Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet (16 page)

Agatha thought furiously about how she might be able to dissuade him from seeing Freda alone, but decided to sleep on it.

But as it turned out, she was the one to tackle Freda after all.

She struggled from a deep sleep the following morning with the sound of her own doorbell ringing in her ears.

She pulled on a dressing-gown and thrust her feet into slippers and went to answer the door. Freda stood there, her noisy dog cradled in her arm. ‘James here?’ she asked brightly. ‘I can’t get any reply at his house.’

‘No,’ said Agatha, ‘but come in and keep that dog of yours away from my cats.’

‘Yes, I think I want a word with you.’ Freda followed Agatha through to the kitchen. Agatha caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror: tousled hair, unmade-up face. Freda was as cool and fragile as a figure in a Fragonard painting. She sat down at the kitchen table, put her dog on the floor, and crossed her long legs. Agatha opened the back door and let her cats out into the garden.

‘You’ve been running all over the place with James,’ said Freda. ‘He’s a bit of a softy. You shouldn’t take advantage of his good nature.’

‘And just what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘He has been plagued by every old bat in the village, has he not? I warned him that these frightening menopausal women often get the wrong idea. Give him a break.’

‘Listen, you murderess,’ hissed Agatha, ‘just because you let Paul Bladen screw you on the surgery table doesn’t make you Cleopatra. Besides, you had to pay for that, did you not? Forty thousand pounds, to be exact.’

The doorbell rang and Freda was up like a shot and running to answer it, her dog yapping at her heels. Agatha followed in time to see Freda throw herself weeping into James’s arms, sobbing, ‘This dreadful woman. She’s accusing me of murder.’

‘Now, then,’ he said, ‘no one’s accusing you of anything.’ He detached himself from her grasp. He looked at Agatha. ‘Did you ask her about the money?’

Freda let out a gasp. ‘You have no right to poke about my private affairs. I shall tell the police.’ She ran out of the door and down the lane, with her dog scurrying at her heels.

‘What did you say, Agatha?’ demanded James.

‘She started by insulting me. She said . . .’ Agatha bit her lip. She did not want to put the idea into James’s head that she was one of those menopausal women with fantasies. ‘Anyway, she was vile. So I taxed her about the money. Then you rang the bell and she went to answer it.’

‘Damn. You’d better get dressed, Agatha, and we’d best go and look at that house of Bladen’s officially and then take the file along to Bill Wong, as if we’ve just found it.’

As they drove to Mircester, Agatha said suddenly, ‘Was Bladen blackmailing them? I mean, all payments are relative. Five hundred pounds from Miss Simms, well, that’s a fortune for her.’

‘Yes, but she’s single and so is Miss Webster, and Freda is a widow. Freda seemed quite unfazed by the fact we found out she had been having an affair with Bladen, so how could he blackmail her?’

At the estate agent’s, instead of giving them the keys, a young girl called Wendy said she would accompany them. She was a cheerful Sloane Ranger type and talked non-stop to Agatha and James as they walked around the rooms of the house wondering how to get rid of her so that they could pretend to find the file. At last James said, ‘We would like to be alone to have a private discussion,’ and to Agatha’s relief, Wendy said, ‘Right ho, drop the keys back at the office when you’re finished,’ and shot off.

They decided to have a thorough search of the house in the hope of finding letters or documents, but there was nothing. Out in the back garden there was an old oil drum with holes banged in its sides which had obviously been used for burning garden rubbish. James poked moodily at the contents with a stick. ‘This is where Rice burnt the papers,’ he said, ‘but we’re out of luck. He did a thorough job. Not even an edge of paper left uncharred and legible. Oh, well, let’s go and see Bill Wong.’

At police headquarters, Bill Wong studied the bank papers and deposit book and then looked up at them, his eyes shrewd. ‘A man phoned in a report in the middle of the night that two people dressed in black were in Paul Bladen’s house and told him they had bought it. That wouldn’t have been you pair, now would it?’

‘Us?’ exclaimed James. ‘Had it been us and had we found this file, then we would have brought it straight along.’

‘I wonder. You must stop interfering. Yes, I know. I’m grateful for this and these women will all be interviewed – by the police. If I find you have been continuing with your amateur investigations, then I will really have to inquire more closely into the identities of that couple who were seen at Bladen’s last night. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, very,’ said Agatha huffily.

