Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley (5 page)

Agatha drove down to the second-hand bookshop in Moreton and found an old book on various rights of way. Then, fired with enthusiasm, she returned to the village and knocked boldly on
James’s door.

‘Oh, Agatha,’ was the unwelcoming greeting. ‘I was just getting a good run on my book. But come in.’

Agatha felt she should really say something like, ‘Oh, well, in that case, I’ll come back later,’ but she had been away so long and James had been writing that wretched piece
of military history for so long that she was sure a short interruption would not matter.

‘I had some ideas for the Carsely Ramblers,’ said Agatha eagerly as he stood back to let her in.

‘Such as?’ he asked, switching off his computer. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’ She followed him into the kitchen.

‘I thought,’ said Agatha, ‘that we might get a bit more organized. You know, maybe take our cars and go somewhere farther afield and start from there.’

‘I suppose we could do that,’ he said on a sigh. ‘As a matter of fact, Agatha, I was thinking of dropping the whole thing.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not really the organizing type.’

‘I can do all that for you. All you have to do is show up.’

‘Do you take milk and sugar?’

‘Black, no sugar,’ said Agatha, thinking he might at least have remembered how she liked her coffee.

They carried their mugs through to the book-lined living-room. She lit a cigarette and looked round for an ashtray. He rose and went back to the kitchen and returned with an old saucer which he
put down next to her. Why was it non-smokers always made one feel so guilty? thought Agatha. Hardly anyone had an ashtray in the house any more.

The smoke from her cigarette rose to the beamed ceiling and hung there. James’s eyes followed it as if measuring pollution.

‘So what had you in mind?’ asked James. A car slowed down in the lane outside. He looked hopefully towards the window, as if longing for some interruption.

‘Like I said, we could go farther away for our rambles and maybe I could work out some posters and put one up in Harvey’s and one on the church notice-board. We get a few tourists
and they might like to come along. Then I thought we should have membership cards and charge a fee.’

‘I don’t know about a fee,’ said James. ‘I mean, what would the fee be for? Landowners don’t charge the public for using rights of way. That,’ he added
pedantically, ‘is why they are called rights of way.’

‘A fee would pay for membership cards. People like having membership cards.’

‘I don’t. Look, Agatha, I really should get on. Why don’t you go ahead and see what you can organize and then let me know about it?’

Agatha looked pointedly down into her coffee-cup as if indicating that she had had hardly time to drink any, but then she put the cup down and made her way to the door. James walked after her,
switching on the computer again on the way.

Well, that’s that, thought Agatha gloomily, letting herself into her own cottage. Sod ramblers. A car drew up behind her and she turned round to see Detective Sergeant Bill Wong smiling at
her from the driving seat.

‘Welcome back,’ he cried, getting out, his features creased in a smile.

‘Come in,’ cried Agatha. ‘We’ll have coffee and you can tell me all about crime. I’ve just been to James’s but got turfed out after about two
minutes.’

‘Oh, is that still going on?’

‘Is what still going on?’

‘Your deathless love for James Lacey.’

‘Don’t be silly. I used to have a little crush on him, but that’s long gone.’ Agatha walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle. ‘We have a rambling group in
Carsely now. James was running it. All I suggested was that it could do with a bit more organization.’

‘Not one of those militant groups, Agatha?’

‘No, no. Quiet little walks, but maybe better publicized and with membership cards and things like that.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do it. So how was London?’

‘Dire.’

‘No fun being back in harness?’

‘None at all. Glad to be home. The reason I got so interested in the rambling thing is I badly need to lose weight.’

‘Don’t we all,’ said Bill mournfully, looking down at his own chubby figure.

‘So how’s crime?’

‘Quiet since you left. Usual wife beatings, drunks on a Saturday night, burglary, stolen cars and general mayhem. A few murders but nothing exotic’ He looked at her with affection.
‘You’re longing to play detective again, Agatha. Don’t. Take my advice and stick to rambling. Nice quiet pursuit. Rambling never leads to murder!’

Jessica sat moodily on the end of the bed on Monday evening and said to her lover, Jeffrey Benson, who was propped up against the pillows, ‘I don’t know what came
over that little twit, Deborah. Or the rest of you, for that matter.’

