Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body

Charles looked around at the gleaming suits of armour, the long refectory table, the crossed halberds on the wall, the tattered battle flags and the imitation gas-fired flambeaux and suppressed a smile. He doubted if there was one authentic piece in the room. But Agatha was obviously jealous of Miriam and he felt like winding her up further. Maybe Agatha might begin to recognise some of her worst qualities, such as pushiness, in Miriam and tone down a bit.

'Lovely!' he exclaimed.

Agatha felt it all looked like a stage set. 'Now, can I get you something to drink?' asked Miriam. 'I feel we are all going to be great friends.' But she turned her back on Agatha as she said this and smiled broadly at Charles.

'I think it would be a good idea if we got started,' said Agatha loudly. 'Let's begin at the vicarage.'

A mobile police unit had been set up in the little triangle of village green in the centre of Odley Cruesis. Police tape fenced off the front of the vicarage. A policeman stood on guard outside the door.

Agatha ducked under the tape, followed by Miriam and Charles. 'You can't come in here,' protested the policeman.

'The murder took place outside,' said Agatha, pointing to the tented-off French windows. 'We are making a social call.'

The policeman looked across at the mobile police unit as if for help and then to the tent where shadowy figures moved under halogen lights. 'Wait here,' he ordered, and strode off towards the police unit.

As they shivered in the snow and waited, Agatha asked Miriam, 'What brought you to the Cotswolds?'

'I came here on a holiday years ago and never forgot it. So beautiful and peaceful. Well, up till now, that is. Oh, here's the copper.'

'You can go in,' said the policeman. 'Mrs. Courtney?'

'Yes, that's me.'

'You're to come with me to the police unit for more questioning.'

'Really!' complained Miriam, exasperated. 'You've already kept me up most of the night. You'll be hearing from my lawyer as soon as he can get through the snow.'

She walked off with the policeman and Agatha went up to the door of the vicarage and rang the bell.

Penelope answered the door. She was wearing the same outfit as she had been the night before. Agatha wondered if she had slept in her clothes. Penelope blinked at them myopically. 'If you are the press,' she said, 'I have nothing to say.'

'I'm Agatha Raisin,' said Agatha, 'and this is my friend, Sir Charles Fraith.'

Penelope beamed. 'I am so sorry I didn't recognise you, Sir Charles. I attended a fete on the grounds of your beautiful house last year. Do come in.' She seemed to have forgotten Agatha's existence.

The drawing room of the old vicarage was colder than ever. A two-bar electric heater had been placed in front of the ash-filled hearth. A tall, thin man came into the room. 'This is my husband,' said Penelope, making introductions all round. He shook hands with them. 'I'm Giles Timson,' he said in a high, reedy voice. 'Bad business, heh? Do sit down.'

'I am a friend of Mrs. Bloxby,' began Agatha, settling herself in an armchair beside the heater. 'I run a detective agency. Mrs. Courtney has hired me to investigate.'

'Why?' he asked. He looked like a surprised heron looking down at an odd fish in a pool as he stood over Agatha. He had grey hair and a long, thin nose.

'Miriam seems to be considered number one suspect.'

'I'm sure the police will find the culprit,' he said.

'So distressing,' fluted Penelope. 'I mean, it's not a case of who would have wanted to murder John Sunday, but who wouldn't?'

'My dear . . .'

'Well, Giles, you yourself said you would like to murder the little man.'

'What prompted that?' asked Charles.

'I don't think . . . ,' began the vicar nervously, but Penelope said eagerly, 'Oh, you remember, he objected to candles in the church. He said they might fall over and burn someone. You were so angry, Giles. 'I could kill you, you little insect,' that's what you said. Giles has quite a temper.'

'I am glad they don't have hanging any more,' said the vicar, 'or my dear wife would have me on the scaffold. I'll be in my study if anyone wants me.' His pale grey eyes raked up and down his wife's thin figure. 'Didn't you change your clothes this morning?'

'There wasn't time. The police were here all night and I slept in the armchair by the fire.'

'Tcha!' said the vicar, and left the room.

'Was there anyone here last night who might have a reason to kill Sunday?' asked Agatha.

'Oh, dear. I mean, I don't think anyone would have murdered him, but the reason for the meeting was that everyone had run afoul of the dreadful man at one time or another.'

'What sort of things?'

'Mrs. Carrie Brother was charged by him because her dog fouled the village green. Mr. and Mrs. Summer and Mr. and Mrs. Beagle. They usually decorate their cottages with Christmas lights but have been stopped this year. All those regulations.'

'Where were they seated?' asked Agatha.

'It's so hard to remember. I think the Beagles were by the fire and the Summers over by the door. But it would need to be someone who left the room, wouldn't it? There's only Mrs. Courtney and Miss Simms. Perhaps Miss Simms?'

'Did she voice a dislike of Sunday?'

'Well, no, but I mean, she is not really quite what one would expect at a ladies society.'

Agatha bristled. 'Miss Simms has been a very good secretary for some time.'

'I don't think it can be Miriam,' said Charles with a sideways glinting smile at Agatha. 'She seems such a jolly, straightforward sort of person.'

'Exactly,' said Penelope. 'And she has done so much for the village. Such a generous contribution to the church restoration fund and she always makes the manor available for village parties and events.'

Again that stab of jealousy hit Agatha. Would anyone praise her in such a way? Sometimes she felt she was living on the Cotswolds rather than in the Cotswolds. Her work at the agency meant she was often out of the village for long periods of time. In the past she had raised funds for various charities but certainly not of late. And the recession meant that people were always arriving to take up the houses the new impoverished were leaving, so few people would remember her actually doing anything to help the village of Carsely. Agatha wished she had paid more attention to the people in the room the previous night.

'Did John Sunday have a love life?' asked Charles.

Penelope removed one pink slipper and meditatively scratched a big toe. 'Chilblains,' she said. 'There was a rumour . . . oh, but I never pay attention to gossip.'

'Try to remember,' said Agatha eagerly.

'I shouldn't . . . and Giles would be furious if he knew I had been passing on malicious gossip, but I did hear that Tilly Glossop and he seemed to be close.'

'And where does this Tilly Glossop live?'

'On the other side of the green. It's a little cottage called Happenstance.'

'That's an odd name,' said Charles.

'She is rather an odd woman. Quite gypsy-like. I don't think she has any gypsy blood in her, but she wears bangles and shawls and thingies.'

Agatha got to her feet. 'No time like the present. We'll go and talk to her.'

'Dear me,' fluttered Penlope. 'You won't say I--'

'No, no. Won't breathe a word. Was she here last night?'

'No, she wasn't. She doesn't go to church, either.'

'Does anyone these days?' asked Agatha cynically.

'My dear Mrs. Raisin. Most of this village attends on Sundays.'