‘So that’s all the thanks we get,’ she complained as James drove them back to Carsely. ‘I’m relieved in a way,’ said James. ‘Oh, well, back to that writing.’

There was a long silence. Then Agatha said, ‘I have to pay my subscription to the Carsely Ladies’ Society and that means calling on Miss Simms. Like to come along? I mean, Bill can’t stop us asking a few questions in a neighbourly way. Dammit, he can’t stop us talking to the villagers at all!’

‘And how’s he to know?’ said James. ‘I mean, everyone calls on everyone else in Carsely.’

‘Miss Simms will be at work until this evening,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s try Mrs Mason first.’

It was one of those typically English days. Steady rain drummed down and fallen cherry blossom bobbed along in the rivulets running between the old cobbles in Lilac Lane. They had fortified themselves with coffee and sandwiches, and with a lack of enthusiasm that the one would not admit to the other, Agatha and James set out to speak to Mrs Mason again.

Mrs Mason was so welcoming, so obviously thought they had come on a social call, that it was hard to get down to brass tacks. ‘And you must have some more of my famous scones, Mr Lacey,’ said Mrs Mason. ‘And that’s
real
strawberry jam, not shop-bought. Soon be strawberry season again. I do hope this nasty weather clears up, don’t you?’ She looked at James archly. ‘You and Mrs Raisin are quite the talk of the village. I was saying to the vicar the other day that we would soon be hearing the banns read.’

James looked at her in blank horror and nearly forgot why they had come. ‘Mrs Mason,’ began Agatha, ‘we really don’t want to distress you further, but we would like to know why you gave Mr Bladen such a large sum of money.’

Mrs Mason blinked rapidly. ‘That is really none of your business.’ Agatha glanced around the living-room. Four thousand pounds was an awful lot of money for such as Mrs Mason to part with.

‘We came to warn you that the police are about to make it their business,’ said James.

‘Then I shall speak to the police when they arrive. But how did you find out?’

‘Agatha and I were looking around Paul Bladen’s house, which is up for sale, and we happened to come across his old bank statements and deposit book. We did give them to the police.’

Mrs Mason studied James, her eyes suddenly sharp. ‘So you and Mrs Raisin were looking at a house together. Well, well, romance does seem to be in the air. Quite cheering, really. It shows one is never too old.’

And that, as she had planned, had the desired effect of driving James to his feet and towards the door.

Agatha gloomily followed him out. James climbed into the car without holding the door open for her and stared moodily at the rain trickling down the windscreen. Agatha got into the passenger seat.

‘Damn all gossiping women,’ said James, striking the steering wheel. ‘You, me, it’s bloody ridiculous.’

‘Yes, a laugh a minute,’ said Agatha drily, although her heart was sore. ‘She only said that to get rid of you, and get rid of you it did.’

His face lightened. ‘Oh, that was the reason. How naïve of me.’

‘You are really over-sensitive on the subject,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s my belief that you think every woman you come across is pursuing you.’

He gave an awkward laugh. ‘Let’s try the Webster female.’

Josephine Webster was arguing with a couple of rainwashed American tourists who were trying to haggle over the price of a dried-flower arrangement. ‘The price is marked on it,’ said Miss Webster, exasperated. ‘This is not a bazaar.’

‘You can haggle over the price of things in antique shops,’ said James to the Americans in a kindly voice, ‘but most other places you’re expected to pay the price marked.’

‘Is that a fact?’

The American man and woman fell into amiable conversation with James about their visit, Miss Webster returned to her desk, and Agatha stared out of the window at the main street. She had no desire to tackle Miss Webster while these tourists were in the shop.

‘I’ve no time for Americans,’ said Miss Webster waspishly when the couple had left. ‘Always complaining.’

‘It’s not their fault,’ said James. ‘They feel they have to protect themselves. A lot of people think American tourists are made of money. Now that couple saved all their lives for this one trip. They have to budget very carefully, and they’ve probably been told back home that all foreigners are out to cheat them.’

‘But we’re not foreigners,’ said Miss Webster. ‘We’re British.’

James smiled. ‘Talking about money, we wondered why you had paid such a large sum of money to Paul Bladen.’

