A Spoonful of Poison (23 page)
Read A Spoonful of Poison Online
Authors: M. C. Beaton
“That would be nice,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“I’ll get it, darling,” said Phyllis.
“Oh, you are good.” Arthur blew her a kiss.
Agatha decided that Arthur did not need any consoling words, so instead she asked, “I often wondered how you met Trixie.”
“It was just after my second wife died,” said the vicar.
Mrs. Bloxby looked at him nervously. “What did your wives die of?”
Arthur roared with laughter. “Frightened I bumped them off? No, Jane, the first had cancer and Cressida, the second, had a stroke, poor thing. I was holidaying in Brighton and I met Trixie by chance in the hotel lounge. She told me she was just divorced and began to cry. One thing led to another and we got married. Oh, tea. Splendid, splendid.”
“I’ll be through in the bedroom,” said Phyllis, putting down the tray. “I’ll go on packing up the clothes.”
“Good girl. What would I do without you?”
While they drank their tea, Mrs. Bloxby gently turned the conversation to general parish matters until they got up to leave.
“What did you think of that?” asked Agatha eagerly as they drove off.
“I think that Mr. Chance is a very
lustful
man.”
“A what?”
“Yes, one cannot always go by appearances.”
After Agatha had dropped Mrs. Bloxby off at the vicarage and had gone to her cottage, she found she was plagued with uneasiness.
She began to dread the thought of announcing to the others that Toni was going to start her own agency. They would think she was a jealous, petty woman.
“I think I am,” said Agatha gloomily to her cats. She phoned Toni. “Perhaps this new agency business is not such a good idea,” said Agatha. “Perhaps you should work for me for a few more years and—”
“But it’s a brilliant idea,” cried Toni. “We’ll be ready to start in several weeks.”
“What about Harry? Are you sure he doesn’t have an ulterior motive?”
“Oh, no. He’s as excited as I am. I don’t know how to thank you. If it’s as successful as I hope it will be, I can pay you back all the money you spent on me.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Agatha. “Good luck.”
She rang off and glared balefully at her cats. “Just thank your stars I’m not a cat-kicking person.”
There was a ring at the doorbell. Agatha rushed to answer it and found Bill Wong on the doorstep.
“Come in,” she cried. “I’ve got some coffee ready.”
“I had a phone call from Toni,” said Bill and Agatha’s heart sank. “She told me all about this new-agency idea, said it was your idea. Why did you want to get rid of your best detective?”
“I felt I was holding her back,” Agatha lied.
“You felt she was stealing your thunder,” said Bill.
“That’s not the reason!”
“Let’s talk about something else. Zak is out on bail.”
“So I heard.”
“Well, he promised to testify against Trixie and bail was part of the deal. Then she confessed, but it was too late to reverse it. Don’t worry. He’s in deep enough trouble without coming after you. Anything else happening?”
Agatha told him about Arthur Chance. “He’ll probably marry Phyllis,” she said.
“He’s old, he’s wrinkled, he’s got grey hair and thick glasses. Why do people like that get all the luck when you and I are stuck with singlehood, Agatha?”
“Think about it, Bill. Would you have married Trixie or given Phyllis a second look?”
He grinned. “Not really. Doing anything today?”
“No.”
“Feel like a trip to Bramley Park?”
“What! The place with the swings and roundabouts and the roller coaster?”
“That’s the place. Come on. I’ve never been on a roller coaster.”
Agatha enjoyed herself immensely and screamed for the whole length of the roller coaster ride.
She drove home in the evening feeling tired and happy.
Agatha checked her answering service. There was one message from Cherry Upfield. She said, “I’ve got some more information on Trixie if you need it. I’ll be home all evening.”
Agatha phoned her to say that she would call on her in the morning but got no reply. She then called Toni. Sharon answered the phone. “She’s not here,” she said. “We were out all day and then she got a phone call from some woman saying she had more information on Trixie, so she’s just shot off.”
Why both of us? wondered Agatha, slowly replacing the phone. Agatha then phoned Bill on his mobile, praying he would answer. Mrs. Wong disapproved of his using his mobile in the house and he usually had it switched off. To her relief he answered and she quickly told him about the message. “I don’t like it,” said Agatha. “I think it might have something to do with Zak.”
“Then stay there,” ordered Bill. “I’ll get some men and go over.”
But Agatha couldn’t rest. She felt sure Toni was in danger. She rushed to her car and set off, driving at furious speed towards Cheltenham.
She parked at the end of the close and cautiously made her way on foot. She walked past Cherry’s house. The lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. Agatha walked to the other end of the close and found a lane leading round to the back.