Jeffrey scratched his hairy chest. ‘Come on, Jessica. I’m all for fighting nasty landowners, but when one of the breed is civil enough to send us a decent letter and issue an
invitation to tea, then I’m prepared to meet him halfway. And if you plan on clumping over his precious field, then you can bloody well go alone.’

‘I didn’t think you would let me down like this, after all we’ve been to each other.’

‘Don’t use emotional blackmail on me, Jessica. You were the one who said that all we had going for each other was sex. The trouble with you feminists is that your idea of equality is
to adopt the nastier characteristics of the men you despise. Maybe I should take up with Deborah. She’s showing some good old-fashioned female characteristics.’

An ugly light came into Jessica’s eyes. ‘You’d better watch your mouth, Jeffrey
dear.
I mean, don’t you think MI5 might be interested in that couple of Irishmen
you gave house room to two years ago?’

A wary look shone in his eyes. ‘How do you know about that? You weren’t here.’

‘You got blind drunk after Alice’s party and bragged about it. I mean, that would be around the time that IRA bomb went off in the High Street and killed a child.’

‘It was nothing to do with them. They were just friends of friends who wanted a bed. They only stayed two nights.’

‘Oh, but in your cups you mumbled away about striking a blow for the freedom of Ireland.’ She threw her head back and laughed, an irritatingly stagy laugh.

He plunged across the bed and seized her by the throat. He was a powerful man. One brown eye which had a slight cast gave him a sinister look when he was angry. ‘You dare to tell
anyone
about those Irishmen and I’ll kill you. We’re finished. Get your stuff and get out, by the morning.’

Jessica struck at his hands. Her eyes flashed. ‘I’m not frightened of you.’

He sat back on the bed on his heels, a powerful naked figure.

‘Oh, but you should be, Jessica. You should be.’

That was Monday evening.

‘It’s good of you to put me up,’ said Jessica, looking around Deborah’s small flat. ‘I don’t know what came over Jeffrey. But that’s
men for you.’

‘Well, he has a point,’ said Deborah. ‘Why must you insist on going through with it?’

‘Because Sir Charles stands for everything we are against. Privilege, unfair wealth, keeping people from enjoying the countryside. Oh, let’s not argue.’ She smiled slowly down
into Deborah’s eyes. ‘Let’s go to bed. I feel like an early night.’

‘All right,’ sighed Deborah. ‘I’ll make us some coffee first. Put your stuff in the bedroom.’

As Jessica walked through to the bedroom, the phone rang. Deborah picked up the receiver.

‘Hello there,’ came the voice of Sir Charles Fraith. ‘Look, there’s a showing of
Citizen Kane
at the Art Cinema tomorrow night. Feel like seeing it with me and
having a bit of supper afterwards?’

‘Love to,’ said Deborah, clutching the phone hard and marvelling that there was someone still left on the planet who hadn’t seen
Citizen Kane.

‘Give me your address and I’ll pick you up.’

Deborah looked nervously towards the bedroom. ‘No, I’ll meet you there. What time?’

‘Begins at seven thirty. Meet you outside at quarter past.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘See you then. Bye.’

Deborah walked into the bedroom, a mulish look on her normally weak face. ‘I think I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ she said to Jessica. ‘And I like my space. You can only stay
here the one night.’

Jessica looked at her, feeling a hot burst of rage. What had happened to all her acolytes? ‘Who was that on the phone?’ she demanded.

‘Just a friend,’ said Deborah. ‘I do have friends other than you, you know.’

‘I’ll bet it was Jeffrey.’

Deborah remained silent, with the set stubbornness of the weak and frightened stamped on her face.

‘So it
was
Jeffrey,’ said Jessica. ‘Well, before you get the hots for that oaf, just think what he would say if he knew you had sex with me that evening he was away at
the teachers’ conference in Birmingham.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ shouted Deborah, not giving a damn what Jeffrey would think, but terrified that any such gossip would get around and might reach the ears of Sir Charles, her
mind so distorted by fear that she did not pause to think it highly unlikely any part of her world would cross that of Sir Charles Fraith.

‘Oh, I would, I would.’

‘Get out in the morning!’ screamed Deborah, beside herself with fear and hatred. ‘I never want to see you again.’

That was Tuesday.

Happy and quite drunk, Kelvin Hamilton lay in bed and watched Jessica strip. He had hardly been able to believe his luck when she had arrived on his doorstep with her two
suitcases, claiming to have always fancied him. Past insults were forgotten. He was not surprised that she did not wear a bra and had breasts that were quite magnificent. This, he thought, was
going to be a night to remember. When she removed her jeans and he saw she was wearing men’s Y-fronts, he felt a sudden sharp diminution of lust.

