Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (5 page)

At first, she wondered whether she should approach Mabel Smedley. Everyone knew she was a detective. But surely quiet Mabel would not suspect for a moment that her husband would hire a detective to check up on her. She approached the jam stall and smiled at Mabel. “I don’t think we’ve actually ever met,” said Agatha.

Charles came to join Agatha. “I’m Agatha Raisin and this is my friend, Sir Charles Fraith.”

Mabel Smedley was wearing a dreadful print dress, no make-up and her hair scraped back, but she turned out to have a beautiful smile which she directed at Charles.

“Did you make all this jam yourself?” asked Charles.

“Yes, I can recommend the strawberry.”

“Oh, I’ll buy a couple of pots of that. What about you, Agatha?”

“Eh? Oh, can you recommend anything else?”

“I think the quince jelly is all right. Rather nice with game.”

“I’ll have one of those, then.”

Charles claimed to have left his money behind, so after glaring at him, Agatha paid for the jam.

“Your feet must get tired standing here all day,” said Charles.

“I’m just about due for a break. Mrs. Henderson takes over for me. I see her coming.”

“Such a hot day,” said Charles. “Perhaps you might like to join me for a drink? Agatha can’t come. She’s supposed to be helping.”

Agatha opened her mouth and shut it again.

Mrs. Henderson, a plump, sweating woman with a round red face, came hurrying up. “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to go to the school. Dwayne’s been playing up again, though if you ask me, that teacher’s got it in for him and so I’ll tell her.”

“It’s all right,” said Charles. “Mrs. Raisin will take over for a bit. Won’t you, Agatha?”

“Oh, all right,” mumbled Agatha ungraciously.

“You are so kind,” said Mrs. Smedley. “The prices are on all the jars.”

Agatha gloomily watched as Charles went off with Mabel. Charles had borrowed a twenty-pound note from her.

“Aren’t we going to the refreshment room?” asked Mabel.

“I saw a nice-looking pub across the road,” said Charles, steering her out of the hall.

“I don’t drink at this time of day.”

“They’ll have soft drinks or coffee.”

They crossed the road and entered the pub. Mabel ordered a tonic water and Charles got himself a whisky.

They sat down at a comer table. Charles smiled at Mabel. “Tell me about yourself.”

“There’s not much to tell,” said Mabel. “The Ancombe Ladies’ Society keeps me busy. I make cakes and jam. I fund-raise for the homeless of Mircester. I drive the old folks on outings.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes, and a very lucky woman. Not many women these days are allowed to stay at home. The modem husband wants his wife to make money. What about you, Sir Charles?”

“Just Charles. Oh, I deal with the accounts for the home farm. Then there are the cricket matches and fetes and concerts. The village always thinks it has a right to use my house and grounds for everything. I do a lot of gardening,” lied Charles, who was beginning to feel, under her steady gaze, that he sounded like a dilettante.

“I love gardening. Tell me all about it.”

Fortunately, Charles had a garrulous Scottish gardener who was always lecturing him on flowers, vegetables, trees and mulches. So he talked about gardening while she listened with a little half-smile on her face, the kind of smile you see on classical statues.

And then she suddenly rose to her feet. “I must get back. Do stay and finish your drink.”

She gathered up her handbag and headed for the door. Then she turned and said sweetly, “Do tell your friend Mrs. Raisin that I didn’t enjoy the film either. Pity. Such good reviews.”

THREE

AGATHA was horrified when Charles told her of Mabel’s parting comment. “I should never have employed an amateur like Phil,” she raged.

“That’s not fair, Agatha. Amateur yourself! If it hadn’t been for Phil, you’d never have found Jessica’s body, and both of you were tailing her. Mrs. Bloxby’s trying to get your attention.”

Agatha was aware of Mabel, back once more behind her jams, smiling that little smile.

“Oh, Mrs. Raisin, bad news,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Mabel has just confided in me that she knows you were following her. She thinks it’s rather sweet.”