She looked back and counted the number of houses and then entered the lane, counting her way along until she was sure she was at the back of Cherry’s house.
She tried the garden gate and found it was open. She took a small pencil torch out of her handbag and made her way cautiously up to the back of the house.
I wish I had a gun, she thought. Where are the police?
She tried the handle of the kitchen door. It wasn’t locked. She eased her way in, flicking her torch this way and that, looking for a weapon.
The beam of the torch fell on an overflowing litterbin. Agatha looked around the shelves and took down a bottle of cooking oil and poured it over the contents of the bin. Then she took out her lighter and lit the top of the rubbish.
With the bottle of oil in her hand, she stood behind the kitchen door. The rubbish went up with a roar. “Hurry up,” muttered Agatha. “I’m going to be fried to a crisp.”
She eased the kitchen door open so that the flames could be seen from the living room. She heard a curse and Zak erupted into the kitchen. He opened the back
door and kicked the flaming bin of rubbish into the garden. He stood with his hands on his hips and was about to turn around when Agatha struck him on the head with the bottle of oil. He sank to his knees, but he was not unconscious. Terrified, Agatha began to throw everything she could get off the shelves straight at him just as she heard the police come bursting into the house.
“In here!” screamed Agatha, hurling a container of drinking chocolate at Zak, followed by half a dozen eggs.
The police, headed by Bill, charged into the kitchen. Zak was handcuffed and dragged upright, egg and cocoa and other foodstuffs dripping off him.
“Toni!” cried Agatha, pushing her way into the living room.
A policeman was releasing Toni and Cherry, who had been tied to two upright chairs and gagged.
Toni got shakily to her feet. Agatha hugged her and said, “Oh, I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
Toni gave her a watery smile and said, “I didn’t know you cared,” and burst into tears.
It was to be a long night. Agatha was strongly reprimanded for not staying out of it. Toni protested, saying Zak had threatened that as soon as Agatha arrived he was going to break both their legs and flee the country. She said that she was sure when he heard the police
arriving, he would have broken
her
legs and fled out the back way. Cherry said she had been forced at knifepoint into making the phone calls before she, too, had been tied up.
The press had got wind of a story and were waiting outside the police station. Toni, although warned by Collins not to say a word, made a statement saying her life had been saved by the best detective in the world, Agatha Raisin, but that she could not say any more until the trial.
Well, that’s that, thought Agatha as she wearily drove home. Life goes on. All the loose ends tied up except for the death of George’s wife. I’ll probably never know now.
Fred and George Selby were celebrating their honeymoon in a picturesque hotel high on the cliffs near the Cornish village of Tryvithek. George had gone down to the bar for a drink, where Fred was to join him when she was ready.
She was just collecting her handbag when she noticed George had left his mobile phone. Curiosity overcame her. She wondered if he had any text messages. She clicked them on. She stared down at the first one in horror. It read, “Will you really have the money soon, my darling? Can’t wait. Love, Gilda.”
Fred sank slowly down onto the bed. Her knees were
trembling. She remembered the article about Gilda. She remembered all the awful rumours about the death of George’s last wife. She thought about the wills they had made out and how they had insured each other’s lives. She began to burn up with a furious rage.
“Hullo, darling,” said George as Fred walked into the bar. “You look a bit pale. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Ready for our walk?”
“Don’t you go near the cliffs tonight,” warned the barman. “It’s blowing up something rough and it’s all dark out there.”
“We’ll be fine,” said George, taking Fred’s arm. “We’ll probably walk down to the village.”
If he goes to the village, thought Fred, I might begin to think I imagined that message. He
must
love me!
But George said, “Look there’s a moon. And I do like to walk the cliffs and see the giant waves pounding at the foot of them.”
“Let go of my arm,” said Fred. “I want to swing my arms as I walk. It’s a bit cold. Let’s go back in.”
“Just a bit further,” said George. He walked to the cliff’s edge, his thick fair hair blowing in the wind. “Come and look at this. The waves are enormous.”
Fred felt a numb, blank misery. Like a sleepwalker she advanced on her husband, who was peering over the edge. With all her strength, she gave him one almighty push. The tussocky grass under his feet was slippery with recent rain. He skidded right over the edge, his cry
of despair being lost in the roar of the waves and the screech of the wind as he plunged downwards.
Fred sat down on the wet grass behind a large outcrop of rock and opened her handbag. She took out a packet of skunk, and sheltering it from the wind by opening her coat, she rolled a joint and lit it. She breathed the smoke deep into her lungs.
