Pushing Up Daisies (3 page)

“Too many people had it in for him. First, the villagers didn't like their rents being jacked up. Then there were the allotment people.”

“It seems to me,” said Agatha cautiously, “that it would need to be someone who was in the house and could doctor the drinks unobserved. What about your sister?”

“Andrea? No. She must be the only one in mourning. We had the funeral yesterday, and hers were the only wet eyes around.”

“What about your mother?”

“Too pissed to care. Drunk as a skunk most of the time. And she never went near him after the divorce. That was ten years ago. Why he fought for custody of us is beyond me. But I suppose he adored Andrea.”

“What about the staff? I would like to arrange a meeting with them.”

“Come down tomorrow. Say, ten in the morning. I'll have them gathered together.”

After he had left and Agatha's detectives had returned for the Friday-night briefing, Agatha told them about the agency's latest client. Toni Gilmour, young, blond and beautiful, said, “We've got so much work already. Have you thought of employing another detective?”

“I'll think about it,” said Agatha. Perhaps Gerald might like some temporary employment and they would become close and he would propose marriage and …

Patrick Mulligan, former police officer, broke into her dreams. “I could get a retired detective.”

“I'll let you know after the week-end,” said Agatha.

Simon Black, young with a jester's face and black hair, said eagerly, “Would you like me to come with you tomorrow?”

“No, I'll go on my own,” said Agatha.

Phil Marshall, her oldest detective who lived in Carsely, knew all about Gerald Devere and guessed at Agatha's plans. In the past, Agatha had always chased after any attractive man who arrived in Carsely or in any of the nearby villages.

Agatha rushed home to her cottage to put on a slinky black wool dress and high heels. She sprayed herself liberally with Miss Dior and headed for Gerald's cottage.

But before she reached it, she met Mrs. Bloxby, who was hurrying along the road, her head bent. “I was going to ask Mr. Devere something,” said Mrs. Bloxby in a flat voice. “But he was in the garden and otherwise occupied.”

“I'm just on my way to see him,” said Agatha. “How otherwise occupied?”

“I was about to ring the front doorbell when I heard his voice coming from the back garden. I walked around. He was kissing that newcomer, Miss Peta Currie. I backed off and left.”

“That's fast work,” said Agatha bitterly. “I've seen this Peta Currie with Gerald, and I met her at the allotments.”

“Arrived a few months ago. Has an allotment. Rumoured to have been married but calls herself ‘miss.'”

And here we are, thought Agatha sadly. Two middle-aged women looking as if they had just been jilted. “Like to come back to my place for a drink?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I'd better get back to the vicarage.”

*   *   *

Agatha had decided to take Toni with her. Damian greeted them at the hall and said the staff were all waiting for them in the library. “When you're finished,” he said, “Mother would like to see you.”

“She's here!” exclaimed Agatha.

“Yes, I got her back. The place is mine now,” said Damian. “I can't be bothered with running it, but Mother is a great organiser.”

Agatha thought this did not tally with Damian's earlier description of his mother as a drunk and said so. “She's taken the cure,” said Damian. “Good rehab job, and she's my mother. You'd better talk to the factor first, Giles Bennet. He had a row with Dad. Dad accused him of fiddling the books to line his own pockets. He was given a month's notice. I kept him on because I got the accountants to go through the books and there was no evidence of fiddling.”

Agatha found the interviews with the factor and the staff a waste of time. People had either been warned or did not like to speak ill of the dead, and they all said, even the factor, that he had been a model employer. Giles Bennet said that there had been nothing new in Lord Bellington firing him. It had happened regularly and he paid no attention to it. His lordship had been a great character. As the eulogies went on, Toni caught a look of malicious glee on Damian's face, quickly supressed when he saw her looking at him.

They were then led to a morning room where Olivia, Lady Bellington, was waiting for them. Agatha thought that it was only the ex-wives of Scottish peers who were allowed to retain their titles but, with unusual tact, refrained from saying so. Olivia was a tall, thin haggard woman with brown hair and large grey eyes. She was dressed in a faded blouse and jeans.

“So grateful for your help, Miss Prune,” she said languidly.

“It's Raisin. Agatha Raisin.”

