howse was in that car, having been ordered to tail Agatha.

Agatha walked across the road and rang the bell. There was a long silence. She rang the bell again.

At last, Joyce Peterson opened the door. She had been crying. Her beautiful face was blotched with tears.

“I wondered how you were doing,” Agatha began.

Joyce looked nervously over her shoulder. “Now is not a good time to call,” she said. “I’m busy.”

She was suddenly jerked aside and Mark loomed in the doorway. “You!” he said in accents of loathing. He towered over Agatha, who backed out onto the pavement. Mark followed her.

Agatha was wearing a loose silk blouse under her open coat. He seized her blouse by the neck and twisted it and then banged her up against the wall of the cottage.

“You leave us alone, you old bitch,” he raged. He gave Agatha’s head a nasty thump against the wall.

A cool voice behind them said, “Let her go immediately.”

Betty Howse was in plainclothes.

“Get lost.” Mark banged Agatha’s head again.

“That’s it,” said Betty. She flashed her warrant card. “Mark Goddham, I am charging you with assault.” She recited the caution while Mark stood frozen.

Agatha had read in books of people’s eyes going red with fury and thought the description poetic licence, but Mark’s eyes did look red as they blazed with anger.

He released Agatha and stared down at Betty.

“And just how are you going to take me in?”

He reached out to grab Betty, who produced one of those expanding police batons from behind her back and whacked him over the legs. As he doubled up, she twisted him round and handcuffed him.

“You wait there,” she said to Agatha. She radioed for assistance.

“You are charging him with assault, aren’t you?” Betty said to Agatha.

“Definitely.”

The change in Mark was almost ludicrous. The fury had all gone out of him and he stood there with his head hanging.

“Look, we can sort this out,” he pleaded. “It was all a mistake.”

“I’ll just see if Joyce is all right.” Agatha walked into the house.

Joyce was sitting on a sofa, rocking backwards and forwards, her face now twisted with pain.

“I think he broke my ribs,” she whispered.

Agatha left her and went out again. “Joyce Peterson needs an ambulance.”

Betty spoke into her radio. “Is she bad?” she asked Agatha.

“She thinks her ribs are broken.”

“Keep her company until the ambulance arrives,” said Betty, “and I’ll watch this bastard here.”

Agatha went back inside. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

Joyce shook her head. “I’m charging him with assault, so you may as well do the same thing,” said Agatha.

There came the sounds of a scuffle outside, then they heard Mark crying out in pain, and Betty’s voice calmly charging him with assaulting a police officer.

“There you are,” said Agatha. “Two charges of assault. You’d better make it a third.”

“Will he go to prison?”

“Of course.”

She gave a broken little sob. “Then I will charge him as well. May I have some brandy, please? There’s a bottle over there with the other drinks.”

Agatha reflected that hot sweet tea would be a better idea, but decided that she could do with a brandy herself. She poured two stiff measures and carried them over.

Joyce took a gulp and shuddered. “You never can tell with men,” she said. “I thought he was God’s gift to women when I met him. He was so charming, so attentive. It was just after he moved in with me that the beatings started. He always cried afterwards and begged my forgiveness, but he would always start again after a few days.”

“What caused this latest assault?”

“I said I wanted to go to Harrison’s funeral, that’s all it took.” “Were you fond of Harrison?”

“For quite a time. Then he started travelling a lot and he was hardly ever home. When he was sent to prison, I was so angry with him that I wanted to get a divorce and make a clear break. Jason was devoted to his father. I don’t think he ever forgave me. When I was invited to the Laggat-Browns’ party, Mark wouldn’t let me go.”

Sirens were sounding outside as both police and ambulance arrived. Joyce was examined and helped out to the ambulance. Agatha watched and was photographed for the local paper. The whole of Shipston-on-Stour seemed to be crowding into the street to watch.

Mark Goddham was thrust into a police car. Agatha found herself facing Bill Wong.

“You’d better follow me back to Mircester,” said Bill, “and give me a statement. Are you fit to drive?”

Agatha felt the back of her head, which was sore and tender. “I feel a bit shaky. He really did bang my head against that wall. Oh, Lord!” She glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to pick Roy up at Moreton.”

“You’d better leave your car and come with me. We can swing round by the railway station and pick up Roy.”

At Agatha’s insistence, Bill, who was driving a police car, turned on the siren and broke the speed limit along the Fosseway and into the station yard just as the passengers were alighting from the London train.

Agatha called to Roy and he slid into the back of the police car, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Agatha’s been assaulted,” said Bill. “We’re taking her into police headquarters to make a statement.”

“Are you all right?” asked Roy. “Who assaulted you?”

