Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage (15 page)

The voice quacked again. It was obvious to Agatha that Bill was explaining that whatever he had to say to Maddie he hadn’t wanted to be overheard by the switchboard, because Maddie said,
‘This is neither the time nor place, and if you want to know the truth, there never
is
going to be a time and place . . . ever. Geddit?’

She slammed the phone down and said to Agatha, ‘Get out of here.’

And Agatha went, gladly.

James was too curious about this new information to be angry with Agatha. In fact, he seemed to find her story about the desk and the manufactured faint amusing.

‘Roy Silver phoned when you were out,’ he said. ‘That secretary, Helen Warwick, the one Derrington was having the affair with, is back. I have the address. Want to go up to
London today?’

‘Can we leave it till tomorrow?’ pleaded Agatha. ‘I’ve got to go to Cheltenham with the awful Hardy woman and sort out the house sale.’

‘Are you driving her or is she driving you?’

‘Neither. She’s meeting me there.’

‘Do you want me to come with you in case she tries to put the price up again?’

‘She wouldn’t!’

‘She might. She’s a tough customer.’

‘I hate her,’ said Agatha passionately. ‘I hate her almost as much as I hate that Maddie Hurd. What Bill ever saw in her is beyond me. What a bitch! And we’ve got Basil
to check out.’

‘You go and see to getting your home back and we’ll drive over to Mircester afterwards and see what we can find out about Basil.’

‘And there’s the husband, Geoffrey Comfort of the Potato Plus. What is Potato Plus anyway?’

‘It’s a small factory where they put potatoes in plastic bags for the supermarkets. But his home number is in the book. Guess where he lives?’

‘Here? Carsely?’

‘No, Ashton-le-Walls, same place as the late Miss Purvey. Off you go.’

Agatha found Mrs Hardy waiting for her in the lawyer’s office in Montpelier Terrace in Cheltenham.

Agatha had paid £110,000 for the cottage and had sold it to Mrs Hardy for £120,000. Mrs Hardy was asking £130,000, a ridiculous price, thought Agatha, now that the market had
slumped.

Agatha was about to sign the papers when the price of £150,000 seemed to leap off the page at her.

‘What’s this?’ she snapped.

‘The price?’ The lawyer smiled. ‘Mrs Hardy said that was the price agreed on.’

‘What the hell are the pair of you up to?’ snarled Agatha. She rounded on the lawyer. ‘You agreed to the price of one hundred and thirty thousand on the phone!’

‘Well, Mrs Hardy seems to think one hundred and fifty thousand a fair price.’

Agatha gathered up her handbag and gloves. ‘You can get stuffed, the pair of you. I’ll tell you what my figure is now – one hundred and ten thousand pounds. Take it or leave
it.’

She marched out of the office.

Oh, my home, she mourned as she got in her car. I’d better give it up. I’d better find another cottage in another village and get away from James entirely and get my life back. The
world is full of other men.

But when she walked into James’s cottage and he looked up and smiled at her, she felt her heart turn over and wondered if she would ever really be free of the feelings she had for him.

She told him what had happened and James said mildly, ‘There are other cottages, you know. Let’s have an early dinner and go to Mircester.’

The Loanings, where Basil Morton lived, was a builder’s development, rather like the one where the Wong family had their house. It was like a council estate, the only
difference that Agatha could see being that the houses were slightly larger and the gardens well tended.

They rang the doorbell, not expecting a reply, but using it as a preliminary to calling on the neighbours and asking where their ‘friend’, Basil, had got to. To their surprise, the
door was answered by a thin, dark-haired woman. At first they thought she was a girl because she was wearing a short navy skirt and white blouse, almost like a school uniform, and her hair was
braided into two plaits. But when she switched on the overhead light over the door, they saw the fine wrinkles around her eyes and judged her to be in her late thirties.

‘May we speak to Mr Morton?’ asked James.

‘Basil’s away abroad on business. He’s often away.’ Loneliness shone in the dark eyes. ‘Won’t you come in?’

They followed her into a living-room, which was almost frightening in its sterile cleanliness. There were no books or magazines lying about. ‘How long have you lived here?’ asked
Agatha, looking around her.

‘Ten years.’

And not a scuff-mark or stain or wear anywhere, marvelled Agatha. Can’t be any children.

‘Sherry?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Then please sit down.’

