Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet (6 page)

‘I wanted to ask Lord Pendlebury if he would contribute to our fund-raising for Save the Children,’ said Agatha.

‘You can
ask
,’ said Mrs Arthur. ‘No harm in
asking
, I always say.’ She stayed put.

‘Why don’t you ask Lord Pendlebury then if we may see him?’ demanded James Lacey.

‘On your own heads be it,’ said Mrs Arthur. ‘He’s in the study, over there.’ She jerked a thumb towards a door at the end of the hall.

It was all very disappointing, thought Agatha, as she followed James Lacey across the hall. There should have been a butler to take a visiting card on a silver tray. But James was already holding open the study door for her.

Lord Pendlebury was seated in a battered leather armchair before a dying wood fire. He was fast asleep.

‘Well, that’s that,’ whispered Agatha.

James crossed to the window. ‘The stable block is out the back,’ he said, not bothering to lower his voice. ‘You can see it from here.’

‘Shhh,’ urged Agatha. The room was so silent, book-lined, dim, with two walls of calf-bound books, a large desk, bowls of spring flowers on odd little tables, and the solemn tick of clocks intensifying the silence.

‘Who are you?’ Lord Pendlebury was awake now and staring straight at her.

Agatha jumped and said, ‘I am Agatha Raisin from Carsely. The gentleman there is Mr Lacey.’ She longed to call him Colonel but was sure James would object. ‘I am collecting money on behalf of the Carsely Ladies’ Society for Save the Children.’

Like an American swearing the oath of allegiance, Lord Pendlebury put an arm across his chest, no doubt to protect his wallet.

‘I have already given money to Cancer Research,’ he said.

‘But this is Save the Children.’

‘I don’t
like
children,’ said Lord Pendlebury petulantly. ‘Too many of them. Go away.’

Agatha opened her mouth to blast him, but James Lacey said quickly, ‘Fine-looking stables you have, sir. Mind if we walk over and take a look?’

‘Doesn’t matter if I mind, does it?’ said Lord Pendlebury. ‘A landowner no longer has any privacy. If it’s not busybodies like you, it’s those damn environmentalists, walking over my land with their rucksacks, eating health-food nut bars and farting. Do you know what causes the damage to the ozone layer? It’s health fanatics, eating ghastly bran and nut bars and farting about the landscape. Sending out poisonous gases and wind. Ought to be put down.’

‘Quite,’ said James indifferently while Agatha glared at Lord Pendlebury.

‘You don’t seem a bad sort of chap,’ said Lord Pendlebury, peering at James in the gloom of the study. ‘But that woman looks like one of those hunt saboteurs, slavering on about the darling foxes.’

‘Listen, you,’ said Agatha, advancing on him.

James took her firmly by the arm and guided her towards the door. ‘Thank you for your kind invitation, Lord Pendlebury,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘We shall enjoy seeing your stables.’

‘Rude old bugger,’ raged Agatha when they were out in the hall.

James shrugged. ‘He’s old. Leave him be. We get to see the racing stables and that’s why we came.’

But Agatha was still smarting. She felt she had been grossly insulted. Worse than that, she thought Lord Pendlebury had been able to see right through her expensive sheepskin and sweater, right down into her working-class soul.

‘I’m going to have a firm talk with Mrs Arthur,’ said Agatha as they walked together towards the stable block. ‘She could probably earn more working in a factory or a supermarket.’

‘She and her husband work for Lord Pendlebury,’ pointed out James Lacey. ‘They get a rent-free cottage on the estate and all the free vegetables they want from the market garden. Anyway, you want to persuade Mrs Arthur to leave to get your revenge on the old man because he thought you were a flatulent fox preserver.’

This was the truth, and so Agatha decided James was really quite an uninteresting and charmless man after all.

The other thing that was irritating was that although James Lacey had spent less time in and around the village compared to herself, he seemed to know a remarkable number of people. He hailed Lord Pendlebury’s trainer, Sam Stodder, and introduced him to Agatha.

‘Lord Pendlebury said we could take a look around the stables, Mr Stodder,’ said James. ‘Sad thing about that vet’s death, wasn’t it?’

‘Sad, for sure. Happened right over there. He were doing that operation to stop Sparky roaring.’

‘And no one else was about at the time?’

