Pushing Up Daisies (18 page)

“Keep one for me,” said Agatha, beginning to relax. She turned her mind to the problem of Jake. Charles didn't actually
know
anything. She would get hold of Jake and tell them it was all a joke and ‘you should have seen your faces' type of thing. But it really isn't fair, she thought. If I'd been a fellow bedding down a young miss everyone would envy me. Man—a bit of a dog. Woman—dirty old bitch. Whatever happened to women's lib? One of those grand ideas, like the European Union, that kept unravelling. Where is this wretched man? She phoned Toni and told her where she was telling her the pub's name change. To her relief, Toni told her that they had all decided she had not passed the night with Jake and would inform Charles of that.

Charles was in Mircester when he heard Agatha's broadcast. He went up to the office. Toni told him that Agatha was waiting for Farraday at a pub in Glympton called the Hen and Basket. Then she said awkwardly, “I'm sorry. We shouldn't have let you go on thinking that Jake spent the night with Agatha. He didn't.”

After studying her face, Charles said, “I'd better get over to that pub. Goodness knows what she's stirred up. The Glympton road is only half an hour from here.”

*   *   *

Nigel Farraday knew he was late. He had suffered from a punctured tyre and, not knowing how to change a tyre, had to wait for the Automobile Association to turn up. He phoned Agatha and told her to sit tight. Tight by now with any luck, he thought with a grin.

He found to his annoyance that the pub had changed its name. He had known the old landlord of the Green Man who, for a good tip, would have been happy to ply Agatha with very strong drinks. Like most people with drink problems, Nigel assumed Agatha was like he was himself, that once started, it was hard to stop. He pulled into the car park and got out. He saw a face he recognised and exclaimed, “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Get in your car. Got some news for you. It'll only take a minute.”

Charles drove into the car park of the pub. He scowled at the large black Bentley. Farraday must just have arrived. He could see him in the front seat.

A great gust of wind sent spirals of coloured leaves whirling up. The tree with the odd branches groaned like a voice from the pit. Charles half-turned to go to the pub entrance when he suddenly looked back. Surely Farraday had not gone to sleep.

He went up to the Bentley and rapped on the driver's window. Nigel was lying back, his eyes closed. Impatiently, Charles jerked open the car door, and Nigel's lifeless body slowly fell out onto the ground.

The forces of law and order, remarked Charles later, were like the millstones of the gods, which, according to Euripides, ground slow and exceedingly small. And Agatha, who hated literary quotations with all the passion of the badly educated, told him to stop talking rubbish. They were sitting side by side in the waiting room at Mircester headquarters, having suffered long initial interrogations at Chipping Norton police station.

“I wish they would find out how he was killed,” mourned Agatha. “The wife has been in there for ages.”

“They hate giving us information,” said Charles gloomily. “The press are out in the car park. No one told us not to talk to them. I wonder if one of them managed to get a word with the wife. Look, I'll nip out. You say I've gone for a pee.”

Charles came back after ten minutes. “Haven't a clue,” he said. “You'd better see if Patrick can find out something after the autopsy.”

Agatha couldn't stand Charles's black mood.

“I didn't sleep with Jake,” said Agatha. “You said I did!”

“If you didn't, you didn't. Nothing to do with me.”

“If it's nothing to do with you, then why did you swan into my office and accuse me?”

“Well, it's like this, Aggie. We've always had something a bit other than friendship between us, haven't we?”

Agatha felt suddenly breathless. “Yes,” she whispered.

He gave an awkward laugh. “You see, the mad thing is, I've been seeing this girl, and I am frightfully keen on her, and in some mad way, I felt disloyal to you. Isn't that crazy?”

“Totally mad,” said Agatha. “Let's talk about something else.”

“So you don't mind?”

“Why should I? Why now? You've had various romances over the years and so have I.” But Agatha felt as if she had just descended in an overfast lift. She meant a roll in the hay to Jake, and an occasional bedfellow for Charles, and nothing to no one. Self-pity caught her by the throat. Agatha had an awful feeling she might cry and hailed the arrival of Bill Wong with relief.

