Pushing Up Daisies (15 page)

“It's a wonder she didn't take it out herself,” said Agatha, “or wipe the nail.”

“That would be admitting she put it there. Oh, such good, good riddance to her and to sainted Mother.”

“Did you never want to bump your mother off?” asked Charles curiously.

“Oh, so many times. But I am like Shostakovich.”

“Is that a type of vodka?” asked Agatha.

“No. A Russian composer applied for membership of the Communist Party, even though he hated the lot of them. The evening before he was due to join, he broke down completely, calling himself a coward and a whore, saying he had been a coward all his life. That was me. Frightened of my own shadow. She broke me down, bit by bit, after Father died. I'm free at last. I'll travel. But I'll need to advertise for a companion because I don't even have the guts to go on my own.”

“Perhaps a good psychiatrist…” began Charles.

“Don't believe in that mumbo jumbo.”

“Oh, you should give it a try,” said Agatha crossly, because she was still smarting at not knowing the name of that wretched composer.

“Worked for you, did it?” asked Cassandra.

“Unlike you, sweetie, I've never had need of one,” snapped Agatha. “In fact…”

“In fact,” interrupted Charles smoothly, “the other thing we wanted to ask you about was the murder of Bellington. Have you the slightest idea who might have done it?”

“He annoyed so many people. The village was furious because he was putting the rents up. I don't think his death has anything to do with Mrs. Bull. Such a nasty woman. Someone just broke. Mother liked dragging me up there when she was collecting for some charity or other. How she grovelled! In my opinion, the whole Bellington family is weird.”

When they left Cassandra, Agatha felt depressed. “I don't think we're going to crack this case,” she said gloomily. “Too many suspects, and now I've taken on useless Jake. As soon as I can find some work other than detecting for that young man, the better.”

“That should teach you not to let your mind be seduced by good looks,” said Charles.

“Oh, really? Then why are the other men in my life not at all handsome?”

“Bitch! Draw your claws in, Aggie.”

And so they bickered amiably, not knowing Jake was going to make the first big break in the murders.

*   *   *

Jake had spent a pleasant enough day with Phil. But his work had mostly consisted of carrying Phil's camera bag while Phil snapped off shots of an adulteress.

Feeling restless at the end of the day, Jake took himself off to Carsely for a talk to Agatha, but finding her not at home, he went for a walk through the village instead.

He found himself up the hill and outside the ugly red brick cottage where Peta had lived. There was a pretty brown haired girl weeding in the garden.

Jake leaned over the hedge. “Do you usually weed by moonlight?” he asked.

She straightened up. “It's something to do. Do you want a coffee? I could do with one. I'm Peta's sister, Alison. You live in the village, yes?”

“No, I'm a detective.”

Jake followed her inside. “Lot of cleaning?” he asked sympathetically.

“Fingerprint dust. Drawers turned out and nothing put back. I was surprised she left me the lot in her will. She never could stand me.”

Jake followed her into the kitchen. Alison was late thirties, he judged. Older than he had first thought. She had a pleasant face and a round chubby figure, the bottom half crammed into jeans. She switched on the kettle. “It's instant, I'm afraid.”

“Suits me,” said Jake. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Maybe. I hate driving at night, and the lawyer gave me keys to a storage unit in Mircester. He should have given them to the police. Anyway, I'd like to have a look first.”

“I'll drive you,” said Jake. “Maybe we'll find something in there which will help us find out who murdered her.”

To Jake's relief, George's Storage ran a twenty-four-hour service. They were shown to storage unit 204 and left in a dark alley lined with other storage units. Alison unlocked the padlock, and Jake bent down and raised the door. He fumbled inside until he found an electric switch. Odd bits of furniture loomed up in the shadows cast by the weak light bulb overhead. Jake recognised some of it as being very good indeed. “What's that?” said Alison nervously, pointing to something wrapped in a blanket in the middle of the floor.

“Stand back,” said Jake. “I'll look. It might be a body.”

“Maybe we should call the police,” said Alison nervously. “We could be mucking up a crime scene.”