“Sorry. I knew it was one of those wrinkled fruits. Have a seat. I don't know if I can help you because, as you probably know, I haven't seen Arthur in yonks.”

“And you definitely had not seen anything of your husband since the divorce?”

“Not a sausage, darling. I mean his behaviour was gothic. Absolutely shiters.”

“If the antifreeze could have been inserted in one of the bottles,” said Toni, “might there not be some in other bottles?”

“Oh, my dear girl,” said Damian, “the forensic lot went through the cellar end to end. Dad likes sweet stuff. He had been drinking Sauternes and crème de menthe. But could they find those bottles? Disappeared. Not even in the rubbish.”

“It must have been someone with access to the hall,” said Agatha. “It can't have been any of the villagers, for example.”

“It could,” said Damian. “Two days before he died, there was open day at the hall. You know the sort of thing. Marquees on the lawn. Stands with homemade cakes and stuff. White elephant stall. Yawn. I wasn't there. Andrea told me about it.”

“Your sister? Is it possible to talk to her?” asked Agatha.

“She's off hiking in Scotland. I'll let you know when she gets back.”

“Is there any of the villagers who was really furious at the rents going up?” asked Toni.

“Nasty old codger called Humphrey Sanders. Lives in Pear Tree cottage next to the pond.”

“Well, that was a waste of space,” said Agatha bitterly as they drove down to the village.

“Not quite,” said Toni. “Damian is somehow enjoying our failure at getting anywhere.” She told Agatha about the look she had surprised on his face.

“You don't hire a detective of my calibre if you're a murderer,” said Agatha.

“It's happened before,” said Toni. “They did it to hide the fact they were guilty.”

“That was ages ago,” said Agatha huffily. “I wish I weren't so worried about Mrs. Bloxby.”

“Why?”

“Shouldn't have mentioned it. Here's that cottage and here goes for another useless interview.”

*   *   *

The vicar looked up from his newspaper as his wife walked into the sitting room and slumped down in an armchair. “You looked tired,” he said.

“That's all I need,” said his wife bitterly.

“You've been working too hard,” said the vicar. “And you've been looking so attractive lately. Tell you what. Let's go out to that new restaurant in Ancombe.”

The sun slowly began to dawn in the gloomy night of Mrs. Bloxby's mind.

“That would be lovely.”

*   *   *

Humphrey Sanders opened the door of his cottage. “I ain't buying nothing.”

“I am a private detective,” said Agatha, handing him her card. “I am investigating the murder of Lord Bellington.”

“And good riddance,” he said, and slammed the door.

“I'm sick of this,” said Agatha. “Let's find a pub.”

The village did not boast a pub, but they found one in a nearby village and settled down in the garden to eat fish and chips.

“That's better,” sighed Agatha, pushing her plate away. “What did you make of Damian?”

“Effeminate, malicious, hiding something,” said Toni.

“Now, Bellington said to me and Charles something about changing his will,” said Agatha. “That would be a motive. I wish for the umpteenth time I had the powers of the police.” She took out her mobile and called Patrick. “See if any of your police contacts can tell you if Bellington meant to change his will,” she asked.

Agatha lit a cigarette. “I'd forgotten something. Bellington had a mistress, Jenny Coulter. I'll need her address.”

“Want to go back to Harby and knock on a few doors?” asked Toni.

“Fed up with the place. This is Sunday, and I dragged you down here. Maybe you had a date or something.”

“Not at the moment,” said Toni.

Agatha studied her assistant's beautiful face. She herself had not had a normal youth. Mostly, she had been too driven by ambition to think about finding dates.

“Do you ever try these dating agencies online?” asked Agatha.

“Haven't so far,” said Toni.

“I think we should head back to Mircester and try to see Bill Wong. With any luck this is his day off and he might give us some information. At least the murder isn't in the Cotswolds and the villagers of Carsely can't accuse me of being a harbinger of death.”

*   *   *

There was one allotment going spare. It had belonged to an elderly man who had died six months before. Hot contestants for the plot were Bunty Daventry, Josephine Merriweather and Harry Perry. But the head of the Small Allotments' Committee, Tommy Bennet, had held out against them, saying the plot should go to someone new.