“You can leave for now, but you will probably both be questioned further,” said Bill. “Wilkes says you are not to speak to the press. I've to get you out the back door.”

“Our cars are out front in the car park,” protested Charles.

“Give me your car keys, and I will get a couple of officers to take the cars round the back.”

Grumbling, they handed over their keys. Just as Bill left, Patrick walked in. “Meet me in the Jolly Farmer at the back of the square. Got some news.”

Bill should have realised that the press would simply follow the cars round to the back, so Agatha held a press conference despite the fact that Wilkes was glaring down at her from an upstairs window.

In order to shake off the press once Agatha had finished speaking, they went back into headquarters, rushed out the other side and made their way through back lanes to the Jolly Farmer. Patrick was sitting staring down into a pint of beer. He could never look anything other than a copper, thought Agatha, even though he had been working now as a private detective for some time. From his open-pored lugubrious face to his black socks and highly polished black shoes, he screamed police.

When they were settled over drinks, Agatha asked eagerly, “What have you got?”

“What I've got is why he was killed,” said Patrick. “He planned to go to the pub in Glympton, get you liquored up and have you reported and charged for drink driving.”

“I always wonder why it is called drink driving and not drunk driving,” said Agatha. “I mean, I'm drinking soda and lime and…”

“Oh, do shut up, Aggie,” said Charles. “What did you find out, Patrick?”

“His missus was invited to open the sale of work at Harby. She didn't say he had gone off to Ossbury to try to get you arrested, Agatha. She tells everyone he's gone to tell you the name of the murderer. He told his wife it would stir up the peasantry. Amazing! The lower class people are, the more snobbish they get,” said Patrick sanctimoniously.

“So the police idea that he had suffered from a heart attack is wrong,” said Agatha. “Who was at the sale of work?”

“All the village of Harby and the lot of them from the hall.”

Agatha stifled a yawn. “I'm tired. I need to get home and think.”

When Agatha and Charles reached their respective cars, Charles turned and gave her a hug.

Agatha stood by her car and watched him drive off, wondering why she should feel so bereft. She had a sudden consuming desire to see this female who had so enchanted Charles. She decided to take the following day off and see if he could at catch a glimpse of her.

Agatha found Jake waiting for her. “Oh, for heaven's sakes, you randy bastard…” she was beginning when he interrupted. “It's not that. I've been in Scotland Yard for most of the day.”

“The diamonds?”

“Yes.”

“Come in,” said Agatha, “but make it quick. I'm tired.”

When Jake was seated at the kitchen table, he said, “It's all very hush-hush. The Malimbian Embassy produced a murderer but insisted he had been shipped home to Malimbia to face justice there.”

“Sure the British police aren't going to allow that?”

“The Malimbians said that Toby was using their furniture to smuggle the diamonds to this criminal at the embassy.”

“Still don't get it.”

“They've discovered oil in Malimbia.”

“I begin to get it. Maybe,” said Agatha. “So why call you in?”

“Not flattering. We've all signed the Official Secrets Act, but they think because of my youth and the reputation my father has given me that I am some loose cannon, so I was threatened this way and that of all the dire things that would happen to me if I opened my mouth.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know. I've had a horrid day.” Agatha told him the latest news.

“Are you all right?” asked Jake.

Agatha shrugged, “I'll survive. But there is one important thing. I told Charles we didn't do anything, and everyone else thinks we didn't, so that episode is over.”

“I'm an episode?”

“In my latest book,” said Agatha. “Go home.”

When he had gone, Agatha sat on the floor with her cats on her lap. “What excuse will I give for taking the day off?” she said, stroking their soft fur. “The trouble is, if I say I've got a cold, I'm bound to get one. Sod's Law. I'll just tell them I want a day off. No excuses.”

By morning, Agatha began to feel that spying on Charles was grubby, but curiosity drove her on. The difficulty could be to spy on him without someone spotting her. It was easy to follow someone in town unobserved, but in the country, there were acres of nothingness where one could easily be seen.