Agatha told him her story and then burst into tears. Bill handed her a box of tissues and said, “I’ll get a doctor to examine you, Agatha. I don’t think I’ve ever known you to cry before.”

Emma had zigzagged down towards Warwickshire, taking country buses although she felt that no policeman would recognize her now with her new clothes, cropped hair and the extra weight she had put on.

She had bought a hunting knife and put it in the bottom of her capacious handbag. The thought of that sharp steel nestling there warmed her heart. She left her last bus in Stratford-on-Avon and set out to walk the long miles to Barfleld House.

Charles would have gone back to see Agatha because he never held on to resentments for very long. But he had fallen for a leggy brunette called Elaine Wisbich who worked for the Countryside Alliance and had come calling to ask for a contribution. He had taken her out for dinner on the previous day and was meeting her again for lunch in Stratford.

She was already waiting in the restaurant when Charles arrived. Elaine had masses of thick brown curly hair. Her face was long and very white with a small mouth. Her eyes were disproportionately small. But she had a generous bust and those long, long legs.

The meal went pleasantly, although Charles wished she wouldn’t laugh so much since she had a high, braying, ugly laugh. He lit a cigarette at the end of the meal and she playfully said, “Naughty, naughty,” and took it out of his mouth and ground it out in the ashtray.

Charles sighed as love died. When he called for the bill, he found to his dismay that he really had left his wallet this time. Charles was mean and occasionally pretended to have forgotten his wallet, but this time he had meant to pay.

“Em awfully sorry, Elaine,” he said. “Eve forgotten my wallet. If you pay, I’ll pay you back.”

Elaine had a voice like one of Bertie Wooster’s aunts, which could be heard across a six-acre field, two spinneys and a paddock. That voice now sounded across the restaurant.

“You’ve cost me more than this lunch,” said Elaine. “Alice Forbes bet me a tenner that you would try to get me to pay, but naive little me said, ’Oh, no, Charles is a gentleman.’“

“I promise you, Elaine …”

“Forget it.”

Elaine paid in furious silence and they separated outside the restaurant.

Charles drove to Barfield House, reflecting that he had the farm account books to wrestle with, so he might as well get on with it. Charles never used the front door, which had a massive Victorian key to unlock it, and was about to go round the back when he saw the door was standing open.

I’ll have a word with Gustav about that, thought Charles. In this day of seriously militant ramblers and New Age travellers, it was as well to keep doors locked at all times.

He paused for a moment in the hall and then went through to his study. He froze on the threshold, rigid with shock. His elderly aunt was bound to a chair and gagged.

Turning to face him with a long hunting knife in her hand was a woman he did not at first recognize. She was tall and heavy-set with brown cropped hair. But it was when she smiled that he recognized those teeth.

“Emma,” he said. “What have you done to my aunt?”

“I’ve come to kill you.”

“Why?” asked Charles, affecting a calmness he was far from feeling.

“Because you betrayed me.”

“How on earth did I do that?”

“You told the police I was stalking you and yet it was you who led me on. Kneel before me and beg my forgiveness.” The knife waved in the air.

She’s gone really bonkers now, thought Charles, but he said in his usual pleasant light voice, “Don’t be silly, Emma. Untie my aunt. You’ll give her a heart attack.”

“Kneel!” howled Emma.

Charles knelt down and shuffled forwards on his knees. “Don’t hurt me,” he begged.

Emma smiled. “Now that’s better.”

Charles lunged forward and grabbed her round the knees and sent her tumbling to the floor. The knife flew out of her grasp. She clawed and fought desperately.

Gustav walked into the room and, leaning down, grabbed Emma by the back of her coat and dragged her upright. Then he gave her two powerful slaps across the face.

Emma burst into tears. Gustav saw the bag she had brought with thin rope in it and took some rope out and tied her wrists and ankles.

He made to pick up the hunting knife to free the aunt’s bonds, but Charles shouted, “Leave that, Gustav. We need the evidence.”

Gustav nodded and went out and returned with a pair of kitchen scissors and proceeded to release the aunt, Mrs. Tassey. When she could speak, Mrs. Tassey said, “What a horrible woman. Gustav, call the police.”

“Already being done,” said Gustav, nodding to where Charles was speaking urgently on the phone.

Emma had slumped onto the floor and was curled up in the foetal position, rocking and crooning.

Charles had a great feeling of relief when he heard the approaching police sirens. He felt more relief when Emma was cautioned and taken off. He could only marvel at the resilience of his elderly aunt, who was drinking a large gin and tonic and making her statement. Emma had called and brandished the knife in Mrs. Tassey’s face and had forced her to the study, where she had tied her up and gagged her.

At last their statements were all taken. Mrs. Tassey said she would do some gardening because that always soothed her and Charles decided it was time he went through the accounts. The phone rang. Gustav answered it.