She smoked on until the whole episode began to seem like a bad dream. Poor silly George, she thought. Gone forever. I’ll give him a nice funeral if they ever find the body.
She peered round the rock and let out a scream. A head and shoulders were appearing above the cliff. George had fallen onto a ledge below. He was bruised, battered, frightened and furious.
Fred ran forward and began to kick at his face. He grabbed one of her ankles. She stamped down ferociously on his other hand. He lost his grip and plunged backwards, taking her with him. Still struggling and cursing, they spiralled down and disappeared beneath the boiling sea.
A day later, Agatha answered her door early in the morning to find Mrs. Bloxby on her doorstep. “Have you seen the news this morning?” cried Mrs. Bloxby.
“No, I’m just up. Come in and tell me about it.”
“It’s about Mr. Selby,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“Gorgeous George. What about him?”
“He’s dead!”
“How?”
“A local at that place in Cornwall where they were on honeymoon was walking his dog along the cliffs when he heard cries and shone his torch. He saw a man hanging onto the cliff edge for dear life while a woman was stamping on his fingers. He said the man had the woman by the ankle. He ran forward, but they both plunged into the sea. The coastguard are out looking for the bodies. The witness said it looked as if the man had already been over the cliff and was trying to get back up. What do you think of that?”
Agatha sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. “It looks as if Fred got wised up to him some way. It really looks now as if George might have wound up poor Sybilla to kill his wife. Maybe Fred knew about it and tried to get him first. I never liked that girl, but now I’m heartily sorry for her, and I hope somewhere up in heaven the first Mrs. Selby is having a good laugh.”
“That’s sacrilegious, Mrs. Raisin.”
“That’s human, Mrs. Bloxby.”
A
GATHA RAISIN SAT HUNCHED
up in a first-class railway carriage as the London-to-Mircester train ploughed on through the fog. Why couldn’t this be the night when the trains were cancelled? she thought. I don’t want to go.
She was heading for James’s engagement party after a rigorous makeover in London. Her hair extensions fell to her shoulders in soft waves. Her face was cleverly made up by an expensive beautician. She had been dieting ferociously and the highly expensive midnight-blue silk dress she had spent a fortune on was extremely flattering.
The train, which was often late, perversely drew into the Gothic splendour of Mircester Station exactly two minutes early.
Agatha longed to forget about the whole thing and go home, go to bed and cuddle up to her cats. But everyone would feel sorry for her and she couldn’t bear that. Toni had said their new premises would be opening
with a party in a week’s time. Agatha didn’t want to go to that either.
Agatha took a cab to the George, changing on the short journey out of a pair of flat shoes into a pair of high-heeled sandals.
“Here we go,” she muttered. “Rehearsal’s over. Onstage at last.”
A couple leaving the George gave her a nervous look.
She glanced at the noticeboard in the foyer. “Engagement Party—Betjeman Suite.”
The Betjeman Suite was so called because the famous poet and lover of Victoriana would have adored it. From its faux medieval ceiling to the enormous marble fireplace at one end, it had not been changed since the hotel was built in 1875.
Agatha left her red cashmere cloak in the cloakroom outside the suite, took a deep breath and made her entrance. She was surrounded by familiar faces and cries of “Agatha, you look fabulous!”
Nervously her eyes scanned the room. Charles came to join her. “Where’s James?” asked Agatha.
“He’ll be here shortly. They got held up by the fog. Have a drink.” Charles grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and handed it to her.
Agatha looked round. Toni was wearing a skimpy black dress with thin shoulder straps. Her fair hair was piled up on her head and shone under the lights from the huge crystal chandelier above her. I’ve lost a good
detective, thought Agatha bitterly. I’ve always prided myself on being a good businesswoman and not letting personal feelings get in the way. What went wrong? And so ran Agatha’s troubled thoughts, unaware that her whole life had been propelled by emotion.
A cheer went up and Agatha slowly turned round. James stood beaming in the doorway, Felicity Bross-Tilkington on his arm.
Agatha felt any confidence she had left seeping out through the soles of her shoes. Felicity was exquisite. She had wide-spaced grey eyes in a tanned face. Her thick brown hair cascaded down on her shoulders in an artful arrangement of waves and curls. Straight hair, as Agatha knew, had just been damned as passe. Her figure was slim and showed no signs of rigorous dieting. She was wearing a low-cut gold evening top which showed off the smooth perfection of her genuine tan and the stunning necklace of old gold and rubies around her neck.
