Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body (17 page)

He could only assume that the whole business had been hushed up. In the report which Simon had accessed, Patrick had said that Tilly had claimed it was a brief fling and there was nothing in the
mayor’s bank statements that revealed he was being blackmailed. How had Sunday got hold of the photo? Tilly swore she did not know.

I must manage to get friendly with Tilly, thought Simon, as he passed a slow afternoon and eventually made his way back to the car park in time to pick up his passengers.

His charges arrived promptly at five o’clock, carrying various plastic shopping bags. He gathered from their conversation – for not one of them addressed him
directly – that apart from shopping they had been ‘taking the waters’.

On the road back to the village there had to be even more ‘comfort stops’ than there had been on the road in, so it was dark by the time he thankfully reached the village and helped
them out of the people carrier, before taking it back to the vicarage and leaving it outside.

Either his imagination was working overtime or Odley Cruesis was an eerie place. As he made his way across the village green and along the lane to the old mill house, it was completely silent.
No dog barked, no voices sounded in the still summer air, not even the blare of a television set.

He sighed. Another evening of polite conversation with May. If only he could find out something, anything, to enable him to get out of this place. There was a large yellow moon in the sky,
turning the waters of the old millpond to gold.

He stood at the edge of the pond, looking at the water. A vicious shove right between the shoulder blades sent him hurtling down into the pool.

Something prompted him to stay down as long as possible. His terrified mind conjured up visions of medieval-type villagers with pickaxes and billhooks waiting for him to surface. At last, he
thrust himself upwards, shaking the water from his eyes and casting terrified looks around but there was no one there. He hauled himself up the steep bank and lay panting on the grass.

Instead of going to the mill house, he ran to his car and drove as fast as he could to Agatha’s cottage in Carsely

Agatha answered the door and stared in amazement at the soaking figure of Simon. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘What on earth happened?’

Simon told her about the attack on him. ‘I’m a good swimmer,’ he said, ‘otherwise I would have drowned.’

‘I’ll run you a hot bath,’ said Agatha. ‘My friend, Charles, has left a dressing gown and some clothes in the spare room. Brandy? Maybe not. Hot sweet tea is the
answer.’

‘I know,’ said Simon, ‘but I’d rather have the brandy.’

‘Leave your clothes outside the bathroom and I’ll put them in the tumble dryer. Good thing you were only wearing a shirt and trousers and not your best suit.’

After Simon had bathed and was dressed in Charles’ dressing gown and was waiting for his clothes to dry, Agatha said, ‘Well, that’s you finished with that village. What did you
do today?’

So Simon told her but could not admit he had seen Toni. Yet someone must have seen him. Perhaps the old people. Even so, surely they hadn’t had any time to gossip to anyone in the village.
Of course they always could have phoned someone. But he said none of this aloud.

‘I want you to type out every little thing you can think of,’ said Agatha. ‘Describe your stay at the village from beginning to end, what people said, what impression you had
of them. I suppose they all hope that Tom Courtney for some odd reason killed Sunday himself. You may know more than you think you know. Take the whole day tomorrow to do it. I’ll break it to
the others that you were employed by me after all. Now, do we report this to the police? No, they’ll start raging about us interfering. You’d better phone May Dinwoody and tell her that
you’re visiting a friend and then you’re moving out. I know. I’ll phone her and say I am your aunt. I’m very good at accents.’

Agatha phoned May and adopted what she cheerfully thought was a Gloucestershire accent. After she had finished calling, she told Simon cheerfully, ‘She’s a bit upset about losing
you. Do you want me to get Patrick or Phil to go and collect your stuff? It does seem as if someone in that cursed village guessed you were working for me.’

‘No, I’ll go myself,’ said Simon. ‘May and I got very friendly. I don’t want her to know.’

‘If you like. But I would go as soon as your clothes are dry, because I bet the gossip will be all round the village by the morning.’

On his return to the mill house, Simon discovered that Agatha’s fond interpretation of a Gloucestershire accent had not fooled May one bit. ‘It was that Raisin
female,’ she said. ‘I recognized that bullying voice of hers the minute she spoke.’