“They won't thank us if it turns out to be carpets.” Jake whipped away the blanket, and both stared in amazement.

“What on earth is it?” whispered Alison.

“I know. It's a giant marrow. It's Harry Perry's giant marrow.”

“Who's Harry Perry?”

“Some old boy from the allotments. I read it up in Agatha's notes. The villagers were complaining that someone was stealing their vegetables. Look, over in that corner. There's baskets of decomposing vegetables. Was your sister mad?”

“No, just spiteful,” said Alison. “She always thought everyone in the whole wide world had it better than she had, and she would try to even the balance by stealing. Can't we just shut this place up and pretend we don't know? The thought of finding out which piece belongs to which person is too much.”

“The police will do that,” said Jake. “Look, this must be awful for you. Do you want to wait back in the car? I'd better phone the boss.”

“No, I'll wait,” said Alison. “We weren't close.”

Agatha was getting ready for bed. Charles was staying the night. She had a sudden longing to invite him to join her, to hold her, to remind one middle-aged woman that there was still sexual life in her. “Don't go in for casual sex,” nagged her conscience. “Why not?” she was just demanding when the phone rang. Agatha listened to Jake's excited description of his find. “Stay there!” she ordered. “I'll be with you as soon as possible.”

*   *   *

Agatha blinked in the shadowy light of the storage unit. “She must have been some sort of kleptomaniac. Sorry, Alison.”

Alison shrugged. “We weren't close. She punished people by taking something of theirs if they irritated her.”

“I found this portrait,” said Jake. He disappeared into the shadows and came back carrying an oil painting. It was a portrait of Nigel Farraday when he was younger.

“That's her ex,” said Agatha. “Before I call the police, I want papers, a diary, something like that.”

“Great detective finds secret diary in hidden drawer in antique desk,” mocked Charles.

“Don't sneer. Let's all take a good look. No dead bodies here. So it's not a crime scene.”

“It is, you know,” said Charles.

They all stared at him. “What? Where?” demanded Agatha.

Charles pointed to the giant marrow. “You don't understand gardeners. To old Harry, that would be like pinching his child and leaving it to die.”

“But if he didn't know where it was and didn't know she took it, there would be no reason to murder her.”

“Unless she demanded money,” said Alison in a sad little voice. “One of her favourite sayings was, ‘I make people pay.' She liked power.”

“So there might be letters or something somewhere here,” said Agatha. “The police didn't find anything incriminating in her cottage, did they?”

Alison shook her head.

“If there's anything, it's probably in that briefcase by the door,” said Jake.

They all swung round and followed his pointing finger. A black leather briefcase was placed behind a rocking chair next to the door.

“Shouldn't we leave it to the police?” said Alison.

“Just a peek,” said Agatha.

Alison's normally pleasant features suddenly settled into a mulish look. “No,” she said firmly, “I don't want you poking around anymore. I will tell the police. She was, after all, my sister, and all that's left of our family.”

“But, my dear girl,” wailed Agatha, “in that briefcase there may be proof of who it was murdered Peta.”

“I don't care,” shouted Alison. “I want you all to leave. Now!”

“If that's the way you want it,” said Jake. “I'll just switch off the light and help you to lock up.” The storage unit was suddenly plunged into darkness.

“Put the light on now!” yelled Alison. “You're all leaving. I'm not. I'll phone the police now.”

After some groping and fumbling in the dark, Jake found the light switch. When they got to the car park, Agatha said, “I'm phoning the police now before she destroys anything. I wonder what was in that case.”

“Some sort of book,” said Jake, producing it from under his jumper.

“Jake! If there is anything in there that leads us to the murderer, we can't use it. We should have left it for the police.”

“Phil left me a camera to practice photographing documents,” said Jake eagerly. “I'll sit in my car and bash off as many pics as I can, and then I'll sneak it back.”

“Oh, go on,” said Agatha. “But be quick. And here's a pair of gloves. Put them on.”

