Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye (24 page)

‘All right. But it had better be good. We’ll call you back when we’re ready Mrs Tamworthy.’

Agatha said to Alison, ‘Don’t tell them I’m still here.’

‘Now,’ said Wilkes severely, ‘explain yourself.’

‘There is an envelope in Sadie’s handbag,’ said Agatha.

‘So?’

‘And there is what looks like red paint under one of her nails.’

Wilkes studied her for a long moment. A policewoman was sitting in a corner where she had been making notes. ‘PC Gold,’ said Wilkes. ‘Bring Lady Field back in here and make
sure she brings her handbag with her.’

Soon they could hear Sadie’s voice raised in anger as she was escorted across the hall. ‘This is police harassment. I shall speak to my Member of Parliament.’

The door of the dining room opened. Sadie’s face turned red with anger when she saw Agatha. ‘I want that woman out of my house,’ she yelled.

‘Sit down, Lady Field,’ ordered Wilkes. ‘Put your handbag on the table. Now spread out your hands.’

Sadie spread out shaking hands. ‘What is that red under your fingernail?’ asked Wilkes.

‘Oh, that. Nail varnish. Now, if you’re finished . . .’ Then she let out a squawk of alarm as Wilkes opened her handbag and stared in. Under Sadie’s terrified gaze, he
put on a pair of latex gloves and extracted a letter from the bag. ‘This says quite clearly on the front “To Whom It May Concern.” May I ask you what is in it?’

‘No, you may not,’ panted Sadie. ‘It . . . it’s my will. Have you a search warrant?’

‘No, not yet. But either you let me open this or I will take you to headquarters and lock you in a cell until I get it. Take your pick.’

Sadie seemed to shrivel. ‘I couldn’t bear it,’ she whispered. ‘Poor Jimmy.’

‘Is that a yes?’

Sadie nodded miserably.

Wilkes opened the letter. He read it and then looked sternly at Sadie. ‘This is clearly from your brother, Jimmy Tamworthy. He states he cannot go on living. So I believe it was you who
placed the black candle under him and it was you who painted the walls.’

Between sobs, Sadie told them she had always hated the villagers. She didn’t want the world to know that Jimmy had committed suicide.

‘Take her down to headquarters,’ said Wilkes, ‘and inform her husband.’

Sadie was led off by Bill and PC Gold.

Wilkes said to Agatha, ‘You have really surprised me this time, Mrs Raisin.’

‘Why?’

‘Finding out that Fran was the murderer has been a bit of a joke around the station. You had no forensic evidence, you had no proof at all, and yet you blunder on happily, getting the
woman to call on you, and accusing her of murder. If she had not been slightly deranged, she could have let you witter on and got away with it.

‘But I must admit, you do have a sharp eye – and the luck of the devil. I’d better get after them and wind this up.’

‘What will happen to her?’ asked Agatha.

‘Nothing, I would guess. She’ll get a top psychiatrist to say her mind had been turned with all the tragedies. She can afford the best QC. Oh, yes, she’ll get off with a slap
on the wrist.’

When he had gone, Agatha joined Bert and Alison. ‘When are you leaving this damned place?’ she asked.

‘We don’t need to move until the end of January,’ said Bert.

‘Move now!’ howled Agatha. ‘Get out. Get away.’

‘I was staying out of respect for Mother’s memory,’ said Bert.

‘You’re stark, staring bonkers. Read my lips. Your mother was a murderess. She reared a mentally sick family. So Fran killed her and poor Jimmy was too weak and pathetic to let
himself live.’

‘Just go,’ said Bert in a tired voice.

Alison followed Agatha out. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said. ‘If I stay with Bert I’ll turn out as mad as this family.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Anywhere. Out of the country would be a good idea. I’ve been corresponding with an old friend who lives in Spain. I’ll take a holiday and go and stay with her.’

‘What a horrible woman Phyllis Tamworthy was,’ said Agatha. ‘She murdered Jimmy just as if she’d strung him up herself.’

Agatha hailed the new year with relief. Back to work. Back to taking on unsavoury court cases to make up for all the expense of Christmas.

