Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet (7 page)

Mrs Mason was clutching a damp handkerchief in her hand. ‘So sad,’ she whispered to Agatha. ‘Such a fine young man.’

‘Hardly young,’ said Agatha and received a look of reproach.

The coffin was carried in and placed in the aisle in front of the altar. ‘That’s Mr Rice, Mr Bladen’s partner,’ said Mrs Mason. ‘The one on the left at the front.’ Among the men who had carried in the coffin, Agatha saw a burly middle-aged man with curly ginger hair.

‘Who is here from the village, apart from us and that Mrs Huntingdon?’ asked Agatha.

‘Over there to the right, Mrs Parr and Miss Webster.’

Agatha leaned forward. Both women were crying. Mrs Parr was small and quite pretty and Miss Webster of an indeterminate age, possibly late thirties. She recognized Miss Webster as the woman who ran the dried flower shop.

‘I’m surprised you are all so upset,’ whispered Agatha, ‘after what he did to Mrs Josephs’ cat.’

‘What he did was
right
,’ muttered Mrs Mason fiercely. ‘That cat was too old for this world.’

‘I hope no one thinks that about me,’ said Agatha.

‘Shhh!’ said a man in front waspishly.

The service began.

Mr Peter Rice paid a tribute to his dead partner, the vicar quoted St Francis of Assisi, hymns were sung, then the coffin was raised up again and the congregation filed out after it to the graveyard.

It was strange, thought Agatha, but one never thought of people being buried in old church graveyards any more. A short service in a crematorium was more what was expected. She had always wondered about those churchyard graveside scenes in television dramas and had assumed that the television company had paid a nice sum to the church to dig up an appropriate hole for the show. One always assumed that the old churchyards of England had been full to bursting point since the end of the nineteenth century.

Snow fluttered down among the leaning gravestones and a magpie swung on the branch of a cedar and cocked a curious eye at the proceedings.

‘That’s his ex-wife,’ said Mrs Mason. A thin, grey-haired woman with a weak face was looking bleakly straight in front of her. She was wearing a fox coat over a red suit. No mourning weeds for her.

But the graveside service was so moving and so dignified that Agatha thought there was a lot to be said for staking your claim to your six-by-four in a country churchyard. When the service was over, she muttered a goodbye to Mrs Mason and set out in pursuit of the vet’s ex-wife, catching up with her at the lych gate.

‘My name is Agatha Raisin,’ she said. ‘I gather you are poor Mr Bladen’s wife.’

‘I was,’ said Mrs Bladen a trifle impatiently. ‘It is really very cold, Mrs Raisin, and I am anxious to get home.’

‘My car is just outside. Can I drop you somewhere?’

‘No, I have my own car.’

‘I wonder if we could have a talk?’ said Agatha eagerly.

A look of dislike came into Mrs Bladen’s eyes. ‘My life seems to have been plagued by women wanting to talk to me after my husband had dumped them. It is just as well he is dead.’

She stalked off.

I seem to be getting snubbed all round, thought Agatha. But there’s one thing for sure: our vet was a philanderer. If only I could prove it wasn’t an accident, that it was murder, then they’d all sit up and take notice!

Carsely had frequent power cuts, some lasting days, some only a few seconds.

James Lacey pressed Agatha’s doorbell the following day. He did not know there was one of the brief power cuts because one could not usually hear the bell ringing from outside.

He glanced down at the front lawn. There was a lot of moss on it. He wondered if Agatha knew how to treat it. He bent down for a closer look. Agatha, who thought she had heard someone outside, put her eye to the spyhole, but not seeing anyone, retreated to the kitchen. James Lacey straightened up and pressed the bell again. By this time the power had come back on but Agatha had found crumbs on the carpet and had plugged in the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen at the back.

James retreated, feeling baffled. He remembered all the times he had pretended to be out when Agatha had called.

He went into his own cottage, made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He switched on his new computer and then stared bleakly at the screen waiting for it to boot up, before finding the right file and flicking his written words up on to the green screen. There it was. ‘Chapter Two’. If only he had written just one sentence. Why had he decided to write military history anyway? Just because he was a retired soldier did not necessarily mean he was confined to military subjects. Besides, why had he chosen the Peninsular Wars? Was there anything to add more than what had been already written? Oh, dear, how long the day seemed. It had been fun going to see Pendlebury. Of course it had been an accident. And yet there was that bump on the back of the head.