“Look at it!” raged Bunty. “Full of weeds and the seeds blowing all over the place. It's a disgrace. Wait a bit! Look at that! Someone's been digging.”

She walked over to the allotment. “Looks like a grave,” she said.

“Probably is,” said Harry. “You'd never believe the number of people who want to bury a pet. It's been dug fresh, like.” He seized his spade. “I'm going to dig it up and see if I recognise the creature, and if I do, I'll take the dead beast and chuck it in their garden.”

He dug energetically, his old walnut face creased in concentration. “Something soft here.” He got down on his hands and knees and began to scrape away the earth with his fingers. Other allotment holders began to crowd around.

He suddenly fell back on his bottom while Bunty let out a scream of terror. Exposed was the white, dead face of Peta Currie. A little breeze had sprung up, and granules of earth rolled down the dead face like tears. Bunty, who had always prided herself on being stronger than any man, fainted. Mobile phones were snatched out all round as babbling voices shrieked for the police and ambulance.

Unaware of the drama, Agatha and Toni were sitting in a pub in Mircester with Bill. He had been on duty, and they had caught him just as he was leaving headquarters.

“You know I cannot discuss police business with you, Agatha,” he was saying.

“Surely you can tell us if Bellington meant to disinherit Damian before he died,” said Agatha. She studied his face. Something flickered in Bill's almond shaped eyes.

“So he did!” exclaimed Agatha with one of her unnerving flashes of intuition.

“I didn't say that.” Bill's mobile rang. “I'd better take this.” He walked away from the table.

Agatha heard him exclaim. “Carsely! Are you sure?” And then, “I'll be right there.”

“I've got to go,” he said when he returned to their table.

“What's happened in Carsely?” demanded Agatha.

“Never mind. See you. Thanks for the drink.”

Agatha's brain was in a turmoil as she followed Bill's car to Carsely. It could be nothing to do with her or he would have taken her with him. Was it something to do with Bellington's murder? Several police cars raced past her.

When she got to Carsely, Agatha said, “They're all heading for the allotments. What on earth is happening? If we hadn't just seen Damian, I would expect something nasty to have happened to him.”

She pulled up behind the police cars. She and Toni got out and hurried forward to find their way blocked by a policeman at the entrance to the allotments. “Can't go in there,” he said.

“But there are people in there,” protested Agatha.

“They were at the scene. Got to be interviewed.”

“What scene? What happened?” demanded Agatha.

“Clear off and mind your own business.”

They moved a little away. Then Agatha saw Mrs. Bloxby hurrying along the road, accompanied by Gerald.

“Isn't it terrible?” she said, coming up to them. “Poor Miss Currie.”

“What?” demanded Agatha. “Never say someone's bumped her off.”

“It appears she had been struck on the back of the head, and then the body was buried in one of the allotments,” said the vicar's wife.

“How did you find out?” asked Toni.

“Two of the allotments holders phoned the vicarage as soon as the body was found,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

Agatha's bearlike eyes fastened on Gerald's face. “The police will want to know who was the last person who saw her alive,” she said.

“Naturally,” said Gerald stiffly. “That is normal procedure. Excuse me. Got to go home. Forgotten something.”

Mrs. Bloxby put a hand on Agatha's arm and looked steadily at her face. She doesn't want me to talk about him kissing Peta last night, thought Agatha. Damn! Why? Loyalty to her friend kept her silent as she watched Gerald walk quickly away.

“So another murder,” said a familiar voice behind Agatha. She swung round to find Charles. “Who's been bumped off?”

“Peta Currie,” said Agatha. “Remember, we met her? Found in a grave on the allotments.”

Charles studied the allotment holders. “Now there's a cross-section of village society,” he remarked. “There are the old guard. Some of them look as if they've come out of
Planet of the Apes
. You see those sort of faces in old Victorian photographs. Those big simian mouths. Right into the twentieth century, it was so unfashionable to have a large mouth that women cursed with one would paint little rosebud mouths in the middle of it. Some middle-class women who look like militant vegetarians. Some genuine gardeners. And look! Over there. There's even a vineyard belonging to two attractive ladies. Do you know who they are?”