James looked as proud as Punch as he gazed down at his fiancee. He never once looked at me like that, thought Agatha, but let’s face it, I never once looked like that. James led Felicity straight up to Agatha and introduced her. “I am so pleased to meet you,” said Felicity. “Goodness, after all James told me about you, I expected to meet someone quite ferocious.”
“Here, have another glass of champagne,” said Charles at Agatha’s side. James introduced him to Felicity. “Come
and talk to me, Felicity,” said Charles. “I think we know some of the same people.”
James smiled at Agatha. “You look great. Long hair suits you. So what do you think of Felicity?”
“She is certainly very beautiful,” said Agatha. “Where did you meet?”
“In Paris, at my friend Sylvan’s party. Is he here?” He looked around the room. “He’s probably held up by the fog. So I have your blessing?” asked James, studying Agatha intently.
“Yes, James.”
“You don’t think I’m too old for her? She’s only thirty-two.”
“Doesn’t matter for a man. Has she been married before?”
“No.”
That’s odd, thought Agatha. How does anyone that beautiful get to thirty-two without being married?
Others began to cluster round. Agatha saw Mrs. Bloxby and went over to her. “How do you feel, Mrs. Raisin?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha looked at her friend in dawning relief. “Do you know, I feel just fine. I really do. Now that I’m here and I’ve met her, it’s all rather pleasant. James seems like a different person to me now. For the first time in my life, I’m over men.”
They were joined by Bill Wong and the staff of the agency and they all began to talk shop.
Mrs. Bloxby joined her husband, who was standing moodily in a corner of the room.
“Can we go now?” he asked.
“Now, really, Alf. We can hardly go now. The party’s just begun.”
Agatha was aware of James standing beside her and turned round. “Do you
really
wish me well?” he asked.
“Of course. Were you hoping I would be jealous?”
“Something like that.”
“But you are in love?”
“Oh, yes. She listens to everything I say and takes an interest in my work, particularly military history. Instead of the travel books, I might suggest doing a series of guides to famous battlefields.”
“I always listened to you,” said Agatha defiantly.
“I remember one occasion talking to you about the Crimean War and your eyes glazed over.”
“I listened to every word!”
“When was it?”
“Can’t remember. I never was good at dates. Was that the one with the longbows?”
“That was Agincourt. See? You haven’t a clue.”
“James, darling. You’re neglecting your other guests.” Felicity took his arm.
“So I am. Talk to you later, Agatha.”
“Wait a bit. When are you getting married?”
“Next April,” said James. “Coming to see me off, Agatha?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Where is it to be held?”
“In Downboys in Sussex at the local church.”
“I’ll be there.”
Agatha watched them uneasily as they moved about the room. Why did he hope I would be jealous? wondered Agatha. If I were really in love with someone, for example, it wouldn’t even cross my mind to make James jealous.
Roy Silver arrived. He was wearing a dark blue silk shirt and dark blue trousers.
“You look as if you’re ready for bed,” commented Agatha.
“It shows what you know. This is the latest thing. You’ve become very provincial, Aggie. Though I must say, you’ve never looked better. Hair extensions?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you didn’t get them done cheap. A friend of mine went to a Mr. Bert and he said bits started to fall off in no time at all.”
Agatha, who had gone to Mr. Bert, decided to change the subject.
“That’s the fiancee over there.”
“She’s very beautiful. Except for the mouth.”
“What’s up with her mouth?”
“Too thin and something reptilian about it. Now who is that who’s just arrived?”
Agatha looked across to the doorway. Sylvan had arrived. He could not possibly be anything other than
French. He had a beaky nose, a thatch of fair hair streaked with grey, hooded eyes, a mobile mouth and expressive long thin fingers. As James rushed to meet him, Agatha noticed that all Sylvan’s expressive gestures were Gallic. He had a tall slim figure with broad shoulders and tiny hips.
A little glow started in Agatha’s stomach. A minute before she saw Sylvan, she was aware of her feet beginning to hurt. Now she did not notice the discomfort. Everyone else at the party seemed to fade. In her dazzled mind, Sylvan seemed to be illuminated by a spotlight.
James led Sylvan forward. “Agatha, may I introduce Sylvan Dubois? Sylvan, Agatha Raisin.”
“Aha. Your first wife.” Sylvan took Agatha’s hand. “How on earth did he let you get away?”
Agatha smiled. “James is about to have a very beautiful young second wife.”
“Pah! Me, I find the mature woman infinitely attractive.”
His grey eyes were flirtatious as he looked down at her.
“Do you live in Paris?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And what do you do for a living?”
“Nothing much. My father had a factory for manufacturing bottles. He left it to me when he died. I have an excellent manager, so I have quite a lot of free time.”
