Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet (13 page)

‘So all we got out of that unlovely pair,’ said James as they drove back to Carsely, ‘was much as we supposed. He was charming the ladies of Carsely . . .’

‘And screwing one,’ said Agatha with a grin.

‘I must confess I was very surprised to hear that about Freda,’ he said stiffly. ‘Do you think our Miss Mabbs could have been making it up?’

‘Not for a moment,’ said Agatha gleefully.

‘Oh, well, I suppose we should now concentrate on Miss Webster. Then there’s Mrs Mason to see. Who was the other one you saw at the funeral?’

‘Harriet Parr.’

‘We’ll see them all tomorrow,’ said James. ‘But better not let Bill Wong know what we’re doing.’

‘And yet,’ said Agatha, ‘I can’t help feeling that the clue to the whole thing lies with his ex-wife. She must know more about him than anyone. And who was the woman who answered the phone that night I called and said she was his wife? I’ll bet that was our Mrs Skirt-up-to-Her-Eyeballs, Freda Huntingdon.’

‘Can we please drop the subject of Freda?’ he said. Agatha glanced sideways at him as they approached the orange lights of a roundabout. His face looked grim.

Damn Freda, thought Agatha bitterly, pressed her foot harder on the accelerator and sent the car racing homewards through the night.

‘Do you think there is a Mr Parr?’ asked James as he and Agatha strolled through the village the next day to renew their investigation.

‘I shouldn’t think so. There are an awful lot of widows about. Men don’t live that long.’

‘Probably only the married ones,’ said James.

He put his hands in his pockets and began to whistle something complicated – probably Bach or some old bore like that, thought Agatha.

Mrs Harriet Parr lived in a modern bungalow on the outskirts of the village. When they reached the gate, Agatha said suddenly, ‘This is a waste of time.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t remember meeting a Mrs Parr at the vicarage, and if she wasn’t there to overhear what Mrs Josephs said to me, how can she have anything to do with it?’

‘Perhaps Mrs Josephs was going about saying the same thing earlier.’

‘Oh, well, let’s get on with it.’

Mrs Parr answered the door herself. Agatha began by saying they hadn’t met, but she and Mr Lacey would like to ask her a few questions, and soon they found themselves in a comfortable living-room. Agatha counted six cats. There was something claustrophobic about seeing so many cats in one room. She felt obscurely that at least some of them ought to be outside.

Mrs Parr was a small woman with curly black hair and an oddly old-fashioned sort of hourglass figure. Agatha decided she was probably wearing a corset. She had hard red cheeks and a small pinched mouth which when she spoke revealed pointed teeth.

It was some time before Agatha could get down to questioning her because she and James had to be introduced to each cat in turn. Then Mrs Parr fussed over James, asking him if he were comfortable, plumping cushions at his back, before rushing off to fetch tea and ‘some of my special scones’.

‘No Mr Parr,’ whispered Agatha.

‘Might be out at work,’ said James.

Mrs Parr came back with a loaded tray. After tea had been poured and the lightness of scones admired, Agatha said, ‘Actually, we’re really interested in finding out about Paul Bladen.’

Mrs Parr’s cup rattled against the saucer. ‘Poor Paul,’ she said. She put cup and saucer down and dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. ‘So young and so brave.’

‘Brave?’

‘He was going to found a veterinary hospital. He had such dreams. He said he could only talk to me. I was the only one with enough imagination to share his vision.’

Then they heard the front door open. ‘My husband,’ whispered Mrs Parr. ‘Don’t . . .’

The door of the living-room opened and a tall thin middle-aged man with a grey face and a prominent Adam’s apple bobbing over a rigid shirt collar came in.

‘People from the village, dear,’ said Mrs Parr. ‘Mrs Raisin and Mr Lacey. They both live in Lilac Lane. They’ve just been admiring my scones.’

‘What brought you here?’ asked Mr Parr bluntly.

‘We’ve just started asking a few questions about Paul Bladen – you know, the vet that was found dead.’

‘Get out of here,’ hissed Mr Parr. He held the door wide open. ‘Out!’

‘We were only –’ said Agatha, but that was as far as she got.

‘Get out!’ he shouted at the top of his voice this time, his thin tired face working with rage. ‘Never come here again. Leave us alone.’

‘I am very sorry we upset you so much,’ said James politely as he and Agatha edged past the infuriated husband.

