The Blood of an Englishman (18 page)

“You've got to help me,” she cried. “The police aren't doing anything.”

Agatha urged her to sit down and tell her what it was all about. “What is your name?” asked Agatha.

“Rose Alexander,” she said. “My daughter, Kylie, didn't come home last night. Her friends say she was about to get on the bus after school but then she said she had left something in the classroom and would find her own way home.”

“How old is Kylie?” asked Agatha.

“She's fifteen. What can have happened to her?”

“Where is your home?”

“Winter Parva. You see what I mean? All those murders and Kylie disappeared.”

“Has she gone missing before?”

“Never. Oh, she's been late a couple of times but she always came home.”

“When she was late home, where had she been?”

“She said she'd been with her friend, Maisie Green, just hanging about.”

“Give me your address and Maisie's address,” said Agatha. “Have you a photograph?”

Mrs. Alexander took a photo out of her handbag. It showed a surly-looking girl with a fat face and a nose stud.

“I'll start on it right away,” said Agatha.

“I don't have that much money. But I'm desperate.”

“Let's see if I can do anything,” said Agatha. “I won't charge you much.”

*   *   *

When Mrs. Alexander had left, Agatha asked Toni and Simon where two young girls might hang out, adding, “Must be Mircester. There's nothing in that cursed village.”

“There's a disco called Nice Nights, round the back of the market square,” said Simon. “But they don't open up until seven in the evening.”

“I'll see if there's anyone there,” said Agatha.

*   *   *

Agatha hammered on the door of the disco until an unshaven young man opened it. She introduced herself and said she wanted information on a missing teenager.

“I'm the barman,” he said. “I've been checking the stocks. I don't think I can help you. There are so many of them in the evening.”

“Just have a look at this photo,” said Agatha, holding it out to him.

“Oh, her. Yes, she got stroppy when I wouldn't serve her any drink.”

“How did you know she was underage? They all look so mature these days.”

“Get this. The little tart was in her school uniform. Then a man came up and bought a drink and I saw him taking it to her so I got the bouncer and got them both thrown out.”

“Do you know who the man was?”

“Sure. A regular. Tim Eliot. Plumber.”

“Where does he live?”

“Dunno.”

*   *   *

Agatha retreated to her car and looked up phone numbers and addresses in the Mircester phone book she kept in her car.

There was a T. Eliot listed. The address was in one of the tower blocks on the edge of the town.

She drove there and found the lift wasn't working. Glad he only lived on the fourth floor, Agatha made her way up the filthy stairs. Considering the amount plumbers charge, she thought, you'd think he'd have found a better place to live.

Agatha stood outside his door, put her ear to the door and listened.

She heard a girl's voice say, “I'd better get home or Ma will have the filth looking for me.”

“Aw, quit moaning and come back to bed,” said a man's voice.

Agatha retreated, thinking that she had no real muscle in her agency and she did not feel like tackling the plumber alone.

She retreated down the stairs and phoned the police and then stood and waited until a police car arrived.

Agatha told the police about the missing girl and waited until they went up the stairs. She was still wearing her winter clothes. The sun was hot. She took off her coat and left it in the car.

After a time, a girl Agatha recognised from the photo was escorted by the police along with a small, slight man who Agatha judged to be in his late thirties.

Kylie looked mulish and insolent. Poor Mrs. Alexander, thought Agatha. I won't charge her anything. She's got enough on her plate.

She phoned Mrs. Alexander and told her what had happened and told her she would pick her up and take her to police headquarters.

*   *   *

As she drove the distressed mother back to Mircester, she told her gently that Eliot would likely be charged with having sex with a minor. Mrs. Alexander began to cry, and cried all the way back to Mircester. Agatha left her at police headquarters and with a sigh, decided to get to work on that divorce case. She phoned Phil and told him to meet her. Best to be armed with a photographer.