It might be more fun to write mystery stories. Say, for example, the vet had been murdered, how would one go about finding out what had really happened? Well, the first step would be to find out
why
he was murdered, for the why would surely lead to the
who
.

If Agatha had answered her door to him and not looked as if she were avoiding him, he might have dropped the subject. Had he really wanted to write military history, he still might have dropped it. He gave an exclamation of disgust, switched off the machine and went out again. There would be no harm in trying Agatha’s door again. He had obviously been mistaken when he had thought she was pursuing him. And he had invited
her
for a drink, not Freda Huntingdon. It was not his fault that Agatha had suddenly decided to leave with that farmer.

It was a fine spring day, light and airy, smelling of growing things. This time, Agatha’s front door was open. He went in, calling, ‘Agatha,’ and nearly fell over her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the hall, playing with her cats.

‘Am I seeing things, or have you two of them?’ he asked.

‘The new one’s a stray I picked up in London,’ said Agatha, scrabbling to her feet. ‘Like a coffee?’

‘Not coffee. I seem to have been drinking it all morning. Tea would be nice.’

‘Tea it is.’ Agatha led the way into the kitchen.

‘About the other night,’ he said, hovering in the kitchen doorway, ‘we didn’t have much of a chance to talk.’

‘Well, that’s pubs for you,’ said Agatha with seeming indifference. ‘You never end up talking to the person you go in with. Milk or lemon?’

‘Lemon, please. I’ve been thinking, this business about the vet. Did you go to the funeral?’

‘Yes. Lot of women there. Seems to have been popular with quite a lot of women, so he can’t have gone around putting down
their
cats unasked.’

‘Who was there from this village?’

‘Apart from me, his four remaining fans: your friend, Freda Huntingdon; Mrs Mason; Mrs Harriet Parr; and Miss Josephine Webster. Oh, and his ex-wife. Hey, that’s odd.’

‘What is?’

‘When I was supposed to be having dinner in Evesham that night I crashed and I phoned Paul’s house and this woman answered the phone saying she was his wife . . .’ Agatha broke off.

‘Well?’

‘Well, Paul Bladen told me afterwards that the woman who answered the phone was his sister, being silly or something. But no one else has mentioned his sister. I forgot to ask for her at the funeral.’

‘We could drive into Mircester and find out,’ he volunteered.

Agatha turned away quickly and fiddled with the kettle to hide the sudden look of rapture in her eyes. ‘Do you think it’s murder then?’ she asked.

He sighed. ‘No, I don’t. But it might be fun to go through the motions. I mean, ask people, just as if it were.’

‘I’ll get my coat.’ Agatha nipped smartly upstairs, gazing in the glass at her outfit of sweater and skirt. But there was no time to change, for if she did not hurry up, he might decide to call the whole thing off.

‘Just going to get some money,’ he called up the stairs.

Agatha cursed under her breath. What if he were waylaid in the short distance between her house and his? She went down the stairs and out of the door.

Freda Huntingdon was talking to him, laughing and holding that wretched yapping dog under her arm. Agatha clenched her hands into fists as they both disappeared into James’s cottage. She stood there in her own front garden, irresolute. What if he forgot about her? But he emerged with Freda after only a few moments. Freda was tucking a paperback into her pocket.

She waved goodbye to him and he walked towards Agatha. ‘Shall we take my car?’ he asked. ‘No need to take two.’

‘Mine will be fine,’ said Agatha. He climbed into the passenger seat. As Agatha drove past Freda, she turned and stared at them in surprise. Agatha gave a cheerful fanfare on the horn and drove fast round the corner out of the lane.

‘What did the merry widow want?’ she asked.

‘Freda? She had lent me a paperback and had come to collect it.’

Agatha would have chatted on merrily all the way to Mircester and probably would have driven James away again, but just at that moment she sensed there was a pimple growing on the end of her nose. She squinted down and the car veered wildly to the side of the road before she corrected the steering.

‘Are you all right?’ asked James. ‘Do you want me to drive?’