‘Fuck off, you upper-class twat,’ yelled Mr Parr and spat full in James’s face.

There was a horrified silence, punctuated only by the sound of Mrs Parr’s weeping. James slowly cleaned his face with a handkerchief. Mr Parr was now trembling and looking appalled at the enormity of his own behaviour.

James put his large hands on Mr Parr’s shoulders and shook him backwards and forwards.

He punctuated each shake by saying, ‘Don’t . . . ever . . . do . . . that . . . to . . . me . . . again.’

Then he abruptly released him and strode out, with Agatha at his heels.

‘We’re really stirring up mud, Agatha,’ he sighed. He looked back at the neat bungalow. ‘You know, sometimes when I was coming home on leave, I would look out at little houses like that from the train and imagine secure and cosy lives. What awful emotional dramas lurk behind the façades of all the houses called comfortable names like Mon Repos and Shangri-La, what breeding grounds for murder.’

‘Oh, it’s quite a lively place, the country,’ said Agatha cheerfully. ‘I feel we’re getting somewhere. Mrs Parr must have been having a fling with Bladen. Let’s try Josephine Webster.’

‘Perhaps before we get to her, we should call on Freda Huntingdon.’

‘What? That floozy? How can you bear to look at that slut without blushing?’ demanded Agatha.

He stopped and looked down at her, leaning back, hands in his pockets and rocking slightly on his heels. A faint gleam of malice shone in his eyes. ‘On the contrary, Agatha, I find the idea of a Freda Huntingdon with her skirt around her ears quite delectable.’

Agatha walked on. Well, they would call on Freda because Agatha was suddenly sure, had a sudden gut feeling that Freda was the murderer. She, Agatha Raisin, would prove it. Freda would be dragged off by the police. She would be sentenced to life imprisonment. She would be locked away from society and James would never set eyes on her again.

‘Why are you racing along?’ demanded James plaintively from somewhere behind her. ‘I thought you weren’t all that keen on seeing the woman.’

‘I’ve decided that after all I do want to visit dear Freda,’ snapped Agatha.

Droon’s Cottage, which Freda had bought, was at the back of the village on a rise. It was a Georgian cottage with a splendid wisteria hanging over the Regency doorway, its purple blooms just beginning to show.

‘The bell doesn’t work,’ said James and Agatha scowled horribly at this sign of his knowledge of the workings of Freda’s house.

The door was opened by Doris Simpson, who cleaned for Agatha.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Agatha, who felt that this excellent cleaning woman was her sole property, although Doris only came one day a week now.

‘I does for Mrs Huntingdon, Agatha,’ said Doris, and Agatha thought that Doris should at least have addressed her as ‘Mrs Raisin’ in front of James.

‘Is she in?’ asked James.

‘No, James, her’s up at Lord Pendlebury’s. Got a horse and he’s keeping it in his stables for her. Oh, and Bert thanks you for the loan of the books.’

‘We’ll go up to Pendlebury’s and have a word with her there,’ said James.

‘I didn’t know you knew Bert and Doris Simpson,’ said Agatha.

‘I sometimes have a drink with them in the Red Lion. Should we walk to Pendlebury’s? It’s a fine day.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Agatha ungraciously, thinking, trust Freda to ingratiate herself with the aristocracy.

She was cursing her middle-aged feet by the time they reached Eastwold Park. She was wearing a low-heeled pair of black suede shoes which up until that day had appeared a miracle of comfort. But shoes which had only been worn around the house and for a short walk from the car to the shops had developed hard ridges and bumps on the inside, of which she had previously been unaware.

As they approached the door of the mansion, Agatha felt her working-class soul cringing.

This was intensified by a smell of baked beans coming from the kitchen, which vividly brought back memories of the shabby streets of Birmingham: squalling babies, large belligerent women, and a small Agatha who nursed a dream of one day having a home in the Cotswolds. The food of the poor, remembered Agatha, had always seemed to be tinned baked beans or fish and chips.

Mrs Arthur opened the door. ‘He’s got company,’ she said. ‘He’s over at the stables.’

‘We’ll find him there,’ said James.

Agatha limped after him towards the stables.

Freda and Lord Pendlebury were standing outside, talking. Freda was wearing a tweed hacking jacket, jodhpurs and new riding-boots. She looked as if she had stepped out of a glossy advertisement in
Country Life
.