His English was excellent but spoken with an
attractive French accent. “So what do you do with your free time?”
“Let me see. I get up in the morning, have breakfast, wash and dress and go out to meet friends at the local brasserie. We put the world to rights. Then I have a late lunch and go back to my apartment, where I read and then get changed again and go to the theatre or a cinema.”
“And what about Mrs. Dubois?”
“Alas, there isn’t one.”
“Was there one?”
“A long time ago.”
“And what happened?”
He looked amused. “So many questions. But you are a detective, so I suppose it comes naturally to you. Now I have—how do you say—a predicament. A bit of your hair has just floated into my glass of champagne. Do I mention it?”
“You just have,” said Agatha, turning fiery red.
He eased it out with one long finger and dropped it on the floor. “You should have got your extensions done in Paris. Don’t look so upset. The effect is still dazzling. Do you think James will want to marry you again?”
That distracted Agatha from worrying about her hair. “Why?” she asked in amazement.
“My friend James is an intelligent man and little Felicity is oh, so boring. At the moment, he can only see her appearance. He needs someone like you.”
Agatha wanted to say, “And
I
need someone like
you,”
but said instead, “Are you here for long?”
“I am driving back to Paris tonight. I only came for this. I shall see you at the wedding.”
James and Felicity joined them. “Come and meet some of the others, Sylvan,” said Felicity, hooking her arm in his and leading him away.
“Do be careful, Agatha,” whispered James.
“What about?”
“Sylvan has the reputation of being a ladykiller.”
“Then he can kill me anytime,” said Agatha.
“Now you’re being silly.”
“Don’t call me silly. You always used to run me down.”
“No, I did not. You love playing the victim, Agatha.”
“I am not a victim,” howled Agatha.
There was a sudden silence in the room. Then everyone started chattering loudly again.
Agatha stomped off to join the comforting presence of her friend, Mrs. Bloxby. “Where’s your husband?” asked Agatha.
“He had a headache and left,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “What upset James?”
“He was warning me against Sylvan.”
“But he need not worry. You’re over bothering about men, aren’t you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby anxiously.
“Oh, sure,” said Agatha.
Agatha looked across the room and her eyes fastened
on Sylvan talking to a radiant Toni. Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me,” she said.
Mrs. Bloxby watched as her friend deftly cut out Toni and led Sylvan away, watched as she laughed and talked and tossed her hair, unaware of the fact that bits of her extensions were floating off. She gave a sigh.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bill Wong.
“It’s Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “She’s off again!”
Sylvan announced after half an hour that he had to leave. “I’ll see you at the wedding, Agatha,” he said.
“Perhaps I’ll be in Paris before then,” said Agatha hopefully. But Sylvan merely smiled and leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. As soon as he had gone, Agatha realized her feet were killing her and her head was itching.
“You know,” said Roy, appearing behind her, “a lot of your hair has fallen out.”
Agatha took out a compact and peered in the mirror. “I’ll sue that bastard,” she raged.
“How did you get on with that attractive Frenchman?”
“All right,” said Agatha, feeling like a fool. What must he have thought of her as she stood there, monopolizing him and losing hair right, left, and centre? Would she only be a joke to tell his friends about?
“Can you put me up for the night?” asked Roy.
“Yes, I’m taking a cab home. I’ve left my car in the
square, but I don’t want to drive after all this champagne. Could we leave now?”
“I think you should circulate for a bit. You haven’t spoken to any of your staff.”
Agatha decided she had better do her social duty. She talked to Mrs. Freedman, Patrick and Phil. She moved on to Toni and Harry and asked them how they were getting on with the new agency and listened with only half an ear.
At last she decided enough was enough, collected Roy and said goodnight to James and Felicity.
At the cloakroom she collected her cloak and her bag with the flat shoes in it and slipped them on, groaning with relief.
Charles joined them. “I’m coming with you.”
“If you’re coming home for the night, it’s the sofa for you,” said Agatha.
Back in her cottage, Agatha said she was too tired to sit up discussing the party and took herself off upstairs.
As she changed out of her clothes into a nightdress and wiped off her make-up, she worried and worried that she had bored Sylvan. Had she talked too much? He had asked her about her work and she remembered she had gone on about it for a long time. But at least she would see him again. The tentacles of obsession were coiling once more around Agatha’s brain.
At one point in the night, she woke up with an odd feeling of dread. She thought of Felicity and James and was overcome by a wave of fear. Something was wrong. Something was badly wrong. Then she shrugged the feeling away.
It was those shrimp canapes and champagne, thought Agatha, and then fell asleep again, dreaming of Sylvan.