Pushing Up Daisies (7 page)

Toni hesitated. “Maybe I should go back to Agatha.”

“It's all right. I'm in love,” said Simon.

Toni smiled with relief. She had become weary of Simon's pursuit of her. “All right. The pub it is. Who's the lucky lady?”

“Alice Peterson.”

“
Detective
Alice Peterson? Oh, Simon. Bill's keen on her but can't do anything because of them being colleagues. He'll be furious. How long have you been dating her?”

“Well, I haven't asked her out yet. I'm waiting for the right moment.”

“Don't do it. You'll only hurt Bill.”

“He can't do anything about asking her out and I can,” said Simon mulishly. “I know where she lives. I'm going to wait outside her house and just ask her.”

“Oh, forget about the pub,” snapped Toni and strode off, autumn leaves swirling about her feet in a rising wind.

Later that evening, like a dog waiting for its master, Simon lurked outside the block of flats where Alice lived. At last he saw her driving up with Bill and moved into the shadows. His heart beat fast as he watched her leaning into the car to say goodnight.

Bill drove off. As Alice approached the entrance, Simon stepped forward.

“Good evening,” he said.

Alice looked puzzled for a moment as she studied his face in the entrance light. Then her face cleared. “Oh, it's you, Simon. Found anything out?”

“Nothing much,” said Simon. “I wondered if you would care to go for a drink?”

“It's eleven o'clock at night and I'm tired,” said Alice, beginning to walk away.

“Another time?” called Simon. But Alice did not reply. The entrance door slammed behind her. I'd forgotten how late it was, mourned Simon. I'll send her flowers. That should do the trick.

*   *   *

Agatha was about to set out for Harby Hall the next morning to try to interview Andrea and find out if she had any proof to back up her allegation that her brother had murdered their father. She had not told Wilkes about Andrea's startling accusation. Maybe Gerald had told them. Agatha did not like the idea of the police knowing absolutely everything. Then she had to find out what had happened to Mrs. Bull.

Charles appeared as she was about to set out. She wanted to tell him huffily that she did not need his help, but stopped herself in time. She told him instead all she had learned.

They were just about to leave when Agatha's mobile rang. It was Bill Wong. “Is Simon Black there?” he asked.

“He's out looking for a lost teenager,” said Agatha. “Why?”

“He's stalking Alice.”

“What?”

“He was lurking outside her building late last night, and he's just sent her flowers.”

“Is she complaining about him?”

“Well, no.”

“I can't do anything about it, Bill, unless she's angry.”

“Look, we're friends, Agatha. Tell him to stop!”

“Oh, all right. I'll try. Simon gets crushes on women, but it soon blows over.”

“Why doesn't Bill ask her out himself?” asked Charles, after Agatha had told him about the phone call.

“Police regulations.”

“I'm sure other coppers never bother about them.”

“I'm sure, even if he did try to date her, that mother of his would soon find a way to put a stop to it.”

Mrs. Wong was at that moment returning with a shopping bag over her arm. Her neighbour, Mrs. Golightly, hailed her. “Cold day,” she called. “They say it's going to be a hard winter. Had the grandchildren down for the week-end. Little darlings. You got any?”

“My son is not married as you very well know.”

“What a pity. Doesn't fancy the ladies maybe?”

“Tcha!” Mrs. Wong marched up the garden path. In the past, she had always felt superior to Mrs. Golightly, whose son had done time for car theft. Her face burned red at the idea that her malicious neighbour might put it about that her precious Bill was … well … the-other-way inclined. Bill would need to get married and as soon as possible.

What an odd morning, thought Alice. First there was the bouquet from Simon, and Mrs. Wong had phoned to ask her for supper. Alice was terrified of Bill's mother, and so she had lied and said she had a date. “So you're that kind of girl,” Mrs. Wong had said. “Bill's better off without you.”

Upset, Alice had phoned Bill on his mobile, knowing he had gone to Harby with Wilkes.

