Part 11 (2/2)
”But would you say,” asked Bill, tilting back his head to look at a flock of pigeons wheeling over the churchyard, ”she would be capable of driving anyone hitherto considered normal to commit a brutal and fantastic murder?”
”Yes, I think she could.”
”Come, Vicar, do you mean to tell me she gave you murderous thoughts?”
”No, she embarra.s.sed me considerably. What I have told you is mere speculation. My wife has not discussed her with me and yet I know my wife did not like her, and it is a very rare person whom my wife does not like.”
”So apart from making a pa.s.s at you and then wanting you to emotionally blackmail Lacey into marriage, she had no real confession to make? No darker secrets?”
”No, had she revealed anything of importance, I would tell you. People here talk about some maniac from Birmingham who might have come to rob her, but I firmly believe that one of the villagers is responsible.”
Bill smiled. ”No doubt our Mrs Raisin will be trying to find out who did it.”
”No doubt,” said the vicar drily. ”A most abrasive female, but there must be good in her, for my wife thinks the world of her.”
”Oh, there's a lot of good in our Agatha.” Bill got to his feet. He looked down curiously at the vicar, wondering if this cleric was as mild and gentle as he appeared on the surface.
”If you hear anything you think might relate to this case, Mr Bloxby, please let me know.” The vicar rose as well.
”Certainly.” He glanced at his watch. ”Time for tea. My wife makes an excellent tea. Perhaps you would care to join us?”
This last was said with such a reluctant politeness that Bill refused.
The vicar nodded and strode off in the direction of the vicarage. A man of iron, thought Bill, just like his wife, armoured in goodness against the likes of Mary Fortune.
Agatha sat down in the vicarage that evening and wished she had not come. The discussion was about gardens open to the public. Some of the villagers evidently made extra money for charity by serving teas. Agatha toyed with that idea and then rejected it. The fee for entry to each garden was twenty pence a head. Agatha had not thought before how much to ask and was depressed that her Great Deception was going to bring so little reward. She quite forgot that she was supposed to be putting out feelers to find out what they all thought of Mary Fortune, and became sunk in gloom. A stupid, childish trick was going to cost her six months of slavery for Pedmans in London.
By the time she went along to the Red Lion, she began to feel that it was just as well that she had been forced into going to London. There was no elation any more at the thought of seeing James. The more one learned about Mary, the more James became diminished in a way, because he had chosen to have an affair with her. The village in the quiet summer's evening felt alien and almost threatening. Agatha had that old feeling of being on the outside of life looking in. And what did she really know of the private thoughts and lives of these villagers? If the murderer was someone they knew and respected, would they not all band together to protect that person?
She would have been surprised could she have known that James's thoughts were running along roughly the same lines. He was feeling isolated as he stood at the bar, surrounded as usual by the easy friendliness of the locals, that peculiar village friendliness which was all on the surface and never really gave anything away.
He saw Agatha entering the pub and felt relieved. There was something very rea.s.suring and honest in Agatha's pugnaciousness. When she went to join him, he bought her a gin and tonic and suggested they take their drinks to a table at the corner of the bar. Before, Agatha would have been highly gratified that he preferred her company away from that of the locals, but she could not get rid of the flat, depressed feeling that was a.s.sailing her.
”So how did you get on with Beth?” she asked.
”She was very charming. And very helpful with those historical diaries. She is a highly intelligent girl.”
”Where's the boyfriend?”
”He's gone off for a few days to see friends in Oxford.”
”Did she talk about her mother?”
”Only to say that they never got on very well and that she blames Mary for the break-up of the marriage. I invited her out for lunch tomorrow because I thought it might be a good idea to get to know her better and that way find out more about her mother. Care to come along?”
Suddenly Agatha, who had been so sure that she was free at last from any involvement with him, found her temper snapping. She got to her feet. ”Don't be so b.l.o.o.d.y naive, James,” she said and turned and walked out of the pub. He sat and watched her go, wondering what on earth he had said to annoy her.
Agatha found the following day dragging slowly along. She could not think of anyone else to call on to ask questions about Mary Fortune. She had caught a glimpse of Bill Wong in the village the day before and she hoped he might call and give her some fresh ideas.
She made herself a microwaved lunch out of a packet of frozen curry, reverting to her old cooking habits, washed it down with a gla.s.s of beer, and had two cigarettes and a strong cup of black coffee for dessert. She could imagine James and Beth cosily ensconced in some pub or restaurant, talking about early nineteenth-century history, getting to know each other better. The girl was a pill, but James had been tricked by Mary Fortune, so who was to say he was not going to be seduced by the daughter?
The doorbell rang after she had spent half an hour amusing herself by playing with the cats in the garden. She glanced at the clock. Only two. Still, James might, with luck, have cut the lunch short.
But it was John Deny, Beth's boyfriend, who stood on the step.
”Oh, come in,” said Agatha, falling back a pace. ”What can I do for you?” He followed her into the living-room and slumped down in an armchair. He was wearing torn jeans and Doc Martens. There was something heavy and threatening about him.
”I thought you had gone away for a few days,” said Agatha.
”Obviously that friend of yours, Lacey, thought so too,” said John.
”What do you mean?”
”I met a smelly old woman in Harvey's, that post-office place, and she said something about us outsiders having no morals at all and that Lacey, having screwed the mother, was now out to screw the daughter.”
”I cannot imagine,” said Agatha, correctly identifying the culprit, ”that old Mrs Boggle would use that sort of language.”
”That's what it amounted to. What gives?”
”Beth and James share a common interest in history.”
”Is that what it is?” he sneered. ”I don't think your friend Lacey has any interest in Beth's knowledge of history. I think, along with you, he's the village snoop. Beth's got enough on her plate without being manipulated by a couple of middle-aged Miss Marples, Leave her alone.”
”Whatever happened to the modern woman?” asked Agatha sweetly. ”Is Beth not allowed to make up her own mind about who she sees?”
”She can't make up her mind about anything, the state she's in. Also, she's rich now, and I don't want any middle-aged Lothario chasing her to get his hands on her money or, for that matter, his hands up her skirt.”
”b.u.g.g.e.r off, pillock,” said Agatha wearily.
He stared at her in amazement.
”You heard,” snarled Agatha. ”You probably murdered Mary Fortune yourself, come to think of it.” She stood up. He stood up as well and loomed over her threateningly.
”This is a nasty village full of nasty people,” he said. ”And an old wrinkly like you is one of the nastiest. Tell Lacey to keep away from her.”
”Tell him yourself,” said Agatha. ”Now get out.”
The doorbell rang. Agatha went to answer it, but he blocked her way.
”I haven't finished with you yet,” he said.
The front door, which Agatha had not locked, opened, and to her relief Bill Wong walked in. He saw Agatha standing with her eyes blazing and her hands clenched. He saw John Deny glaring down at her.
”Trouble, Agatha?” he asked.
<script>