Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley (9 page)

‘I think he did it.’ Bill thought Agatha sounded positively pettish. ‘Sir Charles and that servant of his.’

Bill leaned back in his chair, his almond-shaped eyes fastened on Agatha’s sulky face.

‘This is not like you, Agatha. Was Sir Charles high-handed with you?’

‘No,’ muttered Agatha. ‘I think he’s stupid and silly. He lied about not being there on Saturday and I think –’

The doorbell shrilled faintly from the front of the house. Agatha went to answer it and stared up at the tall figure of James Lacey.

‘I was a bit rude to you yesterday, Agatha,’ he said apologetically. ‘I thought I was getting on fine with my writing, but then I found later that what I had written was
rubbish.’

All the humiliations of the day forgotten for one brief glorious moment, Agatha begged him to come in and join them for coffee.

When James was seated at the garden table, he asked Bill, ‘Are you working on this rambler case?’

‘Yes, and so is Agatha, or rather, so
was
Agatha,’ said Bill. ‘A girl in the case, Deborah Camden, roped our Agatha in to help Sir Charles Fraith, but Agatha seems to
have come back from lunch there with a flea in both ears and won’t quite tell me what went wrong.’

‘Odd family, the Fraiths,’ said James, stretching out his long legs. ‘So what did go wrong, Agatha?’

‘It was that damned manservant, Gustav,’ said Agatha wearily. ‘He had it in for me and I got rattled.’

There was a short silence while both men reflected how a rattled Agatha might behave.

‘So I get the feeling Sir Charles decided he did not want your services after all, Agatha. What did you say to put him off . . . if you can think of one thing,’ James added, implying
that Agatha might have let loose a string of insults.

‘Well, he’s got this odd aunt and she said it would be nice if that farm worker, Noakes, turned out to be the murderer and I said something like it suiting their type of people very
well to think the hired help had done it. Sir Charles said I was prejudiced.’

James laughed. ‘Poor old Agatha. This Gustav must be quite something to get under your skin. I know Sir Charles slightly. Friend of a young friend of mine. Oh, you must not give up
detecting, Agatha. I’ll speak to Sir Charles. I’ll use your phone, if I may.’

‘If he wants me back on the case, will you come with me?’ asked Agatha.

He looked down at her, his eyes twinkling. ‘Why not?’

‘So what of your ideas that Sir Charles and Gustav are murderers?’ asked Bill when James had disappeared indoors.

‘Oh, I was just joking,’ mumbled Agatha. If James were successful, then he and she could go detecting again, and that pillock, Gustav, wouldn’t matter a bit.

James got Sir Charles on the phone. ‘I gather you had a friend of mine, Agatha Raisin, over for lunch,’ he said after introducing himself.

‘Oh, her,’ said Sir Charles. ‘That little rambler, Deborah Camden, you’ll have seen her name in the papers over this business, she said this Mrs Raisin of yours was a
whiz, but I thought she was a rather odd woman with one massive chip on her shoulder.’

James laughed. ‘She has her methods, Watson. But, by God, she gets results. Do you know how she started detecting? When she arrived first in this village, she wanted to make her mark by
winning a quiche-baking competition. So she bought a quiche in London and put it in as her own. One of the judges dropped dead after eating it, so she had to find out who did it.’

Sir Charles chuckled appreciatively. ‘Sounds like a character.’

‘Furthermore, Agatha and I have worked on some cases together. Don’t turn her down. She’s good.’

‘I’ll try again.’ Sir Charles sounded suddenly weary. ‘Why don’t both of you come over for a drink?’

‘Right,’ said James. ‘What time? Sixish?’

‘That’ll be fine.’

James returned in triumph to the garden. ‘I think you’re on again, Agatha,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Barfield House for drinks at six.’

‘What! This evening? I’ve hardly sobered up from lunchtime.’

‘Then drink mineral water.’

James looked at Bill. ‘Why no stern admonitions to keep out of it?’

Bill grinned. ‘Because the police are baffled. I can’t see the pair of you getting into much trouble over a few drinks with Sir Charles Fraith. He’s hardly likely to poison you
when he’s under suspicion.’

Agatha looked at her watch. ‘It’s five!’ she said. ‘I’d better go and repair myself.’ She looked at James shyly. ‘What should I wear?’

‘I don’t know,’ said James. ‘We’re going on business, so wear anything that’s comfortable. I’ll drive.’

