A Spoonful of Poison (18 page)

“If she’s promised to invest money and you make her pull back, then dear George is really going to feel murderous. I’ll come with you.”

S
HE MAY HAVE PULLED OUT ALREADY
,” said Agatha as she parked in front of Maggie’s cottage. “I told Phyllis George had already been romancing me, went and listened outside their back garden and learned that George had previously tried his scam on with Phyllis and that’s when she told him Maggie had the money.”

“Let’s see the reaction anyway,” said Charles. “She’s probably still in love with him.”

“Why?”

“Obsession dies hard, doesn’t it, Aggie? Heard from James?”

“Do shut up and ring the bell.”

Maggie herself answered the door. “What is it now?” she demanded.

“May we come in?” asked Agatha.

“No.”

“Well, I may as well shout it on the doorstep. It’s about George.”

Maggie hesitated. Then she said reluctantly, “Come in, but just for a moment.”

They followed her through to her shed in the garden. “I was working,” said Maggie. She turned and faced them outside the shed door. “What is it?”

“I’ve found out that George Selby is engaged to a certain masseuse called Gilda Brenson. She won’t marry him unless he buys her a clinic in Oxford, so he’s been trying to get money out of us to fund it.”

Maggie put out a hand and leaned on the shed door. Her normally rosy cheeks had turned pale.

“It can’t be true.”

“I’m afraid it is. Did you give him any money?”

“Two hundred thousand,” said Maggie in a hoarse whisper. “He promised to marry me. I’ll kill him.”

“Don’t do that,” said Charles. “There’s been enough killing already.”

“Why don’t you tell the vicar about it?” suggested Agatha. “It may be that George has tried to get his hands on some of the money from the fête.”

“Just leave,” said Maggie. “Leave now.”

Toni received a text from Harry. “In Turkey. Back in week. Want to see u.”

Steeling herself, Toni texted back, “Don’t want see u. Got boyfriend.”

And I hope that’s that, she thought.

Her doorbell rang. At least it can’t be Harry, thought Toni, going to answer it. It was her friend Sharon.

“Feel like going to see the Living Legends?” she asked.

“I thought you were going with Simon.” Simon was Sharon’s boyfriend.

“He’s dumped me, that’s what.”

“Never!”

“Yeah. Got me to get tickets and then told me he was going with Cheryl, her with the big boobs and the nose ring.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Toni, thinking that a pop concert might be a good antidote to the feelings of inadequacy engendered in her by Harry.

While Charles went back to Agatha’s cottage to look at the old photographs, Agatha went to her office to find a local reporter, Harriet Winry, waiting for her. Harriet was a thin, bespectacled girl with bad skin and lank hair. What she lacked in looks she made up for with enthusiasm for her job.

“Nothing to report,” said Agatha curtly. “Get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

“What about that business at Comfrey Magna?” asked Harriet.

“Still investigating. Now, go away … Wait a minute. I might have a little bit of news for you, nothing much.”

“What is it?”

“Handsome widower George Selby is engaged to gorgeous masseuse Gilda Brenson. Not much, but it’d make a nice item for the local gossip column. A photo of Gilda might be worth it. She is very glamorous. Works at Bartley’s Health Farm. She’ll be leaving shortly because George is going to set her up with her own salon. To this end, he’s been begging his wealthy female friends to invest in the salon.”

“Thanks, Agatha. Might make a nice little piece.”

Agatha grinned. “Just what I thought.”

Harriet left and Phil Marshall arrived carrying his camera bag. “I think I’ve got enough on that divorce case,” he said. “What now?”

“We’d better get over to Herry’s shoe factory. They say someone’s been pinching their designs and they want us to investigate.”

The managing director of the shoe company, Jimmy Binter, talked to them in the boardroom. “It’s the second time Comfort Shoes has stolen our designs. We do a line which specializes in wide fittings.”

“When did the first one happen?” asked Agatha

“Last spring. One of our models appeared in their spring catalogue, and now another of our latest models is featured in their autumn catalogue.”