‘No. Lord Pendlebury had a new filly out in the paddock and took us all off to have a look. We was all talking and smoking and admiring the filly, ’cos it’s not often the old man lets us slack. Devil for work, he is. Then Bob Arthur, him what does for my lord, he strolls off and says he’s going for to see how the vet is getting on and the next thing he comes out, yelling and crying that Bladen is dead. “Looks like someone’s done fer him,” he says, so his lordship says for to call the police.’

‘And it was in here?’ asked Agatha, approaching the right wing of the stable block.

Both men followed her in. There was nothing to be seen. The row of loose boxes stretched off into the gloom, the horses’ heads poking out. ‘Oldest bit of the stables,’ said Sam. ‘In the rest of it, the loose boxes open right out on to the courtyard, not inside like here.’

Agatha stared at the floor, but there was nothing to be seen, not even a sliver of glass.

‘Why did Mr Arthur say that it looked like someone had done for him?’ she asked.

‘Reckon he waren’t none too popular, like. Wizard with horses, mind. Lord Pendlebury thought him a cheeky sort and wanted Mr Rice, Bladen’s partner from Mircester, but Mr Rice don’t like Lord Pendlebury and that’s a fact, and so he do make excuses not to come.’

‘I don’t suppose anyone likes Lord Pendlebury, horrible old man that he is,’ said Agatha.

‘You’re entitled to your opinion, I’m sure,’ said Sam, ‘but don’t expect none of us here to say a word against the old man. Course you haven’t been as long in these parts as Mr Lacey here, or you’d know that criticism of his Iordship is not welcome; no, that it’s not.’

‘I’ve been here a considerable time longer than Mr Lacey,’ said Agatha huffily.

‘Well, there’s folks that fit in and folks that don’t,’ said Sam. ‘Afternoon.’ He touched his cap and strolled off.

‘What a feudal peasant,’ said Agatha.

‘Sam’s a good man, and we’re the peasants in this case.’

‘What?’

‘Vulgarly poking our noses in where they don’t belong. What on earth are we doing here, Mrs Raisin?’

‘Agatha.’

‘Agatha. The man died because of an unfortunate accident.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Agatha, more out of a desire to be contrary than because she believed it.

They strolled round to the front of the house where Agatha’s car was parked. It looked new and shiny after all the expensive repairs. Lord Pendlebury came towards them.

His tall, thin, heron-like figure loped up to them. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he said angrily. ‘There’s an open day once a year, on June the first; otherwise keep off private property.’

‘It’s us,’ said James Lacey patiently. ‘You gave us permission to go and look at your stables.’

His pale watery eyes blinked at them and then focused on Agatha. ‘Oh, the hunt saboteur,’ he said. ‘The people one has to put up with these days.’

He headed off towards the stables, leaving James amused and Agatha fuming.

‘You’re hardly the flavour of the month,’ said James.

‘The man’s senile,’ snapped Agatha. She had often lingered longingly while on the tour of some stately home outside the roped-off private part hoping a member of the family would recognize her as one of their own kind and ask her to tea. That fantasy seemed totally ridiculous now.

She drove James back to the village, feeling hurt and gauche and inadequate. He glanced at her sideways and something prompted him to say, ‘I haven’t been to the Red Lion for ages. Fancy a drink there this evening?’

Agatha’s spirits rocketed like the pheasant which rose up before the wheels of her car and over the hedge beside the road. But she kept her voice light and casual. ‘That would be nice. What time?’

‘Oh, about eight. I have to go to Moreton for something, so I’ll see you there.’

He was already regretting his invitation, and yet there was no sign of any return of that predatory look he had noticed before in Agatha’s eyes.

Agatha, guessing that he would not bother to change, restrained herself from changing her own clothes. She fed the cats and played with them and tried not to watch the clock. Excitement built up in her as eight o’clock approached. Although she had, with the help of Mrs Bloxby, been training herself to cook, she put a frozen lasagne in the microwave for her dinner so as not to waste more time on elaborate preparations. It tasted foul. How could she ever have eaten such stuff?

As she walked to the Red Lion, a full moon was shining down, washing everything with silver, outlining the skeletal arms of trees against the starry sky. White and pink verbena flowers scented the air, reminding Agatha unromantically of expensive bath soap. At exactly three minutes past eight, she pushed open the door of the Red Lion.

James Lacey was there in the low-raftered pub, standing at the bar, talking to the landlord. ‘What’ll you have?’ he asked by way of greeting.

‘Gin and tonic,’ said Agatha, settling herself happily on a bar stool.