She arrived back at the office, later that afternoon, tired and frustrated, for so far she had not found the necessary proof of infidelity, to find Mrs. Alexander waiting for her.

“I'm ever so grateful to you,” said Mrs. Alexander. “My poor Kylie says she's awfully sorry and it'll never happen again.”

Until the next time, thought Agatha.

She saw Mrs. Alexander was opening her battered handbag to reveal crumpled bank notes.

“There's no fee,” said Agatha hurriedly. “The police did all the work.”

“But it was you that found my girl!”

“Never mind. Put your money away. Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Agatha went over to the coffee machine in the corner. “What does your husband think of all this?” she asked.

“He ran away after Kylie was born.”

“Oh, dear. Milk and sugar?”

“Just black.”

Agatha handed her a mug of coffee. “It's so good of you,” said Mrs. Alexander. “You must be working overtime on those murders in our village. Mind you, the way Bert Simple went on, it's no surprise he was murdered.”

“In what way?”

“He beat his poor wife.”

“What! The saintly Gwen. Why did no one tell me about this?”

“I think everyone felt it was bad to speak ill of the dead. But Gwen'll be all right now. She can marry Mr. Hale and Walt can go to the uni like he always wanted to.”

“Did Bert stop him going?”

“That he did. He wanted Walt and his missus to go on slaving in that bakery. They're selling it now.”

*   *   *

After she had left, Agatha sat down at her computer and began to go through all her notes on the Winter Parva murders. A motive at last! And surely a strong one.

The fact that this seemed to be the one case she had never solved began to infuriate her. Without stopping to consider that she might be putting herself in danger, she set off for Winter Parva.

 

Chapter Nine

The sun was setting as Agatha drove into Winter Parva and parked in front of the bakery. The air at the end of the street had the soft bluish tinge of an early-spring evening. Blackbirds were singing from the rooftops.

The bakery was closed but Agatha could see there were still lights on in the shop. She knocked at the door.

It was opened by Walt Simple. He was a handsome boy, thought Agatha, who had never looked at him closely before. He had thick fair hair and a square face and firm mouth.

“I thought you were selling the bakery,” said Agatha. “I don't see any sign.”

“Private deal,” he said. “Henley's Wines are buying it.”

“So the villagers are losing their only bakery?”

“Screw the villagers,” he said rudely. “What do you want?”

“I wanted a quick word with you and your mother,” said Agatha.

He eyed her narrowly and then jerked his head in the direction of the back shop. Agatha walked past him and he slammed the door behind her.

He then moved in front of her and raised the flap on the counter so that she could pass through. Agatha suddenly began to wish she had not come and had communicated her suspicions to Bill Wong instead.

Gwen was seated in her little parlour watching an Australian soap on television. When she saw Agatha, she reluctantly switched it off and asked, “What do you want?”

“I came to congratulate you on your forthcoming marriage,” said Agatha weakly.

Gwen looked her up and down slowly. “And?”

“And,” said Agatha, “something's come up.”

“Sit down.”

Agatha sat down at the table. Gwen sat facing her. Walt sat beside his mother and took her hand.

“I have just received news that your late husband beat you and was preventing your son from going to university,” said Agatha, deciding to plunge in.

“Who on earth told you that load of lies?” demanded Walt.

“Just a contact.”

“My husband was a good man,” said Gwen. “Who are you to sully his memory? Walt, get her out of here.”

Walt stood up. He walked round the table and jerked Agatha roughly to her feet and frog-marched her out of the shop.

As the bakery door slammed behind her, Agatha stood irresolute. Surely other people in the village must know if what Mrs. Alexander had told her was true.

Then she remembered the village gossip, Marie Tench, who lived in a flat above the newspaper shop.

To her relief, Marie Tench was at home and peered at her curiously over the massive barrier of her hitched-up bosoms.

Agatha refused an offer of tea or coffee and said, “I have just learned that Bert Simple was a wife beater. Know anything about that?”

“How much?”

“How much what?” demanded Agatha.