It was a different Agatha who was driven up the drive to Barfield House by James. She felt
armoured
by James. At first she had rehearsed how to explain her outburst but
then decided a dignified silence on the subject would be the better policy.

Gustav opened the door to them. His eyes flicked up and down Agatha, making her feel that a plain green wool dress was not at all the thing to wear, and then led them to the sitting-room.

Sir Charles nodded to Agatha and welcomed James enthusiastically.

Gustav served drinks – Agatha stuck to mineral water – and then Sir Charles began. ‘We seemed to get off on the wrong foot,’ he said to Agatha.

‘Waste of time, if you ask me,’ said Gustav to the panelled wall.

James’s head jerked round. ‘Leave us alone, Gustav,’ he said sharply. ‘This is too important a discussion to be interrupted by your cheeky comments.’

Gustav looked at Sir Charles, who nodded, and he left the room.

‘How can you put up with that man?’ asked James.

‘What’s up with him?’

‘He has a reputation for insolence.’

‘I
haven’t noticed,’ said Sir Charles, ‘and since he’s my man, it’s got bugger-all to do with you.’

‘Well, your problem.’ James shrugged. ‘Now, tell me how you got into this mess.’

Agatha, now able to relax – it was just a house, after all, and Sir Charles just a man – nonetheless studied the baronet closely while he talked.

It all seemed very believable this time, now that she no longer found either him, or her circumstances, threatening. He explained at length how Gustav, returning from a visit to the
keeper’s cottage, had reported seeing Jessica approaching the field. Confident of soothing her, he had gone out to meet her. How had he known who she was? Deborah had described her quite
accurately. When he had seen her jumping and trampling around with her great boots, he had lost his rag. He had called her a silly little girl and that had seemed to get up her nose no end, said
Sir Charles with a certain amount of remembered satisfaction. Had he threatened her in any way?

For the first time Sir Charles looked uncomfortable. ‘There was something so arrogant, so unpleasant about her that I told her I was going to get my shotgun and blast her if she
didn’t get off my land. I didn’t tell the police that.’

‘Why did you lie? Why did you say you were in London?’ asked James.

‘We’re a very close-knit community at Bar-field, the keepers, the estate workers, the farm workers – didn’t know about the horrible Noakes, he was taken on recently
– and I didn’t brief them, I just expected them to go along with my story.’

‘That seems a bit naïve,’ commented James.

‘It does now. Now I’m in a mess, and with the police looking in my direction, they aren’t likely to do their job properly, which is finding out the real murderer. I’ve
been thinking,’ he said earnestly, leaning back in a winged chair and cradling his glass in both hands against his chest, ‘I’m an easygoing sort of bod, and yet look how she riled
me up. I think that lover of hers, what’s-his-name, did for her. Anyway, how are you going to find out anything the police can’t?’

‘For a start,’ said Agatha, speaking for the first time, ‘James and I could move to Dembley, take a flat, pose as man and wife and join the Dembley Walkers. What better way is
there to get to know them?’

James showed signs of alarm, but Sir Charles said enthusiastically, ‘What a good idea. I’ve some property in Dembley and I think there’s a furnished flat vacant. Wait there.
I’ll call up my man and find out.’

He went out of the room. ‘Agatha,’ said James, ‘you should have asked me first if I could spare the time to move to Dembley and if I wanted to pretend to be your
husband.’

‘If you don’t want to do it, don’t,’ said Agatha.

‘I didn’t say that,’ said James. ‘It’s just it’s a big thing to do.’

Agatha forced herself to remain calm. ‘As I said,’ she remarked in as even a tone as she could manage, ‘I’m quite prepared to go ahead on my own.’

Sir Charles came back. ‘That’s settled, then. There’s a jolly nice apartment in Sheep Street, bang in the centre of Dembley. You can move in as soon as you like.’

There was a little silence. Agatha held her breath.

‘All right,’ said James. ‘I’m not getting on very far with the writing anyway.’

‘What are you writing?’ Sir Charles asked.

‘Military history.’

‘Which period?’

‘Napoleonic wars.’

‘My father was a great history buff. Gustav put a lot of his books up in one of the attics. Would you like to have a rummage?’

James’s eyes shone. ‘I’d love that.’

‘I’ll take you up. Want to stay here, Mrs Raisin?’

But Agatha was appalled at the idea of being left in a room which Gustav might enter, and eagerly volunteered to go with them.