She knelt down in front of a sideboard which shone and gleamed from frequent polishing and took out a crystal decanter, then three crystal glasses and a small silver tray. She put the tray on
the carpet and placed glasses and decanter on it.

‘Allow me.’ James carried the tray and its contents to a low coffee table, which also shone and gleamed like glass.

How terrifying, thought Agatha. Doesn’t she ever spill anything?

The woman poured out three glasses of what turned out to be very sweet sherry, probably British sherry, thought James, wrinkling his nose as he sniffed it.

‘Did you want to see Basil about business?’

‘No, Mrs . . . er . . . Morton?’

‘That’s me.’

‘We just wanted to talk to him about a personal matter,’ said James.

‘He’s gone abroad. Spain. He often travels.’

‘What is his business, Mrs Morton?’

‘Bathrooms. Morton’s Bathrooms, that’s the company.’

‘Why Spain?’

‘He buys tiles there,’ she said vaguely. ‘To be honest, I don’t really know anything about the business. I have so much to do here, and I’m so tired when Basil gets
home that I usually fall asleep.’

‘Do you work at home?’ asked James.

She gave a little laugh and one thin hand waved to take in the gleaming living-room. ‘Housekeeping. It never ends. You must find that, Mrs . . .?’

‘Call me Agatha. I get a woman to clean. I’m not very good at housekeeping.’

‘Oh, but you’ve got to keep on top of it. It’s the least one can do for a hard-working husband. I like my Basil to have his little nest to come home to . . . when he does come
home,’ she added wistfully.

James drained his glass with a little grimace and signalled with his eyes to Agatha.

‘Well, we must be on our way, Mrs Morton. We have other calls to make.’

‘Oh, must you go? Just a little more sherry?’

‘No, really. You’re very kind.’

‘Who shall I say called?’

‘Mr and Mrs Perth.’

‘And what else could we ask?’ said James as they drove off. ‘We could hardly tell that poor neurotic house-cleaner that her husband has gone off to Spain with another
woman.’

‘What now?’ asked Agatha.

‘Mr Comfort, I think. Ashton-le-Walls again, and wouldn’t you know it. The fog is back.’

‘Are we going to tell this Mr Comfort our real names?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Why did we waste time going to see Basil?’

‘Well, we didn’t go to see him because we know he’s out of the country. I was going to ask the neighbours about him. Funny, I didn’t think for a moment that he would be
married.’

‘I suppose if we had been kind, we should have broken it to her,’ said Agatha slowly. ‘I think the police will check up and they’ll tell her. Oh dear, all that cleaning
and polishing in the name of love. He’s probably spitting on the floor of his hotel room and leaving rings from his wineglasses on the bedside table.’

‘Just look at that bloody fog.’ James rubbed at the windscreen with a gloved hand. They had left the dual carriageway and were inching through the fog towards Ashton-le-Walls.

‘What are we going to ask him? Oh, look out!’ screamed Agatha as a badger loomed up in the headlights. James braked and the badger shambled off into the hedge.

‘I don’t know,’ said James testily. ‘For God’s sake.’ He had moved off again, only to brake savagely once more as a deer leaped through the fog in front of
them. ‘Why don’t those bloody animals stay warm and comfortable instead of wandering about on a filthy night like this? Mr Comfort? We’ll play it by ear. He may not even be home.
Or we may find ourselves faced with the second Mrs Comfort.’

Geoffrey Comfort lived in a large manor house on the outskirts of the village. ‘You’d never think there was all that amount of money in putting potatoes in plastic bags,’
marvelled Agatha. ‘I’m beginning to think I’ve spent my life in the wrong trade.’

‘Place looks deserted,’ muttered James, peering through the fog. ‘No, wait a bit. There’s a chink of light through the downstairs curtains.’

They parked the car and approached the house and rang the bell.

They waited and waited. ‘Probably left the light on because of burglars,’ Agatha was beginning, when the door suddenly opened and a middle-aged man stood there, peering at them. He
was very fat and round, rather like a potato himself, one of those potatoes washed and bagged for the supermarkets. To add to the impression, his fat face was lightly tanned and he had two black
moles on his face, like the eyes of a potato.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Comfort?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am James Lacey and this is Mrs Agatha Raisin.’

‘So?’

