The Blood of an Englishman (24 page)

“What I cannot understand,” said Agatha, “is why Gwen has not been charged with anything, or so Patrick tells me. I mean, wasn't she around when her son was cutting up a dead body? At least Jed is now only charged with Crosswith's murder. They've got Walt for the murder of Hale and they're pretty sure he killed his father and George Southern.”

“My husband was called over to comfort Mrs. Simple,” said Mrs Bloxby. “She's in a terrible state. You see, they always made their own meat pies. A carcase would be delivered from the butcher and cut up at the bakery. Walt, like his father, was trained how to butcher meat. She said that latterly she left all the baking and pie making to her son.”

“I think she's a slimy, devious woman,” said Agatha, “and I bet she knew something.”

“Let's hope not,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Have you seen Sir Charles or Mr. Lacey?”

“Yes, that nearly finished basket of fruit is from James. It's nearly finished because Charles ate most of it. Oh, I would like to go home.”

“I'll wait until you see a doctor and find out if it's all right,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Then I can drive you home.”

*   *   *

Later that day, Agatha sat in Mrs. Bloxby's little car as the vicar's wife drove her down the green lanes to Carsely. The day was sultry with great black clouds looming up in the west.

Agatha refused to go to the vicarage, saying she would be all right on her own. The fact was that she craved a cigarette, although she remembered uneasily promising God to give up smoking if she were saved.

Her cleaner had delivered her cats. Agatha sat down on the floor and patted them. She found her hands were beginning to shake. She still had nightmares about her brush with death. She let the cats out into the garden, made herself a cup of strong black coffee and went and sat at the garden table.

Opening a packet of Bensons, Agatha lit a cigarette. A great flash of forked lightning stabbed down, followed by a drum roll of thunder.

Agatha was struck by superstitious dread. She hurriedly stubbed out the cigarette as the rain came down in sheets and her cats scampered indoors for shelter.

There was a pile of mail on the kitchen table. Agatha sat down and flicked through it. One large square envelope caught her eye. She opened it up.

At first she thought it was a wedding invitation but on reading the curly embossed script, she found it was an invitation from Jeremy Rutherford to a party at his home. She quickly checked the date. The party was due to take place in three days' time on Saturday evening.

All Agatha's fears left her as she began to plan what to wear.

*   *   *

In the next few days, she was too busy getting her face done at the beautician's and her hair freshly tinted to wonder overmuch why James had not called on her.

By Saturday, the weather was glorious again. Agatha set out wearing a scarlet silk chiffon dress cut on the bias so that it seemed to float around her when she walked.

Jeremy Rutherford's house turned out to be a large Georgian building set in its own grounds. There were a lot of cars already parked outside the mansion. Someone rapped on her window as she hesitated, wondering where to find a space. She lowered the window to find herself confronted by a young man wearing a parking attendant's hat, a black leather thong, high boots and nothing else.

“There's a space over there beside that Jag,” he said politely.

Agatha moved her car into the space. He might have told me it was fancy dress, she thought.

She went into the house. There were two rooms off a large square hall and all seemed to be filled with men. There were men over at a buffet in the hall, men in one of the rooms dancing together, men hugging each other, and a few women. Oh, no, thought Agatha. They're not women, they're men in drag.

Jeremy emerged from the crowd. He was wearing a black T-shirt and tight black trousers. “Listen up, folks!” he shouted. “This is the famous Agatha Raisin you've all read about.”

Faces crowded around Agatha. They're all looking at me as if I were some strange beast, thought Agatha.

“Jeremy,” she said firmly, “this is not my scene and you should have known that. I don't want to be on display.”

She turned and marched out the door, followed by cries of, “Ooh! Temper. Temper.”

Jeremy caught up with her as she was getting into her car. “I'm sorry, Agatha. Do come back in. Everyone's dying to meet you.”

“Maybe another time,” said Agatha, and drove off.

*   *   *

She found Charles waiting for her when she arrived home. He laughed when she told him about the party. “Antiques, Agatha. You should have known.”