When James and Agatha finally drove off together, James clutching a pile of old books, Agatha tried not to listen to his enthusiastic descriptions of the treasures he had found and how he was
dying to get started writing again.

For a brief period she was to be Mrs Lacey, albeit in name only.

But who knew what delights that could lead to!

‘That’s an odd couple,’ said Jeffrey Benson a week later. It was the day after the weekly meeting of the Dembley Walkers. He was referring to a certain Mr and
Mrs James Lacey, who had turned up and said they were eager to join the walkers. Jeffrey and the others were in the Grapes at lunchtime, a somewhat more relaxed group than they had been in previous
days. All were getting used to frequent interrogations and diggings into their past by the police. Kelvin was feeling quite euphoric because the police had not discovered Jessica’s visit to
him or the subsequent row, and Jeffrey was beginning to feel at ease because he had not heard a word about entertaining any Irishmen.

‘Bourgeois,’ said Alice, heaving her great bottom on the imitation medieval chair in the lounge bar. ‘They’ve got money. That was a Gucci handbag she was
carrying.’

‘There’s something a bit common about her, reelly,’ said Deborah, who secretly, thanks to several warm telephone calls from Sir Charles, felt she was becoming an authority on
the upper classes. ‘He’s all right, though.’ She giggled. ‘Quite attractive, I think.’

‘But dae we want them with us?’ demanded Kelvin. ‘We can hardly fight the good fight wi’ a couple o’ Tories tagging along.’

Gemma said uneasily, ‘Do you mean we’re still going to have to face up to angry landowners, even though Jessica’s dead?’

‘Why not?’ demanded Alice. ‘Jessica was a bit of a bully, but when you look at it, she had the right idea.’

Deborah stared into her glass of orange juice. She suddenly did not want to be part of a group that went in for confrontations. And yet, the walkers had meant friendship and a cause. What if Sir
Charles did not call her any more or want to see her? Then everything would have been for nothing, she thought sadly, and she would be alone again. She found it hard to make friends, considering
the quieter, milder teachers, the ones who might be considered her own sort, not glamorous enough.

Peter Hatfield and Terry Brice unexpectedly came to Gemma’s defence. ‘I think it’s Gemma who has the right idea,’ said Terry. ‘We could have lovely walks . .
.’

‘Lovely walks,’ echoed Peter plaintively.

‘. . . if only we just settled down to enjoy the countryside.’

Jeffrey stretched and yawned. ‘Oh, this Saturday should be mild enough. There’s a pretty walk listed in one of the books. Most of it goes through farmland and the book says that
it’s well signposted.’

‘What year was the book published?’ demanded Alice suspiciously.

‘Nineteen thirties. But they update these publications, for God’s sake, or it wouldn’t still be on sale. It’s quite a long walk. Do we take the cars out to the beginning
of it?’

But the rest decided they were proper ramblers and should walk the whole distance. They agreed to meet outside the Grapes at nine in the morning on Saturday.

‘We’d better tell the Laceys,’ suggested Deborah.

‘Where do they live?’ asked Peter Hatfield.

‘Got a flat in Sheep Street,’ said Terry. ‘Here’ – he fished out a notebook – ‘I wrote it down with their phone number. That James Lacey was ever so
nice to me. I’ll phone him.’

‘Oh, suit yourself,’ said Peter sulkily.

It was Agatha who took the phone call later that day. She wrote down the meeting-place and the time and then went happily back to preparing a special dinner for James.

To her initial disappointment, the flat had proved to be much larger than she had anticipated, having three bedrooms. She had fantasized about there being only one bedroom. James would sleep on
a cot-bed on the floor. ‘God, this thing’s uncomfortable,’ he would moan. ‘I wish I had that nice double bed to sleep on.’ And Agatha would say huskily, ‘Why not
join me?’ And he would, and then, and then . . .

But all that had happened was that he took one bedroom, she had another, and there was the third bedroom in between. Also, for the first few days, she had seen little of James, for he kept
remembering things he should have brought and running back to Carsely to get them. But tonight they would have dinner together.

Agatha had bought ready-made food from Marks & Spencer, removing it from the foil dishes and putting the contents into pretty oven dishes to make it look as if she had cooked everything
herself. She had candles on the table. Candlelight might be corny, but it hid the signs of ageing. How maddening that middle-aged men did not need to bother about wrinkles, or did not seem to. She
had good breasts and had invested in a silk blouse with a plunging neckline and a black silk skirt which was very flattering to her still somewhat thickened figure.