Agatha's First Case (6 page)

The curtains were drawn but he could see that lights were on in the house. He rang the bell and waited.

Jill answered the door and looked him up and down from his mild face and white hair to his highly polished shoes.

“Come in,” she said. There was a dark little hall. She opened a door to the left of it and ushered him into her consulting room. Phil looked at the walls. He noticed there were several framed diplomas. The walls were painted dark green and the floor was covered in a dark green carpet. Jill sat behind a mahogany desk which held a Victorian crystal inkwell a phone and nothing else on its gleaming surface. There was a comfortable leather chair facing her and a standard lamp with a fringed shade in one corner, shedding a soft light.

Jill sat behind her desk and waved a hand to indicate he should take the seat opposite.

“How can I help you?” she asked. She had a deep, husky voice.

“I work for Agatha Raisin,” said Phil, “and it is well known in the village that you have been spreading tales about her poor upbringing. Why?”

“Because she wasted my time. Any more questions?”

“You are supposed to help people,” said Phil in his gentle voice. “You are not supposed to go around trying to wreck their reputation. Your behaviour was not that of a caring therapist.”

“Get the hell out of here!” screamed Jill with sudden and startling violence.

Phil rose to his feet, clutched his heart, grabbed the desk for support, and then collapsed on the floor.

“Stupid old fart,” said Jill. “Too damn old for the job. I'd better get an ambulance.” She picked up a phone from her desk and left the room.

Phil got quickly to his feet, took out a miniature camera and photographed the certificates on the wall before sinking back down to the floor and closing his eyes.

She returned and stared down at him. “With any luck, you're dead,” she said viciously, and then left the room again. She had not even bothered to search for a pulse or even loosen his collar.

Phil got to his feet and moved quietly into the hall. He could hear Jill's voice in the other room, but could not make out what she was saying.

He opened the front door and walked back down the hill. He would print the photos and e-mail them to Agatha's computer.

*   *   *

Later that evening, Agatha decided to walk up to the local pub for a drink. As she left, she saw James welcoming Jill and felt a sour stab of jealousy.

In a corner of the pub were three blonde women the locals had dubbed “the trophy wives.” They were each married to rich men and were rumoured to be third or even fourth wives. They were left in the country during the week, each looking as if she were pining for London. They were remarkably alike with their trout-pout mouths, salon tans, expensive clothes, and figures maintained by strict diet and personal trainers.

Do women have trophy husbands? wondered Agatha. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, that now she had no longings for James, she wanted him to be kept single so that she could bask in his handsome company, a sort of “see what I've got” type of thing.

The pub door opened and Sir Charles Fraith strolled in, tailored and barbered, and almost catlike with his smooth blond hair and neat features. He saw Agatha, got a drink from the bar and went to join her.

“How's things?” he asked.

“Awful.” Agatha told him all about Jill Davent.

“So she sees you as a threat,” said Charles. “What's she got to be scared of?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out,” said Agatha. “I'm furious. Phil went there this evening and got some pics of her certificates. He's sending them over.”

“I bet you've been playing into her hands by raging all over the place,” said Charles. “You're an old-fashioned snob, Aggie. This is an age when people who have risen from unfortunate beginnings brag about it all over the place.”

“I am not a snob” howled Agatha, and the trophy wives giggled.

“Oh, don't laugh too hard,” snarled Agatha. “Your Botox is cracking.”

“You're a walking embarrassment,” said Charles. “Let's get back to your computer and look at those pictures.”

*   *   *

Agatha saw Charles's travel bag parked in her hall and scowled. She often resented the way he walked in and out of her life, and sometimes, on rare occasions, in and out of her bed.

They both sat in front of the computer. “Here we are,” said Agatha. “Good old Phil. Let's see. An MA from the University of Maliumba. Where's that?”

“Africa. You can pay up and get a degree in anything. It was on the Internet at one time.”

“A diploma in aromatherapy from Alternative Health in Bristol. A diploma in tai chi.”