‘I was wondering,’ he began as he paid for her drink. But Agatha was never to know what he was wondering, for the pub door opened and the yapping of a Jack Russell and the heavy smell of French perfume heralded the arrival of Mrs Huntingdon, Carsely’s newest incomer.

To Agatha’s dismay, James said, ‘Evening, Freda. What’ll you have? Do you know Agatha Raisin? Agatha, this is Freda Huntingdon.’

So it was Freda, was it? thought Agatha gloomily. The widow was wearing a cherry-red sleeveless jacket over a black cashmere sweater and short black wool skirt. Her legs in fine black stockings were very good.

‘Let’s sit at that table over there,’ said James after he had bought Freda a whisky and water.

‘Perhaps Freda is meeting someone,’ suggested Agatha hopefully.

‘No,’ she said in a husky voice, ‘all on my lonesome. Thought I might find you here, James. How’s the writing going?’

James! Freda! Rats! Agatha plumped herself down at the table by the log fire and tried not to let her bitter disappointment show on her face.

‘The writing’s not going at all well,’ said James. ‘I look for every excuse not to get started. This morning I defrosted the fridge, and this afternoon Mrs Raisin –’

‘Agatha, please.’

‘Sorry, Agatha and I went to see Lord Pendlebury.’

‘Isn’t he an old duck?’ murmured Freda. ‘Quite one of the old school.’

‘How do you know him?’ asked Agatha.

‘I talked to him outside the church last Sunday,’ said Freda. ‘I found him quite charming.’

‘I don’t think Agatha found him at all charming,’ said James. ‘He mistook her for a hunt saboteur.’

Freda Huntingdon laughed merrily. Her dog peed against the leg of the table and she said ‘Tut-tut’ and picked up the revolting yapping creature and cuddled it on her lap.

‘Have you seen the latest Russell Crowe movie, James?’ asked Freda. She lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in Agatha’s direction.

‘I haven’t seen any Russell Crowe movie, let alone the latest,’ replied James.

‘But you should! They’re tremendous fun. The new one’s on at Mircester. Tell you what, come with me tomorrow.’

At that moment, Agatha saw Jack Page, the farmer, come in. She felt she could not bear any more of Freda and James. She rose and picked up her unfinished drink.

‘Just going to have a drink with Jack.’

Jack Page hailed her. ‘Nights are drawing out, Agatha,’ he said. ‘Be spring before you know it. Sorry to hear about that crash you had.’

He was a cheerful man with an easy manner. Agatha told him at length about her crash. He bought her another drink. Agatha sat down on a bar stool next to him and tried to forget about the pair in the corner.

‘Bad thing about that vet,’ said Jack.

‘You went to him, didn’t you?’ said Agatha. ‘I saw you there the first time I took my cat along. What did you make of him?’

‘The surgery was handy to nip down to and get antibiotics and things,’ said Jack. ‘Never thought about him much one way or t’other. Then I heard what he done to poor Mrs Josephs’s cat, so I stopped going. That was right cruel.’

‘You don’t think someone bumped him off, do you?’

‘Ah, you’re looking for another murder to solve,’ he teased. ‘Sad accident, it were. Funeral’s next Monday in Mircester, at St Peter’s.’

‘I might go,’ said Agatha.

‘Was you friendly with him then?’

‘Had dinner with him one night,’ replied Agatha, ‘but not really friendly.’

He drained his tankard and set the empty glass down on the bar. ‘I’d best be getting back. I told the wife I’d only stop for the one. Why not come back and say hello?’

Agatha had a sudden longing to turn round. But Mrs Huntingdon let out a trill of laughter and her dog gave a volley of barks.

‘I’d like that,’ said Agatha, picking up her handbag.

She turned at last and gave a casual wave to James before leaving with the farmer.

James Lacey watched her go with some surprise. And he had thought she was pursuing him!

Snow was falling as Agatha entered the church of St Peter in Mircester the following Monday. She was already wishing she had not come. A doggedness to find out something about the vet’s death had prompted this visit. So long as she was worrying about the vet’s death, Agatha did not need to worry about James Lacey.

The church was very old, with fine stained-glass windows and a dreadful seventeenth-century altar of some dark wood. Agatha took a pew at the back, unhitched the hassock from its hook, knelt in pretended prayer and then studied the congregation. But all she saw was backs of heads. There seemed to be quite a number of women present. One turned her head. Mrs Huntingdon! And then Agatha recognized the solid bulk of Mrs Mason, the chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, two pews in front of her. She changed her seat and went to sit next to her.