“No, I shouldn't,” snapped Agatha. “I know a lot of heterosexual antique dealers. I might have stayed if it hadn't been obvious that he'd only invited me along as some sort of curiosity. What a waste! A lot of the fellows were very good-looking.”

“How are you feeling now that you're home?” asked Charles.

“A bit shaky but I'll get over it. Gareth Craven sent a large cheque. I'm still bothered about Gwen.”

“Yes, she got off, didn't she?”

“If mother and son were so unhealthily close as to make Walt want to bump off her fiancé, then it stands to reason she must have known something. Stop reading my mail.”

“I like reading other people's mail. So much more interesting than mine. Oh, look at this. Carsely's got its own therapist. Maybe you should go.”

“Let me see. Jill Davent, qualified therapist. Leave your troubles with me. Yack, yack, yack. Bound to be a charlatan.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She's working from home. Ivy Cottage.”

“Forget her. Want to go and see Gwen?”

“She won't see me,” said Agatha.

“She'll see me. I'll bet she's on the hunt for a husband now that her possessive son is out of the road.”

“May as well,” said Agatha. “I'm still curious.”

*   *   *

Winter Parva lay innocently before them in the soft twilight as they drove into the village. “You'd never think there had been murder and mayhem going on here,” said Agatha.

“You'd better wait in the car,” said Charles. “She won't let us in if she sees you.”

“Oh, all right,” said Agatha. “I wish I'd brought a book.”

Gareth Craven answered the door to Charles. To Charles's request to see Gwen, he said, “Poor Gwen is not seeing anyone but me.”

Gwen appeared beside Gareth. “Why, Sir Charles! Do come in.”

How can she bear to go on living here? wondered Charles. He walked through to the back shop. The living quarters were on the right at the end of a long dim passage and to the back were, he assumed, where the freezers and the room that had been Agatha's prison.

“I came to see how you were getting on,” said Charles.

“Do sit down,” said Gwen. “We were just about to have tea. Gareth, dear, don't you have something to do?”

“No,” said Gareth sulkily, sitting down opposite Charles.

Gwen waited until she had served tea and then smiled at Charles. “I'm moving out tomorrow. The wine company is moving in.”

Charles looked around the kitchen. “Nothing seems to be packed,” he said.

“Oh, I'm paying for one of these super duper removal firms. They do it all.”

“And how are you coping with your bereavement?” asked Charles.

Her face hardened. “I have hired a top psychiatrist to explain to the police that my poor son was brutalised and traumatised into committing those terrible deeds. He should not be blamed.”

“Gwen's getting help from a good therapist,” said Gareth.

“Oh, she's ever so clever. She's just moved to the Cotswolds. Her name is Jill Davent.”

“The one in Carsely?”

“Oh, yes. Do you know her?”

“I haven't met her.”

“Oh, but you should,” said Gwen sweetly. “Perhaps she could find out the deep reason you are not married.”

“Perhaps she could,” said Charles amiably. “Did you eat any of your late fiancé?”

“How dare you bring all that up?” said Gwen, beginning to cry.

“Get out of here!” roared Gareth.

*   *   *

“And that was that,” said Charles after he had given his report to Agatha.

“What on earth prompted you to ask if she'd eaten any of John?” asked Agatha.

“It just came out,” said Charles ruefully. “She looked so … well … smug. And that crack about me needing to visit this therapist really annoyed me. Let's go to the pub in Carsely. I could do with a drink.”

*   *   *

In the Red Lion, they took their drinks out into the pub garden.

“I'm sure Gwen must have known what her son was up to,” said Agatha.

“I don't think so,” said Charles. “I mean, if Walt hadn't murdered John, then she would have married him.”

“Just wish I could be a fly on the wall when she's talking to that therapist.”

“Look! Here comes James,” said Charles.

James walked into the pub garden, carrying two glasses. He was accompanied by a small woman. She had straight black hair and rather protuberant dark eyes set in a pug-like face.