She could hardly wait to ask how Toni had got on with Bill’s parents. ‘They’re so sweet,’ said Toni. ‘They invited me back for New Year.’

‘Are you and Bill an item?’ asked Agatha.

Toni blushed. ‘We are, rather.’

Agatha’s heart sank. She could imagine what would happen if Toni married Bill. She would lose a good detective and one best friend all in one go. She had been hurt that Bill had not called
to wish her a Happy New Year. Now she knew the reason.

And how had Toni managed to charm Bill’s parents when all she had ever had from them was rudeness?

Charles hadn’t phoned, but then he had never bothered in the past. Nor had Roy. Agatha had expected that the suicide of Jimmy might have prompted one of them to call her. Mrs Bloxby was
away on holiday.

Agatha sighed. Work was the answer. Work had always been the answer.

A cold wet winter dragged on into a cold wet spring. And then, at the end of April, the sun shone again, drying the countryside and bringing colour to the gardens and
hedgerows.

Roy descended on Agatha one weekend. He had not even bothered to phone and she was tempted to tell him she was busy, but she was too glad of his company to send him away.

‘Why the long silence?’ asked Agatha. ‘I thought you might have phoned up about Jimmy, or to wish me a Happy New Year.’

‘I was very busy,’ said Roy huffily. ‘And the phone works both ways, you know. Anyway, it’s gorgeous weather. What about a trip in the countryside?’

‘Funnily enough, I was thinking of taking a run over to Lower Tapor.’

‘Why on earth? Haven’t you had enough of that place?’

‘I just wanted to see what this theme park looks like. Evidently it’s up and running.’

‘Okay. Let’s hope nobody murders anyone. How did Toni get on at that court case? You know, the woman who pushed the publican over the cliff.’

‘Very well. Elsie got life. Oh, there’s another thing. Bill and Toni are dating.’

‘That’s great.’

‘Won’t last,’ said Agatha hopefully. ‘I keep having a feeling Toni’s trying to work up courage to tell me something.’

‘Probably that she’s going to get married or that she’s pregnant.’

‘Don’t even think about it! Let’s go.’

They had to pay an entrance fee and park in a field, still muddy after all the rain, and walk a good distance into the village. ‘Walk, walk, walk,’ groaned Roy.
‘Do you remember the first time we came here?’

They walked into the village and down on to the village green. A maypole had been erected and sulky-looking children were dancing around it. In front of the pub, morris men were dancing
lethargically. The locals were wandering about dressed in cod eighteenth-century clothes. They looked as sulky as ever. Doris Crampton was sitting outside her cottage staring mulishly at a spinning
wheel.

‘The only thing eighteenth-century about this place is the atmosphere,’ grumbled Roy. ‘Oh, look at that.’

At a corner of the green stood a horse and carriage with a notice pinned on one carriage door: ‘Five pound carriage ride to the manor.’

‘Daylight robbery,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s go anyway.’

The fee turned out to be five pounds each, but Agatha was too interested to see what had happened to the manor to protest.

They jolted along and then through the farm gates they had encountered on their first visit. In one field, a man was ploughing with horses.

‘You know, I bet all the villagers hate this,’ said Agatha, ‘but if they don’t start smiling and doing their jobs, this place will soon close down.’

They were set down outside the manor. The stables now bore a large sign, ‘Authentic Olde Englishe Teas.’

A white sign outside the entrance door bore the legend, ‘Next tour: Five minutes’.

‘This gets worse and worse,’ said Roy. ‘There can’t be anything worth seeing.’

‘Let’s go anyway. People are already lining up.’

The line soon began to shuffle forward. Inside the door, Doris’s sister, Mavis, was sitting behind a desk with a roll of tickets. Her stout figure was encased in a black gown and she had a
mob cap on her head. ‘Two pounds each,’ she said.

‘We’ve already paid a fortune for the bleeding carriage,’ snarled Agatha.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Mavis. ‘Doesn’t matter. That’ll be four pounds altogether.’