‘Mrs Raisin’s husband was murdered recently. He stayed at a health farm at the same time as your wife.’

‘Fuck off!’ The heavy door was slammed in their faces.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Agatha.

‘We go to the nearest pub and eat and drink, that’s what we do. We can’t very well ring the bell again and demand he speaks to us.’

A window opened and Mr Comfort’s round head appeared. ‘And bugger off fast or I’ll let the dog out.’

‘There’s your answer. In the car, quick, Agatha.’

They sped off, James swerving in the drive to avoid a pheasant. ‘What’s that stupid bird doing awake? Why isn’t it up in the trees with the rest of the birds? Why has the whole
damned countryside turned suicidal?’

‘I could do with a bucket of gin,’ said Agatha gloomily. ‘Pity you’re driving.’

‘Never mind. I’ll drink just short of any breathalyser test. I’m more interested in food.’

They found the village pub, called quaintly the Tapestry Arms. A menu was chalked up on a blackboard beside the bar. James read it aloud. ‘Jumbo sausage and chips, curried chicken and
chips, lasagne and chips, fish and chips, and ploughman’s.’

‘Should we try somewhere else?’

‘Not in this fog. Let’s try a couple of ploughman’s and hope for the best.’

The ploughman’s turned out to be rather dry French bread with a minuscule runny pat of butter and a wedge of Cheddar-type cheese which looked for all the world like an old-fashioned slab
of carbolic soap.

Agatha’s gin and tonic was warm, the pub having run out of ice.

Bands of fog lay across the room. Agatha thrust away her half-eaten food and lit a cigarette. ‘Don’t glare at me, James. With all this fog about, my cigarette smoke won’t make
much difference.’

‘So you think the Hardy woman will accept your offer?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t. I think I’m going to have to pay her what she wants. I know it’s silly and I know I could get somewhere else quite close, but I want my own place. Did you
notice the garden when we were going into her place? Weeds everywhere. Why do people live in the countryside if they don’t like living things?’ demanded Agatha piously. She wrinkled her
nose at her warm gin and tipped it into a rubber plant which was standing on a shelf near her table.

‘I gather you don’t want to try another of those?’

‘No, thank you. And I don’t like warm beer either.’

‘Then we may as well face a foggy journey home.’

They went outside. The fog had lifted and a fresh wind was blowing. A little moon raced through the clouds above their heads. A shower of beech nuts fell on Agatha’s head. ‘More
nuts!’

‘They’re poisonous,’ said James. ‘Poisonous to sheep and cattle. Don’t seem to affect the squirrels.’

When they reached home, James said wearily, ‘I feel we are going round and round and not getting anywhere. The police have all the resources – to check histories, alibis and bank
accounts. Do you think it is really worth going to London tomorrow to see this secretary?’

‘Of course.’ Agatha was now frightened that if they stopped their investigations, James would take off for foreign parts again. ‘You’ll feel better about it all in the
morning.’

Helen Warwick was not at the Houses of Parliament but at her flat in a Victorian block in Gloucester Road in Kensington. When she answered the door, Agatha could not believe at
first that this lady could have been Sir Desmond’s mistress. She was plump and placid, with light grey eyes and brown hair worn in an old-fashioned French pleat. She was wearing a tailored
silk blouse and tweed skirt, sensible brogues, and no make-up. James judged her to be in her forties.

James explained, correctly this time, who they were and why they had come. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

The flat was large, rather dark, but very comfortable, with a fire burning brightly in the living-room. There was a large bowl of autumn leaves and chrysanthemums on a polished table by the
window. The sofa and chairs had feather cushions. A good Victorian English landscape hung over the fireplace. It looked as if Miss Warwick had money and had probably always been well off.

‘I was shocked when I learned of Desmond’s death,’ said Helen. ‘We were great friends. He was always so kind and courteous. I’m sorry his wife had to find out in
such a dreadful way. What’s all this about blackmail?’

So they told her all about Jimmy Raisin and Mrs Gore-Appleton. ‘I remember them,’ said Helen. ‘No, they didn’t try to blackmail me. I’m the sort that would have
gone straight to the police and they probably knew that. I didn’t like them one bit. How they found out my real identity I do not know.’

‘They probably looked in your handbag,’ said Agatha.

‘And saw the different name on my credit cards? I suppose so. Horrible people. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I can almost pinpoint the day they found out.’