Agatha waved to James as a signal to join them, but James only nodded and led his companion to a table a good bit away from them. Soon he and his companion were absorbed in deep conversation.

“Who the hell is she?” demanded Agatha fiercely.

“Whoever she is, our James does seem fascinated,” said Charles.

“Can't possibly be,” said Agatha sourly. “She looks like a constipated otter. I need another drink. Go into the bar and find out who she is.”

“Yours to command,” said Charles lazily.

When he came back, he said, “That is the therapist.”

“What! The one Gwen is going to?”

“The same.”

“I'll go and see her myself,” said Agatha.

“Come on, Aggie. Butt out.”

“I need to protect James. What can he see in her?”

When Charles eventually left, Agatha sat in her garden and fretted. She would not admit to herself that she was jealous.

By late afternoon, she felt she couldn't bear it any longer, picked up that flyer and phoned Jill.

“I would like to make an appointment,” she said.

“What is your name?” asked the therapist.

“Agatha Raisin. I live in the village.”

“I could see you in half an hour's time. I have had a cancellation.” Her voice was husky and attractive.

“Okay,” said Agatha, but suddenly feeling the whole idea of seeing this woman was stupid.

*   *   *

Jill ushered Agatha into what she called her consulting room. It was dark, as the blinds were drawn. There was a smell of joss. Agatha was told to sit in an armchair and Jill sat on a hard upright seat behind her.

“Now what is troubling you?” Jill asked.

“I am having nightmares,” said Agatha.

“I can help with that. First let us go back into your childhood and start there. Tell me about it.”

Agatha had no intention of telling this woman about her upbringing in a Birmingham slum, or about her alcoholic parents. So she invented an idyllic childhood in a Cotswold village and happy school days. Her father had been a farmer and her mother, an old-fashioned housewife. She was rambling on happily and had just got to the bit where her fictitious mother was making one of her famous chocolate cakes and letting little Agatha lick the spoon when Jill's voice interrupted her. “Don't tell me a load of lies, Mrs. Raisin, or I cannot help you.”

Agatha leapt to her feet. “How dare you call me a liar.”

“Only when necessary.”

“I'm out of here,” said Agatha. “You can take your therapy and stuff it up your scrawny arse.”

“That will be sixty pounds.”

“What!”

“That is my fee and I've earned it listening to your lies.”

Face flaming, Agatha opened her wallet and threw three twenty-pound notes at Jill before storming out.

As she walked home, she wondered furiously how Jill had penetrated the layers and layers of middle class that she had lacquered herself with over the years.

She stopped short at the corner of Lilac Lane. James knew her background. Had James told her?

She strode to his cottage and banged on the door. There was no reply and his car was not parked outside.

Agatha was about to turn away when James drove up. He was no sooner out of his car than Agatha flew at him, shouting, “Did you tell her?”

He pushed her away and said, “You're gabbling. Tell who what?”

“That therapist. Did you tell her about my background?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” demanded James. “I never gossip about you.”

“I'm sorry,” said Agatha. “It's silly to be so ashamed of my background, but I am. I told her a fictitious tale about my childhood and she knew I was lying.”

“Come in and have a coffee and tell me why you went to her in the first place.”

Agatha did not say she had been prompted by jealousy. Instead, she said that she had learned Gwen was consulting Jill and she wanted to see what sort of woman the therapist was.

“You saw me with her in the pub,” said James. “You could have waited and asked me. I find her intelligent and sympathetic. She is a very good listener.”

“So am I,” said Agatha, “and I don't charge sixty pounds.”

“I haven't been consulting her. I regard her as a friend.”

“How did you meet her?”

“She called on me.”

“Why?”

James looked awkward. “Jill said she was new to the village and wanted to meet a few interesting people. She had read my travel books.”

“Wanted to meet a few unmarried men,” said Agatha cynically.

“Let's talk about something else. Are you still suspicious of Gwen?”