“I want a hundred pounds.”

“Fifty,” said Agatha.

“Oh, all right. Fork it out.”

Agatha took a ten and two twenties out of her wallet and passed them over. “I hope what you've got to tell me is worth it,” she said, “or I'll take that money back.”

Marie stuffed the money down into her capacious brassiere. “Well, it's like this. About a month before Bert got killed, I was in the shop. I was the only customer. Walt wasn't behind the counter but there was one hell of a row going on in the back shop. Gwen was sobbing and Walt was shouting, ‘Leave my mother alone.' Then there was a crash and I could hear Gwen crying. There was a long silence and I wondered whether to leave but they do cream meringues and I wanted some so I called, ‘Shop!' Nothing happened and I was about to turn away, when Walt came out. He had a cut lip.

“I asked what was going on and he said they had found a rat in the back shop and had been chasing it to kill it.”

“Were the police ever called to the bakery?” asked Agatha.

“Not that I heard.”

“Why didn't you talk about this before?”

“Because it couldn't have anything to do with the murder. Gwen and her son were in the theatre that night.”

“But the trap was probably rigged before the performance,” said Agatha. “Didn't anyone think of that?”

“Well, the police were asking everyone for alibis. If there had been anything fishy about Gwen and Walt's alibis, they'd have taken them in. It wasn't any of the villagers' place to tell the police anything. Gwen's happy now and we need the bakery.”

“You won't have it for much longer,” said Agatha. “It's been sold to a wine company.”

“They can't do that!”

“They have.”

“Where am I supposed to go for my cakes now?” wailed Marie. “The supermarkets sell doughy rubbish.”

“When is Gwen's wedding?”

“Next week, on Wednesday at two in the afternoon.”

*   *   *

When Agatha left she was torn between a desire to tell Bill Wong what she had found out and a longing to close the case herself. But she realised that Bill could not really do anything. Gwen and her son must have good alibis. Wilkes was sure he had the murderer. All at once, she missed the support of Charles. But Charles was to be married as well.

She decided to wait and attend the wedding, where she could study Walt and Gwen closely.

*   *   *

Caroline Featherington, Charles's fiancée, was having dinner that evening with Jessica Barnard, an old school friend. After they had reminisced about their school days, Jessica cast a jealous look at the sparkling engagement ring on Caroline's finger.

“I hope your Charles has given up seeing that detective woman,” she said.

“What detective woman?”

“That female, Agatha Raisin. Runs a detective agency in Mircester.”

“And what on earth has that to do with Charles?”

“Do you remember Buffy Norton?”

“Vaguely,” said Caroline.

“Well, Buffy was in St. Tropez last year and your Charles and this Raisin woman were all lovey-dovey on holiday together.”

“He must be mistaken,” said Caroline in a firm voice. “Let's talk about something else.”

*   *   *

After dinner, Caroline drove straight to Charles's mansion. She found him in the library, with his feet up, reading a book.

“I want you to tell me and tell me
now,
what is your relationship with a woman called Agatha Raisin?”

“We're friends. Don't glare at me.”

“What were you doing holidaying with her in the south of France?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes that.”

“The old girl was pretty shattered after a nasty murder case. I took her on holiday.”

“She's old?”

“Sorry for her,” said Charles. “Too old for detective work. Come here and give me a kiss.”

*   *   *

But Caroline could not shake off her doubts. Her parents had only reluctantly agreed to the wedding, saying that Charles had a reputation for being mean and had once been heard to declare he would only marry for money.

She sat at her computer and looked up Agatha on the Internet. Agatha looked well dressed and attractive in a pugnacious sort of way.

Caroline began to worry. She was not in love with Charles but she was shortly about to reach her thirtieth birthday and she did want to get married. She could not imagine why no one had proposed to her before. She was a very tall girl with lank hair and a domineering manner. But she had an amazing ego and when she looked in her mirror, all she saw was a graceful and attractive woman.