“How many do you employ?”

“It’s a small company. Forty on the work force, two designers and four salesmen.”

“I need a list of their names.”

“I have it right here.”

Agatha studied the list and then said, “Mark off the names who started work before, say, last November.”

“I’ll call our personnel manager, Mrs. Goody. She’ll help you.”

“Where is the catalogue printed?”

“At Jones Printers in Mircester. But whoever stole the designs for the shoes wouldn’t work at the printer’s. The shoe featured in the spring catalogue was copied exactly. Someone would need the original design.”

Mrs. Goody arrived and ticked off the names and addresses of the employees who had started work last autumn.

Agatha busily took notes and then stood up. “I’ll get back to you. Give me a spring and an autumn catalogue.”

Outside the factory, Phil said, “What do you plan to do?”

“There’s a new designer, Carry Wilks, taken on last year. She’s our best bet. Let’s check where she lives. If she lives with her parents, it’ll slow things up. But if I remember rightly, it’s block of flats, one of those tower blocks out on the Evesham road.”

Agatha drove steadily, smoking and blowing smoke around the car. Phil coughed crossly and opened a window.

“Here we are,” said Agatha. “She lives in number thirty-four. I hope it isn’t too high up because often the lifts in these places are broken.”

The lift was, indeed, broken. Agatha felt her hip getting worse as she mounted the smelly stone staircase. Phil seemed to take the stairs as easily as a teenager.

“Here we are, thirty-four.” Agatha rang the bell. A child wailed from a nearby apartment and a rising wind moaned around the building.

“No reply. Let’s see if we can get in.” Agatha took out a credit card.

“You can’t!” protested Phil. “That’s breaking and entering.”

“It’s just a Yale lock,” said Agatha, ignoring him. “Good heavens! It works. I thought maybe that only worked in the movies. Come in and shut the door behind you.”

The flat appeared to consist of a small living room, bedroom, tiny kitchen and a shower. Agatha went over to a desk by the window and began to search after putting on a pair of latex gloves.

“Nothing here,” she said while Phil waited nervously. “I could try this computer.”

“Probably protected by a password,” said Phil.

“May not be.” Agatha switched it on. “Let me see. E-mail. No, I can get right into it. Bingo. Silly cow. Here it is. ‘I’ll be bringing over the designs and expect the usual fee,’ sent to Comfort Shoes.”

“But we can’t do anything with this evidence,” protested Phil. “We can’t say how we got it.”

“Never mind. Back to the factory, and watch me!”

The managing director summoned Carry Wilks. A tall, mannish-looking woman came into the boardroom.

Agatha got straight to the point. “You’ve been selling designs to Comfort Shoes. There’s been a leak at their factory. You corresponded with them via e-mail.”

“What have you got to say for yourself?” demanded the managing director.

“Just this,” said Carry. “Screw the lot of you.” She marched out of the boardroom.

The managing director called for security to stop Carry from leaving the building. “I got the information by breaking into her flat,” said Agatha, “so call the police and get them to search her place and don’t say anything about me. Get her charged first. Say you got a tip-off from an anonymous caller at Comfort Shoes.”

As Agatha drove off, a police car sped past, heading for the factory. “I’m glad there weren’t any children,” said Agatha. “I mean, if she had been a single mother with kids to support, I might have felt bad about turning her in.”

When Agatha got back to her cottage that evening, she found Charles had left her a note. “Got to go home.
Have taken the photos with me. May be back tonight. Love, Charles.”

Agatha sat down at the kitchen table after having let her cats out into the garden. She was just about to go through the morning’s mail, which she had not had time to open, when the phone rang. It was Roy Silver. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Sure. Why?”

There was a silence and Roy said, “I think I should come down for the weekend.”

“You’re welcome. Any particular reason?”

“We’re friends.”

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at Moreton Station, usual time, around six-thirty in the evening.”

“See you then.”

What’s up with him? Agatha wondered.