May listened while Simon told her how someone had pushed him into the millpond.

‘You’ve only yourself to blame,’ said May. ‘This is a nice village. You’ll find the murderer was that Tom Courtney. One of the village boys must just have been
playing a wee joke on you.’

‘I haven’t seen any boys around,’ protested Simon. ‘Everyone seems pretty old to me.’

May bristled with outrage. ‘You’re not much of a detective, are you? We have a few boys and girls who are bussed over to the school at Chipping Campden.’

Simon suddenly remembered the vicar asking him if he could swim. Not wanting to be drawn into any village activities, he had said he could not. Penelope had been there.

‘Anyway, just you pack your things up, laddie, and leave now. I don’t like cheats.’

Simon mumbled an apology and went off to pack.

The next day found Agatha Raisin in a militant mood. Firstly, she was annoyed that her famous accent hadn’t worked, and secondly, she decided it was time she went back to
that village with Toni and Patrick to start the questioning all over again.

Patrick had told her through his police contacts that the office end of John Sunday’s life had been thoroughly investigated and nothing sinister had been found. Tilly Glossop had been
questioned over and over again but they could get nothing further out of her. Sunday, apart from the photograph of the mayor, had several e-mails from staff members he had printed off. Each
contained something they would not like the boss or the wife or husband to know but they all had cast-iron alibis for the time of Sunday’s death. Sunday, it appeared, had not been a
blackmailer, merely using his knowledge as power to do what he liked in his job.

Agatha thought guiltily of that compromising photo of Penelope Timson. She should never have suppressed it.

When they arrived in the village, she decided to visit Penelope herself. Patrick was sent to see if he could get anything at all out of Tilly Glossop and Toni was dispatched to Carrie
Brother.

Toni had been glad to see Simon back in the office. Agatha had briefly outlined Simon’s adventures. She wondered what her old school friends would make of Simon. With his beaky nose and
long mouth, he looked a bit like a Bavarian puppet. But it was his warm smile and the way his grey eyes sparkled under his thick thatch of curly black hair that made her find him endearing. And he
had been kind to her.

Toni rang the bell of Carrie’s cottage and listened to the cacophony of barking from Carrie’s tape recorder before the lady herself opened the door. Her large face was blotched with
tears.

‘What’s the matter?’ exclaimed Toni. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Yes, there is. Come in.’

Toni followed her into her cluttered parlour which still smelled of dog. Carrie rounded on her. ‘You’re a detective. I want you to solve a murder.’

‘But that’s why we’re here.’

‘I’m not talking about that snoop, Sunday, who deserved to die. I’m talking about my Pooky.’

‘Pooky?’

‘My little dog, my precious boy.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was yesterday. I was out on the village green and put Pooky down so that he could have a little run around. I saw him get hold of something and start eating it. By the time I got to
him, he had finished it, whatever it was. I said, “Pooky, bad boy. You’re not supposed to eat anything that mummy doesn’t give you.”’ Her eyes filled with tears.
‘And Pooky just licked my nose and looked up at me with his little eyes. I took him home and put him in his basket. I went for an afternoon nap myself and when I woke up, he was dead! I took
the body to the vet and demanded an autopsy.’

‘Have you had the result?’

‘Not yet. The stupid vet tried to tell me it was probably the result of overeating and not enough exercise.’

‘How old was Pooky?’

‘Nearly twelve years.’

‘It’s a good age for a dog.’

‘Nonsense. He had years left in him.’

‘Please sit down and let me make you a cup of tea,’ urged Toni. ‘You’ve had a bad shock.’

Without waiting for an answer, Toni found the kitchen and made a cup of strong sweet tea and took it back to Carrie. Carrie swallowed a gulp of tea and then said gruffly, ‘You’re a
kind girl. No one else seems to care. They said that my Pooky fouled the village green.’

‘If your dog was poisoned, who could have done it?’

‘Any one of them could have done it. This was a nice village. Oh, we were all fed up with Sunday snooping around but it drew us closer together. While we had our little rows now and then,
we were a close-knit community. Even Miriam fitted in. We let her play lady of the manor because she did a lot for the village. For a while, everything was back to normal because people were sure
Tom Courtney had done it, but now it seems as if he couldn’t and we have a murderer amongst us.’