“Where's that from?”

“Taiwan. The woman's a phony, Agatha. Forget her.”

“I can't, Charles. She's counselling Gwen Simple and I swear that woman helped in those murders. I'd like to see her records.”

“Oh, let's forget the dratted woman,” said Charles, stifling a yawn. “I'm going to bed. Coming?”

“Later. And to my
own
bed.”

*   *   *

Agatha would not admit that she was sometimes lonely, but she felt a little pang when Charles announced breezily at breakfast that he was going home.

For the rest of the week, she and her staff were very busy and had to forget about Jill.

But by the week-end, what the locals called “blackthorn winter” arrived, bringing squally showers of rain and sleet.

Agatha decided to motor to Oxford and treat herself to a decent lunch. Her cats, Boswell and Hodge, twisted around her ankles, and she wished she could take them with her.

She parked in Gloucester Green car park, wincing at the steep price and began to walk up to Cornmarket. This is Oxford's main shopping street and one ignored in the Morse series, the producers correctly guessing that viewers wanted dreaming spires and colleges and not crowds of shoppers, and chain stores.

Agatha had initially planned to treat herself to lunch at the Randolph Hotel, but instead she walked into McDonald's, ignoring the cry from a wild-eyed woman of, “Capitalist swine.” Agatha ordered a burger, fries and a black coffee and secured a table by looming over two students and driving them away. She wished she had gone to the Randolph instead. It was all the fault of the politically correct and people like that woman who had shouted at her, she reflected. It was the sort of thing that made you want to buy a mink coat, smoke twenty a day and eat in McDonalds out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

She became aware that she was being studied by a small, grey-haired man on the other side of the restaurant. When he saw Agatha looking at him, he gave a half smile and raised a hand in greeting.

Agatha finished her meal, and, on her road out, stopped at his table. “Do I know you?” she asked.

“No, but we're in the same profession,” he said. “I'm Clive Tremund. I'd like to compare notes. Would you like to get out of here and go for a drink? What about the Randolph? I could do with a bit of posh.”

Along Cornmarket, he talked about how he had recently moved to Oxford from Bristol to set up his agency.

In the bar of the Randolph, Agatha, who had taken note of his cheap suit, said, “I'll get the drinks.”

“I'll be able to get you on my expenses,” he said.

Agatha waited until the waiter had taken their order and come back with their drinks, and asked him what he had meant. “Never tell me I am one of your cases!”

“The only reason I am breaking the confidentiality of a client,” said Clive, “is because the bitch hasn't paid anything so far and it looks as if she isn't going to.”

“Would that bitch be a therapist called Jill Davent?”

“The same. I was supposed to ferret out everything I could about you. Got your birth certificate and took it from there.”

“I'll kill her! Did she give a reason?”

“She said she was about to be married to a James Lacey, your ex. Said if you had got him to marry you, she might learn something by knowing all about you.”

“I think it's because she's hiding something and wants to keep me away,” said Agatha.

“Don't tell her I told you,” said Clive. “She may yet pay me, although I'll probably have to take her to the Small Claims Court. She was one of my first clients.”

“Why did you leave Bristol?”

“Got a divorce. Didn't want to see her with her new bloke. It hurts. Then I had to get my private detective's licence.”

“I've just got one of those,” said Agatha. “How's business?”

“Picking up. Missing students, students on drugs, anxious parents, that sort of thing.”

“What did you make of the Davent woman?”

“She seemed pretty straightforward, until I gave her the report on you, and then she was sort of gleeful in a spiteful way. I asked for my fee and she demanded more. She told me your first husband had been murdered and maybe the police had got it wrong and you did it yourself. I haven't done anything about it. I sent her an e-mail, saying until she paid something, I couldn't go on. She had an office in Mircester before she moved to Carsley.”

“I'll pay your instead,” said Agatha. “Send me a written statement about the reasons she gave for employing you.” Agatha took out her cheque book. “I will pay you now.” She scribbled a cheque and handed it over.