“
Sweet!
”

“Yes, she says her husband is so jealous and it’s very flattering.”

“How did she know? We were well behind her.”

“Perhaps she took out her compact or something to powder her nose in the cinema and spotted you.”

“She doesn’t wear make-up. Now what do I do?”

“Haven’t you anyone else you could put on the case?”

“I’ve re-employed Patrick Mulligan. She doesn’t know him. He’s working on the Jessica Bradley case. We could switch.”

“So you’ve re-employed Patrick. I thought you were cutting back on expenses.”

“I’d forgotten the golden rule of business and that’s to put money in to get money out. It looks, however, as if Mabel Smedley is a lot sharper than we thought.”

Charles’s mobile rang. He muttered an excuse and hurried outside.

Phil came up and Agatha told him about Mabel spotting them. “I don’t know how she did it,” he said. “I mean, she’s not the suspicious type and all the ladies here think she’s a perfect paragon. Works so hard for good causes …”

“And never was heard a discouraging word,” said Agatha. “Let’s get back to the office, Phil. We’d better put Patrick on it.”

“But what about photographs?”

“We’ll go on to the Jessica case. If Patrick digs up anything worth photographing, he can let us know.”

Charles came back. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Remember my date who didn’t show up? She’s phoned to apologize. Her dog died and she was too distraught to get in touch with me.”

“I’ll drop you back at the cottage,” said Agatha, “and you can collect your car.”

She felt like snapping at Charles on the road back to Carsely. It was not as if she were jealous of this girl, she told herself. It was just annoying the way he dropped in and out of her life, using her cottage as a sort of hotel.

After Charles had collected his bags and left, Agatha felt the old wave of loneliness descend on her. Then she remembered Roy would be coming at the weekend and set out for the office feeling slightly more cheerful.

Before she left her cottage, she had phoned Patrick about the new arrangement. He was waiting for her when she arrived and listened intently as she outlined the case.

“Nobody’s that perfect,” he said. “I think she found out that her husband had employed you. I think I know how she found out.” His eyes slid to where Mrs. Freedman was tapping away at the keys on the computer.

Agatha stared in amazement. “Mrs. Freedman. Stop work for a moment. Did you tell anyone that Robert Smedley had hired us to spy in his wife?”

Mrs. Freedman was a plump, placid lady with tightly curled grey hair, a pleasant face and thick glasses. A tide of red went up from her neck and covered her face.

“Do you remember the Boggles?”

“Can I ever forget them?” said Agatha. The Boggles were an elderly couple who had lived in Carsely and had demanded outings and treats from the members of the ladies’ society with ruthless energy. Agatha had heaved a sigh of relief when they had relocated to a nursing home in Broadway.

“Paid them a little visit and they were asking about things. I didn’t think there would be any harm in telling them.”

“Harm?” raged Agatha. “They’d be on the phone as soon as you had left. You must never discuss anything that goes on here with anyone.”

“Oh, I am so sorry. They looked so old and frail. I never believed for a moment they would phone anyone or tell anyone. I mean, they said that no one ever visited them.”

“That’s that,” said Patrick. “She’s not going to do anything now that she knows we’re on to her. Better tell Smedley.”

“No, not yet,” said Agatha slowly. “If there’s anything to find out about her, it happened before, and that’s what you’ve got to dig up.”

“Do you want me to leave?” asked Mrs. Freedman in a quavering voice.

“Oh, go on with what you’re doing,” said Agatha.

The door opened and a young man slouched in. He had a shaven head, a nose stud, earrings and was dressed all in black—black T-shirt under a black leather jacket and black leather trousers. His face was set in a truculent sneer. He had blue eyes, a sharp nose and a long mouth.

“Hi,” he said and slumped down on the sofa.

“My nephew, Harry Beam,” said Mrs. Freedman.

For a moment, Agatha was lost for words. She had imagined the nephew would turn out to be a bright, clean-cut young man.