Bill adored his parents. He had hitherto been blind to his mother's habit of driving girlfriends away. Because of his Chinese father and his own slightly Asian appearance, he had been bullied at school. Having a poor opinion of his looks, he assumed that, after a visit to his home, previous girlfriends had gone off him because of his lack of attraction. But now Bill, who had long adored Alice, was furious. He phoned his mother and said he was moving out to a flat of his own. If she had cried, he might have relented. But she cursed him for being an unnatural son, and so he cut her off in mid-rant and vowed to find a place to live as soon as he could. He then phoned Alice and apologised for his mother's behaviour and said he was moving out.

Alice, who had once had a miserable supper with the Wong family, was sympathetic. “There's a flat in my block available,” she said. “I'll speak to the landlord today.”

And Bill, who had been sent to the village of Harby to search for the missing Mrs. Bull, was elevated to a dream of living next door to Alice. Wasn't there a song about that, he wondered dreamily.

“Have you found her?” asked the familiar voice of Agatha Raisin behind him. He swung round to see Agatha and Charles.

“Not a sign of her,” said Bill with a wide grin.

“So why are you looking so happy?”

“It's a lovely day to be out in the country.”

Agatha looked up at the lowering black clouds and then at the falling leaves driven by a brisk cold wind and said, “It's miserable. Never mind. Is Wilkes up at the hall?”

“Yes. He's interviewing Andrea.”

“We should have beaten him to it, Charles,” said Agatha. “I bet she denies the whole thing. So let's get back to Mrs. Bull. Say, she's been bumped off. Where would you dump a body, Bill?”

“Haven't a clue.”

“What about the allotments?” asked Charles. “I saw them at the edge of the village.”

“I'd better go on my own,” said Bill. “If Wilkes turns up and finds you with me, he'll be furious. Oh, Lord, here come the press.”

“You deal with them,” said Agatha quickly. “Let's go, Charles.”

Agatha and Charles drove to the allotments. Unlike the ones in Carsely, several of the plots were vacant and covered in weeds. There was no one in sight. They wandered through the allotments, looking to right and left. There were no signs of freshly turned earth: nothing that looked like a grave. The wind moaned through the trees bordering the allotments.

Agatha drew her fake fur coat tighter about her and shivered. “This place gives me the creeps. I seem to hear someone shouting, ‘Help!'”

“There's an old well over in that far corner,” said Charles.

“Looks as if it hasn't been used for a century,” said Agatha. “I'm cold and hungry, and a gin and tonic is calling to me.”

But Charles walked over to the well. It was covered with a stone slab. He leaned down and pressed his ear against it. Then he straightened up and called, “Get a tyre iron out of the car, Aggie! I swear I heard a moan. Bring a torch as well.”

When Agatha came back, Charles inserted the tyre iron under the edge of the slab and heaved. The old slab split in two. He grasped the edge of one of the pieces and hauled it onto the grass. Then he took the torch from Agatha and shone it down into the well. The white face and terrified eyes of a woman stared up at him.

“I think we've found her,” he said. “Phone Bill. Have a look. Is that Mrs. Bull?”

Agatha looked down at the terrified face. “It's her.” She took out her mobile and called Bill. Then, leaning over the well, she shouted down, “Help is on its way. Who did this to you?”

But Mrs. Bull had relapsed into unconsciousness.

They were soon joined by Bill and several policemen and then by Wilkes. Before a fire engine arrived, Agatha fretted. If Mrs. Bull had been thrown into the well, she must be suffering from broken bones.

At last the firemen arrived. It was decided that the thinnest of the firemen should be lowered down with a canvas hoist to put around Mrs. Bull. An ambulance rolled up, and paramedics stood by.

At last, Mrs. Bull was slowly hoisted to the surface. She gave one long scream of agony and then fell silent.

Oh, let her stay alive, prayed Agatha as Mrs. Bull's white-and-blueish face appeared over the parapet of the well. Police had cordoned off the allotments, keeping the press at bay.

She was tenderly placed on a stretcher, an oxygen mask over her face and a drip in her arm.

Agatha scrolled down her phone until she found Damian's number. “I've got to speak to you. It's urgent.”

“Come up to the house,” he said. “What's happened?”

“Tell you when I get there,” said Agatha. She rang off. “Come along, Charles.”