‘Who do you think could have killed Sunday? I mean, perhaps it might turn out to be the same person who killed your dog.’

Carrie looked steadily at Toni for a long moment, her eyes red-rimmed with weeping. ‘I’ll tell you,’ she said at last. ‘It was the vicar, Giles Timson.’

‘But why?’

‘He wouldn’t let me bring Pooky to church. “What about all things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small?” I asked him. And he sneered at me and said God
created things like pythons and cockroaches. Now, would I want any of those in the church? And Pooky bit his hand. And you should have seen the evil look he gave me.
Besides,’ –
she lowered her voice – ‘I saw his wife in a coffee shop in Mircester with John Sunday, and she was crying as if he were breaking up with her.’

Probably the photograph, thought Toni. ‘Here is my card,’ said Toni. ‘Phone me the minute you get the result of the autopsy.’

Agatha found Penelope in the churchyard, clearing grass and long weeds away from the base of some of the old tombstones. She was wearing a pink straw hat with a wide brim and
with pink and white dotted net wrapped around the crown.

‘Splendid hat,’ commented Agatha.

‘Oh, this.’ Penelope straightened up and pushed it to the back of her head. ‘I only use it for gardening. I hate it. I bought it to wear at someone’s wedding, someone I
really didn’t like, so I never felt again like wearing this hat for dressing up. Silly, I know. Did you want something?’

Toni had phoned Agatha while Agatha had been searching around the vicarage for Penelope.

‘I heard there was a young man staying here with May Dinwoody Someone pushed him into the pond last night.’

‘Simon? Such a nice young man. Why would anyone do that? Probably just a joke.’ She lowered her voice. ‘There are people in this village
who drink too much.’

‘Or someone who thought he could not swim,’ said Agatha. ‘What I really wanted to ask you was this. Look, it seems you were once seen in a café in Mircester with Sunday.
Was it about that photo? What did he really want? Money? Tell the truth this time. He had that photo, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but he didn’t want money. Giles had bought a plot of land outside the village some time ago. He said when he retired, we could build a house there. I didn’t want to go on
living in the village. I’m a town person myself.’

‘Which town?’

‘I’m from Moreton-in-Marsh originally.’ Hardly a buzzing metropolis, thought Agatha.

‘So what did Sunday want? The building plot?’

‘Yes, he wanted me to persuade Giles to sell it to him or he would send that photo to Giles.’

‘When was this?’

‘A week before the murder.’

‘Why on earth would he want to live in Odley Cruesis?’ asked Agatha.

‘I think’, said Penelope, passing an earthy hand over her face and leaving streaks, ‘that he wanted to build up a little microcosm of power. He liked bullying
people.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I invited him to tea and let him ask Giles if he could buy the plot. Giles refused point blank. He asked Giles if he had a happy marriage. Giles gave him a curt yes, and John laughed and
said, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

‘I actually fantasized about killing him. That was when I told Giles about the photo. Do you really need to find out who did this murder? Are you sure it wasn’t Tom
Courtney?’

‘Absolutely sure. And look at it this way. If the murderer is never found, you’ll all go on suspecting each other and this village will never be the same again. If it ever was much
to write home about in the first place.’

‘Oh, it was lovely and peaceful and we all got along. Boring at times, of course.’ Penelope took off the offending hat and put it on the head of a stone angel. ‘And one could
always go into Mircester for some culture. Did you see the local company’s production of
The Marriage of Figaro
last year?’

Agatha had seen it in an attempt to widen her horizons but had disliked it so much that she put it down to her tin ear. She didn’t know it had truly been dreadful, mainly because the role
of Cherubino had been taken by the local newspaper editor’s wife, which had ensured that the production received a glowing review despite the fact that Cherubino had a voice that could strip
lead off a church roof.

‘Yes,’ said Agatha.

‘So uplifting.’

‘Just so. But we are getting away from the main subject. Think back to the evening Sunday was murdered. Are you absolutely sure no one left the room apart from Miriam and Miss
Simms?’