From the gates of his estate, one road led east and the other west. Smoke was rising from the lodge chimney. Charles did not have a lodge keeper but had rented out the property, Agatha remembered, to a married couple. Agatha drove on, feeling exposed. She drove on out of the area and pulled off the road and phoned Charles. She was in luck in that he actually answered his mobile. Usually he let Gustav, his gentleman's gentleman, answer it.

“I'm doing some shopping in Stratford around lunchtime,” said Agatha. “Fancy joining me for lunch?”

“Actually, I've got a date with Olivia, you know, the one I'm keen on. We'll be in the Golden Gander at one o'clock. Why don't you join us?”

“Yes, fine. Thanks,” said Agatha bleakly. She could not remember Charles sounding so animated or happy before. What on earth are you playing at? her inner voice yelled at her. He's not yours. Never has been.

Agatha would not admit that somewhere in a little corner of her mind she had seen herself and Charles eventually settling down together.

Her phone rang. Charles again. “James is back,” he said, “so I invited him as well. Olivia can meet my two oldest friends. See you.”

I didn't even know James was back, thought Agatha. What happened to the days when I yearned and burned for him and now I don't feel a thing, not a twitching hormone in my whole body.

She looked at her watch. It was still only ten in the morning. Time to go into battle.

By the time Agatha reached the restaurant, her face had been made-up by an expert beautician, and her hair was washed and shining. She was wearing a scarlet ankle-length fun fur coat over a dark green cashmere trouser suit with high-heeled calf-length boots of black suede.

James and Charles were already seated. Both men rose. James kissed her on the cheek and said, “You are glowing, Agatha. Is the village gossip real? Have you been seduced by a young Adonis?”

“I wish,” said Agatha. “Charles, where's the lovely Olivia?”

“Late as usual, I should think. Oh, here she is.”

Both men rose to their feet. Charles held out a chair for Olivia, and she sat down facing Agatha. Olivia was startled. Somehow, from Charles's stories about Agatha, she had expected a hard-faced dumpy woman, not this glossy epitome of sophistication.

Olivia was twenty-eight. She had enjoyed coming out at the Season. It had cost her parents close to one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. Of course, it was no longer a marriage market. Jobs were fashionable. Charity extremely okay. She had worked as a secretary at a fashion magazine but had walked out the week before because the fashion editor had shouted at her. Olivia may not have looked on the London Season as a marriage market, but her old-fashioned parents, Jeremy and Beverley Huntington, certainly did, and were already grumbling about the lack of grandchildren. Charles was the answer to a prayer. Of course, he was in his forties, but his estates were pretty prosperous. The Huntingtons were extremely rich, having made their money in tea, which was alright, tea and beer both trades that had always been considered fashionable. Jeremy Huntington's one regret was that his grandfather had not seen fit to grease Lloyd George's palm with money and get a title. But a married Olivia would be Lady Fraith, and that warmed his heart.

It was unfortunate that Olivia had a cold. Her nose was pink, and she was wearing a bulky Aran sweater over a pair of jeans and flat boots. Her hair was tinted blond but was worn straight, hanging down on either side of her face except when she suddenly swung a wing of it back, causing, at one point, James to duck. She had a high drawling voice where every word seemed to sound like “Yah.” Not so long ago, Agatha would have felt intimidated, hoping that none of her original Birmingham-slum background was showing through the veneer, but she suddenly felt sad because she saw the attraction in Olivia, and it was, she was sure, quite simply money. She had forgotten that Charles was mercenary and also cared deeply about his home and estates. She often wondered why. His ugly Victorian mansion was hardly a national treasure.

Agatha had planned to compete with Olivia, to chatter, to brag, to dazzle. Instead, she recommended a good cold cure, suggested if Olivia wanted another job on a fashion magazine then that she, Agatha, knew a great woman on
Fabfash
who might like to employ her. Only Charles, his shrewd eyes moving from one to the other, guessed accurately that Agatha had sussed out his motives for courting Olivia and was actually sorry for the girl.

Her phone rang in the middle of the meal. James had been happily talking about his days in the army because Olivia's father had served in the Household Cavalry. Agatha excused herself and walked a little away from the table. It was Toni on the phone. “Mrs. Freedman is off ill. She's got shingles. Awful for her. Shall I get a temp?”