Agatha paid up and walked into the hall which was lit by candlelight. And standing in the hall was their guide with a white powdered wig on and a panniered gown. It was Alison.

‘What are you doing here?’ exclaimed Agatha.

‘Shhh!’ admonished Alison. ‘I’ve got a break after this tour. I’ll take you for tea and tell you about it.’

The tour began. Unlike the villagers, Alison seemed to be throwing herself into her role. ‘We will start with the dining room,’ she said, ‘which is haunted by the ghost of Mrs
Tamworthy, the late owner, who was foully murdered – with hemlock!’

The dining room was now panelled and a small Victorian fireplace had been ripped out to be replaced with a large Georgian one where a log fire blazed.

Alison described the murder in gruesome detail. Agatha reflected that Alison was very good at her job. She led her tour from room to room. The kitchen had been remodelled into a period one and
the visitors were interested in all the old kitchen equipment. A grumpy man was turning a leg of lamb over a spit.

Upstairs, the rooms had been re-enlarged to their original size and boasted four-poster beds.

All the rooms were lit by tall candles. Alison described what life would have been like for guests and servants in the eighteenth century. She’s actually worth the entrance fee, thought
Agatha.

When the tour was over, Alison led them over to the tea room. ‘It’s like this,’ she said when they were seated. ‘Just after the New Year, when I got back from visiting my
friend in Spain, I found Bert had left me. Just like that. Cleared off to Marbella. Bought a flat once the will came through. His excuse was that he didn’t want anything, including me, to
remind him of his mother. Can you beat it?’

‘But you were going to tell him
you
had left
him
,’ said Agatha.

‘I felt too sorry for him. I just said I was taking a holiday.’

‘So why did you take this job?’ asked Agatha.

‘The manager approached me. His name is Mark. He said it would be nice if one of the family could act as a guide. I thought it would be better than sitting at home on my own. So here I am.
I love it. I feel like an actress.’

‘You won’t have a job much longer,’ said Roy, ‘if the villagers go on being sullen.’

‘Any minute now, you’ll see a change. Mark’s just been round the lot handing out letters saying that if they don’t smarten up their act, he’s going to start
charging rent. Look at the waitresses behind the counter reading theirs.’

Agatha could see their startled, shocked faces. Then they were suddenly beaming and bustling about the tables.

‘What about Sadie?’ asked Agatha. ‘Was she ever up in court?’

‘Didn’t get that far. Good psychiatrist put the wind up the police.’

‘So what is she doing now?’

‘Sadie and Sir Henry have bought a real manor house and are having a wonderful time.’

‘Do you miss Bert?’

‘I did at first. It was more like losing a difficult child than a husband. But after I got this job I found I hardly ever thought of him. I still think of poor Jimmy. What a waste! He
adored that nasty mother of his. I’d better go and get ready for the next tour.’

She called over one of the waitresses. ‘Don’t charge for this tea. See you, Agatha, and thanks for everything.’

Roy and Agatha made their way back to the carriage. This time the driver jumped down from the box and bowed low as he helped them in.

Back in the village, the children were dancing energetically round the maypole, the morris men were leaping about, and Doris was spinning wool as if her life depended on it.

‘Want to try the pub?’ asked Roy.

‘No, I want to get out of here. All this Olde Englishe rubbish is getting on my nerves.’

Back at the cottage, Roy said, ‘You haven’t looked at your mail.’

Agatha flicked through the small pile she had left on the kitchen table and stopped at an envelope with a foreign stamp. She opened it up. It was from James.

‘Dear Agatha,’ she read. ‘Am here in Arles as part of my travel research. Why not come over and join me? I am staying at the Hotel Maurice in the centre. Miss you. Love,
James.’

Agatha stared ahead for a long moment. She felt a pang of grief for her lost obsession. Then she brightened. There were other men out there. Lots of them!

And she would marry one of them – tall, rich and handsome – and she would invite James to the wedding.

‘Not that I care any more,’ she said aloud.

‘Care about what?’ asked Roy.

‘About what he thinks.’

‘He who?’

‘Never mind,’ said Agatha Raisin.