“So this is your gap year?” Agatha finally demanded.

“Yup.”

“What are you going to study?”

“Physics.”

“Where?”

“Imperial College.”

How on earth did he get in there? wondered Agatha. Threaten to break their legs? Oh, well, one day should be enough to get rid of him.

“Mrs. Freedman, give Harry the files on the lost animals and let him get on with it. Patrick, did you manage to interview either Fairy Tennant or Trixie Sommers?”

“Not yet. I’ve been trying the neighbours. I was going to get them after school.”

“Okay, Phil and I will go now.”

“I know them,” said Harry, looking up. “Pair of slags.”

“How do you know them?”

“Year below me in school.”

“And what about Jessica Bradley?”

“Naw, she was one of the quiet ones.”

Agatha hesitated. The sensible thing would be to take Harry with her. But she balked at the thought of losing face by being seen with such an oaf.

“Come along, Phil. Harry, if you find one animal, you’re hired.”

He grunted, staring at the photographs of the missing pets.

Agatha sighed and went out, followed by Phil.

When they were driving off, she said, “I begin to wonder about Mrs. Freedman. First she gossips and then she saddles me with that monster of a nephew.”

“He may be all right,” said Phil. “They all look weird these days.”

They drove to Mircester High School and parked outside. Some parents were already waiting in their cars because a lot of pupils came in from outlying villages, some not served by a school bus.

At four o’clock, the pupils began to stream out. Agatha reflected that most seemed to have done everything they could to alter their school uniforms. A lot of the girls were wearing high heels and tiny skirts. The boys went in for the sloppy look. Trousers drooping over their ankles and shirt tails hanging out.

Agatha recognized Trixie and Fairy and walked towards them.

Harry Beam turned into a store where he knew there was a machine for printing business cards. He typed in his name, put “private detective” under it, the name of the agency and the phone numbers and email of the agency.

Then he got into an old white Ford van he had hired and headed out to the outskirts, where the Animal Rescue Shelter was located. It had just started up a month before.

He went into the reception desk.

The receptionist looked him up and down and demanded, “What do
you
want?”

And Harry smiled at her. The smile transformed him and Agatha would not have recognized his voice as he presented his business card and said meekly, “I wonder if I could look at your cats and dogs. You see, the owners are so distressed and we would like to do everything we can to help them find their pets.”

She studied his card. “That’s the agency which is helping poor Jessica’s parents find out who murdered her?”

“That’s the one.”

“Wait here.”

She went off.

Harry waited patiently. After a short time she returned with a man whom she introduced as Mr. Blenkinsop.

Mr. Blenkinsop had phoned the agency to check that Harry really was who he said he was.

“Follow me, young man,” he said. “We’ll let you have a look.”

Clutching his folders, Harry followed him.

He went carefully from cage to cage, turning occasionally to ask when either a cat or dog had been admitted.

At last he said cheerfully, “I think I’ve got them all. Would you like to check the photographs with me as I point them out?”

Fairy and Trixie had the shortest skirts of all. They had both loosened their ties and unbuttoned their shirts to where an edge of brassiere would peep through. Both had very long legs ending in high heels. The school would have stopped short at allowing them to wear stilettos, so they had compromised by wearing black shoes with a heavy sole and large clumpy heel. They both had masses of brown unruly hair streaked blonde.

“Jail bait,” muttered Phil. “How can their parents let them go around like that?”

Agatha walked forward. “Fairy and Trixie? Remember me?”

“That’s us,” said Fairy. “Who wants to know? Don’t ‘member you.”

“I am a private detective investigating the death of Jessica Bradley.”

“Look,” said Trixie, “we’ve talked to the police. We don’t need to talk to you. You don’t look like a detective anyway. You’re old.”

“Cut the crap,” said Agatha savagely. “I find it damned suspicious that you have no interest in finding out who murdered your friend.”