‘I’m fine.’ But Agatha sank into a worried silence. She could feel that pimple growing and growing, an itchy soreness on the end of her nose. Why should such a thing happen to her on this day of all days? This was what came of eating ‘healthy’ food, as recommended by Mrs Bloxby. Years of fast food had not produced one blemish. The only solution, Agatha decided, was when they reached Mircester, she would say she needed to buy something from the chemist’s – no gentleman would ask what – and then say she was dying for a drink.

She parked in the last space in the town’s main square. A woman who had been in the act of carefully reversing into it before Agatha beat her to it by driving straight in nose first, stared in hurt anger. When they got out of the car, Agatha, keeping her face averted, said, ‘Got to go to the chemist’s over there. Meet you in that pub, the George, in a few moments.’ And then, like jesting Pilate, did not stay for an answer, but scuttled across the square.

In the chemist’s, she bought a stick of Blemish Remover, astringent lotion, and, for good measure, a new lipstick, Hot Pink.

James looked up and waved as Agatha came into the pub, but she scuttled past him to the Ladies’, her face still averted.

Agatha cleaned her face, applied the astringent lotion and then wiped it off with a tissue. She peered at her nose. There was a bright little red spot at the end of it. She carefully applied the stick of Blemish Remover, which resulted in a beige blotch on the end of her nose. She covered it with powder. The light in the Ladies’ was not working, so she could only guess at the effect. She stared upwards. There was a light socket up on the ceiling, but she noticed the light bulb was missing and what light there was in the room filtered through the grimy panes of a window high up over the hand basin. Then she remembered she had bought a packet of 100-watt light bulbs the day before and had left them in her car. She scuttled out again. Again James waved and again she ran past him, her face averted, and out the door. He drank his beer thoughtfully. He had once thought Agatha Raisin deranged. Perhaps he had been right. There she came again, running sideways, and back into the Ladies’.

Agatha looked up at the ceiling. In order to reach the light socket, she would need to stand on the hand basin. She hitched up her skirt and climbed into the large Victorian hand basin and gingerly stood up. She reached up to the light socket.

With a great rending sound, the hand basin came away from the wall. Agatha swayed wildly and then grabbed hold of a dusty windowsill as the hand basin slowly continued to detach itself and fell with an almighty crash on the floor, taking the brass taps with it. A ferocious jet of cold water from a now broken and exposed pipe shot straight up Agatha’s skirt.

With a whimper she let go of the windowsill, jumped to the flooding floor and skirting the debris shot back into the pub after firmly closing the door behind her.

‘Let’s go,’ she said to James.

He stared at her in surprise. ‘I’ve just bought you a gin and tonic.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ said Agatha desperately. ‘Cheers!’ She threw the drink down her throat in one gulp. ‘Come on!’ Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a flood of water appearing from under the door of the Ladies’.

James followed her out. He noticed to his dismay that the back of her skirt had a dark stain on it and he wondered whether to tell her. She was not
that
old, but perhaps she had bladder trouble.

‘Now,
this
pub looks much nicer,’ said Agatha, pushing open the door of the Potters Arms and diving in. Once more, she went to the Ladies’. To her relief it was a modern place with a hot-air hand dryer. She took off her skirt and held it under the dryer until the water stain began to fade. Then she lay down on the floor and held her wet feet up under it. Time passed. When she emerged, a worried James was on his second pint of beer. ‘I was just about to send someone to look for you,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Agatha, radiant again, for she had discovered that the new make-up had done the job effectively and she was once more warm and dry.

‘I bought you another gin,’ he said, indicating the glass on the table.

Agatha smiled at him. ‘Here’s to detection,’ she said, raising her glass. And then she slowly lowered it, a look of ludicrous dismay on her face. For into the pub had just marched Bill Wong and a tall policewoman. ‘Dropped my handbag,’ said Agatha and dived under the table.

It was to no avail. ‘Come out, Agatha,’ said Bill.

Agatha miserably crawled out from under the table, her face red with shame.

‘Now, Agatha,’ said Bill, ‘what have you been up to? PC Wood here called me into the George. A woman answering your description went in and vandalized the ladies’ room, tearing a hand basin out of the wall and flooding the place. People in the square saw you running in here. What have you to say for yourself?’