Agatha fretted and tried not to chew her nails as Jake, in his car with the overhead light on, was busy clicking away. Then she heard the wail of a siren.

“That's it!” she shouted to Jake. “Get that book back.”

Jake sprinted along to the storage unit. “Police on the way,” he called. Alison was ferreting around in the shadowy depths of the unit.

Jake looked around and then threw the ledger over into a corner. It fell with a clatter. “What was that?” called Alison.

“Tripped on something on the floor,” said Jake cheerfully. “I'll hang around and give you a lift home.”

“No, I think I'll ask the police to take me back. I don't like the idea of private detectives snooping around. Something nasty and seedy about it.”

When the police arrived, Jake made a brief statement. Then he followed Agatha and Charles to her cottage, where he put the pictures he had snapped into Agatha's computer.

“Is it a diary?” asked Agatha eagerly.

“No, it's nothing but a list of MPs expenses. Probably Farraday.”

“Yes, he was involved in the expenses scandal,” said Charles. “Look at the date. Years old. Must be right back to when she was married to him. Nothing of use.”

Jake looked guilty. “There was a letter came with it. Loose. Not part of the ledger. Maybe I shouldn't have taken it.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“Oh, let's see it,” said Agatha wearily. “Probably a grocery list.”

“It's a bit of a letter,” said Charles. He read aloud: “Peter's boy, Wayne, he saw you take my marrow, you bitch, and I am coming for you. Get it back here, or it will be the worst for you. I done been to the police, but they don't do nothing so I am taking the law into my own hands.”

“Must be Harry Perry,” said Agatha.

“Better show this to the police,” said Charles.

“No,” said Agatha. “I want to show Wilkes and Gerald that I am better than they are. I am going to get a confession out of Harry and take it to them.”

“Great idea,” cried Jake. He put his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.

“Agatha, you are not even being paid to find out who killed Peta,” snapped Charles. “It's vanity. You will put yourself at risk and get a spade in the back of your stupid neck. I'm going home.”

“Ouch!” said Jake. “That was a bit nasty.”

“He's not usually like that,” said Agatha. “So let's go and wake the old boy up. I'll take a tape recorder.”

As Agatha drove to the council estate at the edge of the village where Harry lived, she fretted about Charles. She had felt somehow bereft when he had left in such an angry mood. She began to wish she had decided to leave any confrontation with Harry until the morning, but Jake was all excited, his handsome face alight, his blue eyes gleaming.

“Is he married?” asked Jake.

“I don't think so. I think there's something about his wife being dead in one of the notes on the case.”

“Here we are,” said Agatha. “The lights are on downstairs, and I can hear the television. What's the time? One in the morning. Bit late to go calling.”

“No, we must do this,” cried Jake. “You don't want the police to get there first.”

“But we don't know he murdered her,” fretted Agatha.

“Want the police to find out tomorrow?”

“No. Okay. Let's go.”

Harry Perry answered the door. He was fully dressed but with three days' worth of unshaven beard, and he smelled strongly of spirits.

“We've found your marrow,” said Agatha.

Harry looked at her in a dazed way. “You've found my Bertha?”

“Bertha?”

“Thas what I done call 'er. Bertha the Beautiful. I must go to her.”

“The police have your marrow. May we come in?”

“Yes, come along. Oh, Bertha. Best ever.”

They followed him into a neat, bright little parlour. Harry switched off the television.

Agatha switched on a powerful little tape recorder.

She was about to begin a slow interrogation when Jake said cheerfully, “Must have driven you mad, her pinching that marrow. Did you bash her on the head?”

“She jeered at me. She said she was going to give my Bertha to be cut up in a Chink restaurant. Her was standing there, laughing. 'Twas late at the allotments, and we was the only ones there. I took my spade and hit her on the head I was that angry. Didn't mean to kill her, but she was dead so I buried her.”

Agatha said quietly. “The police will be coming for you, Harry.”

He heaved a great sigh. “Well, now, it'll be a relief. I've always been a God-fearing man and never done no wrong to nobody. But, oh, what she done to Bertha was cruel.”