“This is generous,” said Clive. “I'll be glad not to see her again, except maybe in court. She gave me the creeps.”

*   *   *

As Agatha drove back to Carsely, she could feel her anger mounting. As she turned down into the road leading to the village and to Jill's cottage, an elderly Ford was driving in the middle of the road. She honked her horn furiously, but the car in front continued on in the middle of the road at twenty miles an hour.

Victoria Bannister was the driver. She finally saw Agatha pull up outside Jill's cottage, and stopped as well a little way down the road. Her long nose twitching with curiosity, Victoria decided to see if she could hear what Agatha was up to.

The window of Jill's consulting room was open and Agatha's voice sounded out, loud and clear.

“How dare you hire a detective to probe into my life. Leave me alone or I'll kill you. But before I murder you, you useless piece of garbage, I am going to sue you for intrusion of privacy.”

Said Jill, “And that will be a joke coming from a woman who earns her money doing just that.”

Agatha stormed out as Victoria scampered down the road to her car and this time, drove off at sixty miles an hour.

Chapter Two

Mrs. Bloxby had been worried ever since Agatha had told her all about Jill having paid a private detective to look into her background. The vicar's wife felt that Mrs. Raisin should simply have asked Miss Davent
why
she had gone to such lengths.

Two days after Agatha's confrontation with the therapist was clear and quite cold. The waxy blossoms of the magnolia tree in the vicarage garden shone against the night sky where that peculiar blue moon was rising, a blue moon everyone had been told was because of forest fire in Canada.

Mrs. Bloxby came to a sudden decision. She would visit this therapist and ask her herself.

Mrs. Bloxby put on her old serviceable tweed coat and set out to walk through the village and up the hill to Jill's cottage.

She rang the bell and waited. A light was on in the consulting room. Perhaps, thought Mrs. Bloxby, a consultation was in progress and the therapist had decided not to answer the door. But having come this far, she was reluctant to leave. She banged on the door and shouted, “Anyone there!”

Silence.

Mrs. Bloxby walked to the window of the consulting room and peered through a gap in the curtains. She let out a startled gasp. She could see a pair of feet on the floor but the rest was masked by a desk.

She went back to the door and tried the handle. The door was unlocked.

Mrs. Bloxby went straight to the consulting room and walked round the desk. The ghastly distorted face of Jill Davent stared up at her. A coloured scarf had been wound tightly round her neck.

The vicar's wife backed slowly away, as if before royalty. Her legs felt weak and she was beginning to tremble.

She made it outside and, fishing in her old battered leather handbag, took out her mobile phone and dialled 999.

It seemed to take ages for the police to arrive and she stood there while the pitiless blue moon rose higher in the sky.

Mrs. Bloxby let out a gulp of relief when she at last heard the approaching sirens.

*   *   *

It was only when she was back at the vicarage, having given her preliminary statement and been hugged by her worried husband that she realised she should really phone Agatha Raisin.

Agatha was on her road home when Mrs. Bloxby phoned. Her first reaction was, “Oh, God! I threatened to kill her!”

“Did anyone hear you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“No. I bet it was Gwen Simple. I swear that women's a murderer.”

As Agatha drove down into the village, she could see the police cars and ambulance and a little knot of villagers standing behind the police tape.

Her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, and Inspector Wilkes could be seen waiting outside the cottage for the forensic team to do their work. Agatha parked her car up the road and walked forward to join the crowd.

Victoria Bannister saw her approach and called out loudly, “There's the murderer. I heard her threatening to kill her.”

Wilkes swung round, saw the contorted accusing face of Victoria and that she was pointing at Agatha.

“Wong,” he said to Bill, “get that Raisin woman here and whoever that woman is who's accusing her.”

*   *   *

How many weary hours I have spent in this interviewing room, having questions fired at me? thought Agatha dismally. She had been taken to police headquarters and Wilkes was interrogating her.