Miss Webster’s face went white and then red. ‘Get out of here,’ she called shrilly. ‘Get out!’ She picked up a bunch of assorted dried flowers and waved it at them like a housewife shooing cats out with her broom.

‘We’re not getting anywhere,’ said James gloomily after he and Agatha had retreated out of the shop. ‘Do you want to see Mrs Parr again?’

‘So long as that husband of hers is not around,’ said Agatha.

But Mrs Parr did not open the door to them. The curtain twitched and they saw the quick blur of a face behind the glass, but the front door stayed resolutely shut.

‘We’re running out of people,’ said James. ‘Perhaps I should try Freda. If I went on my own –’

‘No,’ said Agatha quickly. ‘Why don’t we try Miss Mabbs again? Say we know these women were paying him. Ask her some more questions.’

‘Oh, all right. But I don’t want to have to wait until that disco opens up.’

‘We can find her where she works. She said it was a kennels “out Warwick way”. I’ll look up the Yellow Pages before we go.’

At last, armed with the name of a kennels situated between Leamington Spa and Warwick, they set off.

The rain was slowly easing off, to be replaced with pale-yellow sunlight.

They found the kennels easily enough. Dogs were barking, dogs were howling piteously, and the wet air smelled of damp dog.

They went into the office, which was housed in a timber hut, and asked for Cheryl Mabbs.

The man behind the desk looked up sharply. ‘Friends of hers?’

‘Yes,’ said James.

He stood up. He was a small, thickset man with grey hair and rimless spectacles. ‘Then you know exactly where to find her,’ he said. ‘Get out.’

‘If we knew where to find her,’ said James, ‘we wouldn’t be here asking for her. Does she work here, or doesn’t she?’

Agatha had a sudden flash of inspiration. She edged in front of James and said mildly, ‘I am afraid we have misled you, but we do not like to go around announcing who we are. We are social workers.’

‘Oh.’ He sat down suddenly. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Although you still make me feel angry. I had a recommendation from you lot that she was on the straight.’

Agatha affected an air of weariness, although her heart was beating hard. ‘What has she done this time?’

‘Not told you yet, have they? Pah! That’s bureaucracy for you. The whole of England is top-heavy with idiotic pen-pushers. She broke into the drugs cabinet, that’s what she did.’

‘Did you have Adrenalin in there?’ asked James eagerly.

‘Yes, of course, but the fact is she would have been better off raiding a doctor’s or chemist’s unless she wants to prevent hard pad and distemper. I called the police right away and they went to her digs and found the stuff. Or what was left of it. She had been flogging pills around some disco in Leamington, claiming they were a new sort of happy pill. I think the youth of Leamington can consider themselves well and truly wormed by now.’

James and Agatha were both dying to know what Cheryl Mabbs’s record had been, but then, as supposed social workers, they were supposed to know.

‘She’s a silly girl,’ said the man. ‘I’m Bob Picks, by the way. She was a wizard with animals. Why did she want to go and smash up her career? Young people these days, I ask you.’

They left him, still shaking his head over the iniquities of youth.

‘So,’ said Agatha outside, ‘that’s where the Adrenalin could have come from. Damn! We can’t ask the police, or word might get to Bill Wong that we’re still asking questions.’

‘So many suspects,’ mourned James. ‘Tell you what, let’s try her digs. She might be out on bail, or that unlovely boyfriend of hers might be there.’

Agatha nodded, although she felt suddenly depressed. She could not help remembering how horrified and shocked he had been at any suggestion of a romance between herself and him. The sun struck down, lighting up the grey patches in his black hair and showing the strong lines down the side of his nose. In that moment, he did not look nearly so handsome as he usually did and Agatha took small comfort from that.

They drove to Blackbird Street and parked outside the door to the flats where Miss Mabbs lived.

They walked up the stairs and pressed the right bell this time. They waited a long time and then heard the sound of someone approaching the door. It opened an inch. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Jerry, Miss Mabbs’s boyfriend. ‘Wot you want?’

‘Where’s Miss Mabbs?’

‘In the slammer.’

‘Can we come in? We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

The door opened wider and his foxy face stared at them. ‘Cost you.’

James sighed. ‘A tenner, like last time.’

‘Done. Not here. Meet you down the pub. The Fevvers.’

‘The what?’ asked James as they walked down and out into the street.