‘James!’ she cried when she saw him and she ran forward and kissed him on the cheek. Agatha wished she had not come. Lord Pendlebury sloped over. ‘What’s this, young man? I was just enjoying the company of this pretty lady before you came along,’ and he gave Freda a doting look. Then he saw Agatha. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s that woman back again.’

Freda giggled and hung on James’s arm, smiling up at him.

‘We’ve been asking questions about Paul Bladen’s death,’ said Agatha, harshly and loudly. ‘We gather you were having it off with him.’

‘Really!’ Freda looked at Agatha with distaste and then her eyes appealed silently to the two gentlemen for help.

‘Go away, you horrible woman. Shoo!’ said Lord Pendlebury.

‘Too blunt, Agatha,’ murmured James. ‘Why don’t you go home and leave this to me? I’ll call in on you later.’

Face red, Agatha wheeled round and stalked off. She could feel them all looking at her. Why had she been so blunt? Damn Freda!

James would probably drop the investigation and all because of that floozy.

Her feet hurt and her heart hurt and she was glad to get home to the undemanding affections of her cats.

She felt she should forget about James and go and ask Josephine Webster a few questions. The phone rang.

To her outrage and amazement, she recognized Jack Pomfret’s voice. ‘Look, Agatha,’ he wheedled. ‘Okay, I went about things the wrong way. Yes, you guessed it. I went bust in Spain. But I’ve got a nice little earner lined up and . . .’

Agatha dropped the phone. She found she was trembling with outrage. How
dare
he! She felt almost frightened that he should persist in trying to get money out of her. Think of something else. Think of Josephine Webster. And then there was Mrs Mason. She had been at the funeral.

But somehow she was too upset to think clearly. She thought about pouring herself a drink and then decided against it. She was not going to end up one of those people who poured themselves a drink the minute anything upset them. So she switched on the television and stared blindly at an American soap, gradually feeling herself relax.

An hour later, when her doorbell went, she jumped nervously, almost frightened that Jack Pomfret had pursued her to the country. But it was James who stood on the doorstep. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘But you were too blunt. Freda knows you don’t like her and so she is not going to take kindly to being questioned by you.’

‘So did you get anything at all out of her?’ asked Agatha.

‘When I got rid of the doting Pendlebury, I had a talk with her. She says she had a bit of a fling with Bladen, but that was all. She pointed out, rightly, that she’s free and single and can do what she likes. She was quite open about the whole business.’

‘But why in the surgery?’ demanded Agatha. ‘They’ve both got the privacy of homes and beds. Doesn’t that suggest passion rather than a casual affair to you?’

‘Well,’ he said awkwardly, ‘Freda’s quite a girl.’

‘Middle-aged woman, rather.’

‘Let’s not quarrel about Freda. I don’t think there’s anything there to worry about. Let’s try Josephine Webster.’

Glad of an excuse to be with him again and get away from the phone, Agatha set off with him to Josephine Webster’s shop. It was not a proper shop. It was a terraced house on the main street and she used what would normally have been the living-room to display her wares. The shop was dark and heavy with the ginger and cinnamon smells of herbal soaps and perfumes. Bunches of dried flowers hung from the beamed ceiling. Straw hats ornamented with dried flowers hung on the walls.

Neat Miss Webster was sitting at a desk in the corner of this room, doing accounts.

Determined to be more tactful, Agatha bought a cake of sandalwood soap, talked about the Carsely Ladies’ Society, the weather, and then finally got around to the subject of Paul Bladen.

‘A most unfortunate death,’ said Miss Webster, peering at Agatha over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Such a sad accident.’

James stepped in. ‘But now, in view of Mrs Josephs’ murder, the police are beginning to think that someone might have murdered Paul Bladen.’

‘That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe that.’

‘There’s a mobile police unit being set up outside the village,’ said James, ‘and I don’t think it’s all because of Mrs Josephs.’

Her face had a pinched, closed look. ‘I am very busy. If you do not wish to buy anything else, please leave.’

‘But you must have been very close to Paul Bladen,’ pursued Agatha. ‘I saw you at his funeral.’

‘I was there to pay my respects, although I did not like him,’ she said. ‘Us village people went to pay our respects. Outsiders like you no doubt went along out of vulgar curiosity, and if you take my advice, leave investigations to the police.’

‘So that’s us, with a flea in both ears,’ commented James outside. ‘All we seem to be getting are insults. What about Mrs Mason?’