She climbed into bed and he proceeded to try to make love to her, but nothing happened. After he seemed to have been thrashing around on top of her for some time, Jessica said in a disgusted
voice, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kelvin, give up. You’ve got distiller’s droop. Go to sleep.’

The contempt in her voice sobered him. Soon she was gently snoring. He lay with the tears rolling down his cheeks. He thought he would die of sheer humiliation. He wanted her dead. He woke her
up and began to shout.

That was Wednesday night.

Jessica was determined to find free lodgings. She called at the Copper Kettle, but Peter and Terry squeaked nervously like bats and backed away from her. ‘Haven’t
an inch to spare, sweetie,’ said Terry. ‘Must rush. Lots of customers.’ So Jessica went round to Alice Dewhurst’s, to the flat she shared with Gemma Queen.

‘I’m all for helping one of the sisterhood,’ boomed Alice, ‘but as you can see, we really haven’t room for anyone else. Have you tried the Y?’

And so Jessica moved in with Mary Trapp, whom she secretly despised, and only found comfort in the fact that Mary slavishly adored her. Mary even said she would go with her on the walk across
that field of Sir Charles Fraith’s on Saturday.

But on the Friday, Mary complained of stomach pains. Then she disappeared to the bathroom, from which sickening retching noises could soon be heard.

‘It’s your own fault,’ said Jessica unsympathetically. ‘You will buy junk from the health shops and overeat, thinking it’s all right because it comes from a health
shop. Honestly, you are a pill.’

‘Leave me alone,’ said Mary.

‘At least you should be fit enough to come with me tomorrow,’ said Jessica.

Mary hunched a shoulder. ‘I won’t.’

So on Saturday, wearing a large pair of – studded boots, a short denim skirt and sleeveless blouse, and with a militant gleam in her eye, Jessica Tartinck set out alone.

On the following Monday, Jeffrey approached Deborah in the staff-room. ‘How’s Jessica getting on?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Deborah. ‘I haven’t seen her. I believe she moved in with Mary.’

‘I’m meeting the others for lunch in the Grapes,’ said Jeffrey, meaning the ramblers. ‘We’ll ask her then.’

But when they were all settled over their beer and sandwiches in the Grapes, it was to learn from Mary that Jessica had set out on her walk across Sir Charles’s estate and had not
returned.

‘He probably sent her off with a flea in her ear and she blames all of us,’ commented Jeffrey. ‘You know she likes to sulk.’

‘She’s a bitch,’ said Kelvin moodily.

‘That’s not true!’ Mary looked outraged. ‘What’s happened to all of you? You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

‘Why didn’t you go with her, Mary?’ asked Alice.

‘I was too ill,’ said Mary. ‘Food poisoning.’

‘I’m a teensy bit worried.’ Peter looked around the group with wide eyes. ‘The poor thing came to the Copper Kettle looking for a bed from us. Did you throw her out,
Jeffrey?’

‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘What happened with you, Deborah? Didn’t she try you?’

‘I’ve got a small flat, as you know, and only one bed,’ said Deborah. ‘I could only give her one night’s lodgings.’

‘I said we should have put her up,’ whispered Gemma.

Alice’s eyes flashed with jealousy. ‘Now, we’re not going to have a row about that again.’

‘So what should I do?’ asked Mary. ‘Call the police?’

‘We don’t want to have anything to do with the filth,’ said Jeffrey, and there was a general murmur of agreement. ‘I’ll ask Jones if he’s heard anything from
her.’ Mrs Jones was the head teacher.

‘I’ve already done that,’ said Deborah. ‘I asked this morning. She hasn’t phoned in sick or anything.’

‘Then maybe you’d better ask your friend, Sir Charles, if he saw her on Saturday,’ suggested Jeffrey, looking at Deborah.

‘No friend of mine,’ muttered Deborah. She had not told the others of her date with Sir Charles. She had enjoyed her evening, although, in her case, seeing
Citizen Kane
for
the umpteenth time and then being entertained to supper in a Burger King had not seemed like an upper-class evening out. But Sir Charles had been easy company, although he had not suggested seeing
her again. She longed to phone him. Now, surely, she had an excuse to do so.