“Not so fast,” said Wilkes, looming over her. “I need statements from both of you as to why you so conveniently found the missing woman down the well.”

“I have a job to do as well,” said Agatha. “Charles and I will call in at headquarters and give you a full statement later on.”

“You do that,” said Wilkes, “and I will have you arrested for impeding the police in their enquiries. Detective Wong! Take their statements … now!”

Bill was painstaking and meticulous. It took over an hour before they were finally able to leave and go to Harby Hall.

 

Chapter Five

Damian answered the door himself. “So Ma Bull has turned up her toes?” he said cheerfully.

“No, she is still alive,” said Agatha. “How did you hear about it?”

“The jungle drums of Harby have been beating nonstop. Although I was told she was dead and buried in the allotment, just like Peta.”

“Your jungle drums are hitting the wrong beat,” said Agatha. “She was thrown down an old well on the allotments.”

“Really? I say, what larks. Ding, dong, bell. Bull is in the well. Come in. Don't stand glaring at me. I never liked the woman. Nasty gossip.”

He led the way through the house to the garden. “Isn't there anywhere warmer?” pleaded Agatha. “It's a cold day.”

“Oh, well. It's your age, you know. We'll sit in the drawing room.”

“I hate you,” hissed Agatha to his retreating back.

“Naughty, naughty. In here.”

The drawing room was as dark as the other rooms because of the ivy covering most of the windows. Damian went around switching on lamps. A badly executed oil painting of the late Lord Bellington glared down at them. “Drink?” offered Damian.

“Not for Agatha,” said Charles. “She's driving.”

“One won't put me over the limit,” said Agatha crossly. “Gin and tonic, please.”

Charles said he would have a whisky and soda, avoiding a threatening look from Agatha.

“Now,” began Agatha, “the police will be here any moment. Think! Why Mrs. Bull?”

“As I said, she was a malicious gossip. Probably nothing to do with the other murders.”

“May I remind you that your sister has accused you of murdering your father?”

“Well, she would, wouldn't she?”

“Why?”

Damian brought their drinks over from an ancient sideboard. “She wants to start a farm for sick donkeys. Asked me for the money. Told her, no. She's got a large allowance. Says it's not enough. Screams and jumps up and down with rage. Does that answer your question?”

“One of them,” said Agatha. “Have the police questioned Lady Bellington about Mrs. Bull's claim that she caught her down in the cellar with a syringe?”

“Over and over again. But you see, she was in a rehab in Oxford for months. And everyone down there can testify that she was not allowed to leave.”

“But why would she say such a thing?” asked Charles.

“My father was toying with the idea of a reconciliation. He wrote to her. She wrote back that she would never return if Mrs. Bull was still the housekeeper. I am sure the old trout read the letter. She was always reading private correspondence.”

Agatha felt herself becoming exasperated. Damian seemed perpetually amused by the whole thing. “Haven't you the faintest idea who might have murdered your father?” she demanded.

“If I had, I wouldn't have employed you. Try the villagers. They're a weird lot. People keep accusing the aristocracy of inbreeding and never take a look at these little villages, buried away from the tourist route.”

“Well, give us at least a suggestion of where we should start.”

“Try Mary Feathers at Lime Cottage. She's the head of the allotments committee.”

But when they returned to Harby, police were going from door to door. “We'll come back in the evening,” said Charles. “How are you getting on with Gerald?”

“He's a creep. He wanted me to employ him and then was lured away by Wilkes.”

“I'm surprised you aren't chasing him, Agatha. You have a weakness for creeps.”

“You mean men like you? Oh, let's go and eat something.”

When they returned in the evening, a small moon was shining down on the huddle of houses that made up the village of Harby.

Lime Cottage was thatched, and brooded beside the village pond, its two small-paned windows at the front like two eyes. Agatha rapped on the brass knocker.

The door opened.

“Is Mrs. Feathers at home?” asked Agatha.

“I am Mrs. Feathers.”

She had two wings of jet black hair tied behind her head. Her perfect face was serene and her eyes fringed with heavy lashes, wide and black. She was wearing a green cashmere sweater over a black velvet skirt. Mrs. Feathers did not look at all like the sort of woman to head an allotment committee.