Ever since the advent of e-mail, one hardly ever got anything interesting in the post, apart from bills and junk mail. Agatha put the junk mail on one side to be thrown away and the bills on the other side. There was an interesting-looking square envelope of expensive paper. Agatha saved it for last and then slit it open and drew out a heavily embossed invitation.

At first she could hardly believe what she was reading. She rose stiffly from the kitchen table, went through to the living room and poured herself a gin and tonic. Returning to the kitchen table, she lit a cigarette, took a
good strong pull of her drink and studied the invitation again. It said:

Agatha felt her heart thumping against her ribs. When had all this happened? He had written to her a month ago and said nothing about it.

She heard her front door opening and Charles calling, “Anybody home?”

“In the kitchen,” said Agatha, thrusting the invitation under the pile of junk mail.

Charles came in carrying the boxes of photographs. “You have a look. I can’t find anything. Yes, I got an invitation as well and from the lost look in your eyes, so did you.”

“Bastard!” said Agatha. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Why should he? All was over between the two of you. Stop being bitch in the manger and look forward to the evening. It’ll be interesting to see who won that confirmed bachelor’s heart.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” said Agatha stiffly.

“Oh, but I do. You don’t want him, but you don’t want anyone else to have him.”

“He should have told me!” howled Agatha.

“So you keep saying. Drop it. Life goes on.”

“I won’t go.”

“Of course you will.”

“He’s invited the whole bloody agency.”

“And you were thinking of not telling anybody?”

Agatha scowled. “Something like that.”

“You’ll just have to be a big girl and go. Wish him well. Be a lady.”

“Oh, all right. That must be why Roy is coming down this weekend. He must have had an invitation as well. Probably thinks my hand needs holding.”

“That’s what friends are for. Are you any further forward with finding out who put acid in the jam?”

“Not a clue. But I’m beginning to wonder a lot about George Selby.”

“You’ve spiked his guns. He’ll probably move to another village and start all over again. Now, I’d better be going. I just came back to give you the photographs.”

“Can’t you stay for a meal?”

“One of your frozen curries? No, thanks. Probably be around later in the week.”

The following day Agatha worked hard, because there was a backlog of unsolved cases. By the time she finished up, it was seven o’clock. She bought a copy of the Mircester newspaper before driving home. Once she had fussed over her cats and settled down at the kitchen table, she opened the newspaper and scanned the items. On page seven, there was a photo of Gilda posed outside the health farm, looking very glamorous. The headline was, “Architect Needs Money Before He Can Wed.” The story said that local architect George Selby was pleading with rich friends to put money into his glamorous fiancee’s venture of opening up her own clinic; otherwise she would not marry him. “‘I think he will get the necessary money,’ said beautiful Gilda Brenson yesterday. ‘He knows I must have my own business before I marry. Careers last, men don’t.’” The story went on to say that Mr. Selby lived in Comfrey Magna, scene of that disastrous fête where two women met their death after sampling jam heavily laced with LSD. It ended by saying that Mr. George Selby was unavailable for comment.

“I bet he is,” muttered Agatha.

There was a ring at the doorbell. Agatha got wearily to her feet and clutched her hip. She didn’t want a hip
replacement. Not yet, surely. So ageing. She opened the door.

A furious George Selby thrust her into the hall. “You horrible old bat!” he yelled. “You got that story in the local rag.” He had Agatha by the shoulders and was shaking her.

“Are you going to k-kill m-me the w-way you k-killed your w-wife?” shouted Agatha.

He drew back his fist and punched her hard on the face. “I could kill you.”

Mrs. Bloxby, finding the door opened, had just walked in, clutching a jar of home-made chutney. She rushed forward and brought the jar down on George’s head and he slumped to the floor.

“Mrs. Raisin! Are you all right?”

“Thanks to you.”

Mrs. Bloxby knelt down by George. “Call an ambulance.”

“I’m calling the police as well,” said Agatha.

After what seemed an interminable wait, George was borne off in an ambulance. Two policemen had arrived and were taking notes. One turned to Mrs. Bloxby. “You are to come to the station with us and we caution you that anything—”