Agatha Raisin and The Walkers of Dembley

Agatha Raisin had just finished reading an account of the death of Jessica Tartinck in the local newspaper when her doorbell rang. Always hoping it might be James, she glanced quickly at her reflection in the hall mirror before opening the door.

Mrs Mason, chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies' Society, stood there. 'Oh, Mrs Raisin. May I come in a minute? I want to ask your advice.'

'Of course. I was just about to have a cup of coffee.' Agatha led the way through to the kitchen.

'So what can I do for you?' asked Agatha, pouring two mugs of coffee.

'It's this terrible murder. A relative of mine is involved.'

Agatha's bearlike eyes gleamed with interest.

'My niece, Deborah Camden, is one of the ramblers,' said Mrs Mason. 'She had heard through me of your detective abilities and begged me to speak to you. The fact is' - Mrs Mason preened slightly - 'that this Sir Charles Fraith is by way of being a friend of Deborah's.'

'The landowner?'

'Yes, and Deborah says he has been arrested for the murder and that they've got the wrong person.'

'Does she know the right person?'

'No, but she says Sir Charles is nice and kind and it can't be him.'

'But there was nothing in the paper about an arrest. It simply said a man was helping police with their inquiries.'

'That's Sir Charles. He hasn't been charged yet. But Deborah says it's only a matter of time. You see, he says he was up in London on the Saturday she was killed, but some farm labourer swears he saw Sir Charles in the field shouting at this Jessica and waving his arms.'

'Oh dear, does she know why Sir Charles lied?'

'No. But she begged me to ask you for help.'

'I would be delighted,' said Agatha, speaking no more than the truth. She could hardly wait for Mrs Mason to leave so that she could call on James and see if she could get him to join her in detecting adventures again.

But she asked, 'What can you tell me about your niece?'

'Deborah is a schoolteacher at the Dembley Comprehensive. She is twenty-eight and not married. I haven't seen much of her because I quarrelled with her mother, Janice, my sister, a long time ago and we don't visit. Deborah always was a clever little thing but a bit mousy, which is probably why she isn't married.'

'I think I should talk to her.'

'She's teaching until four this afternoon. After that, I could take you over to Dembley.'

'No, I don't want to be seen with her in Dembley,' said Agatha.

'Why?'

'Well, perhaps I will be going undercover.'

'Oh. Oh, well, I'll go over and fetch her and bring her to you. We'll be here about five.'

'That would be splendid.'

As soon as Mrs Mason had left, Agatha darted upstairs and put on a new short-sleeved blouse of a soft leaf- green and then a pair of biscuit-coloured tailored slacks. Taking a deep breath to hold her stomach in, she made her way next door.

James opened the door. He frowned when he saw her. 'What is it, Agatha? I'm very busy at the moment.'

And Agatha, feeling hurt and rejected because he wasn't speaking any of the lines she had written for him in that short breathless time between Mrs Mason's departure and Agatha's arrival at James's door, said gruffly, 'Nothing. It can wait.' And turned and walked away.

Screw him, she thought. Who needs him anyway? How dare he speak to me like that!

She found to her dismay that her interest in the case was waning fast. To counteract it, she drove down to the newsagent's in Moreton and bought all the papers and retreated to a dark corner of a tea-room, one of the few which still catered for smokers, and began to read all she could about the death of Jessica Tartinck.

Jessica, who had defied the others and said she would go on the walk on her own, had been found dead in the middle of one of the fields on Sir Charles Fraith's estate. She had been struck savagely on the back of the head with a spade. Jessica Tartinck had been a campaigner for all sorts of rights - anti-nuclear, save the whales, the environment in general, and now the rights of ramblers. A don from Oxford University described her as having a brilliant academic brain and absolutely no common sense whatsoever. She had taught at a girls' school and had brought the pupils out on strike. Although her family were in Milton Keynes, since leaving university Jessica appeared to have hopped from one teaching job to another, with spaces in between to take time off to go on marches and rallies and create general mayhem. Agatha reflected cynically that such as Jessica probably kept moving on as soon as people got used to her, as soon as she felt her power slipping. There were people like that who really did not give a fig for the environment, the whales, or anything else, but used protests as a means to gain power. Probably, thought Agatha, if she had not been killed, Jessica would soon have moved away from Dembley. She wondered what Jessica's sex life had been like. Such women often used sex as a weapon to manipulate people and gain control of them. There was a rather blurry photograph of her in one newspaper. She appeared to have been quite a striking-looking woman. There were several articles in various papers about ancient rights of way. But there was no hint at all why anyone should have wanted to murder Jessica.

At five o'clock, Agatha found her initial interest had revived. When Mrs Mason arrived with Deborah, Agatha, going to the door and glancing in the hall mirror, wished she looked more like a great detective, whatever great detectives were supposed to look like.

Deborah, decided Agatha, seemed an inoffensive sort of girl. There were hundreds like her to be seen on the streets of any town in the Midlands - fair-haired, washed out, thin and timid.

'So, Deborah,' began Agatha, 'how can I help you?'

'It's ever so worrying,' said Deborah earnestly. 'I don't know where to begin.'

'Begin by telling me how you came to meet Sir Charles.'

'It was like this. Jessica was threatening to walk across that field and she sent me to check the right of way. I didn't want to be caught out trespassing, so I called at the house first. Sir Charles was ever so nice and gave me tea. Then he asked for my phone number and then he called me up and took me out to the cinema.'

'Why?'

'Oh, well, you know...'

'He fancies you?'

'Maybe,' said Deborah. 'He seemed to like being with me.'

'Has he phoned you since?'

'No, but I phoned him today and told him about you.'

'So the police have released him?'

'They couldn't really keep him. The farm worker who saw him having a row with Jessica also saw him walking away towards the house when Jessica was still alive. If you're available, Sir Charles would like us both to go there for lunch tomorrow.'

Agatha felt a glow of simple snobbish delight. She, Agatha Raisin, was going to have lunch at a baronet's. Stuff James! She would have great delight in telling him all about it...afterwards.

'Do you want to use the phone to confirm it?' asked Agatha.

'No, he said if I didn't phone back, he would know we were coming. We're expected at one.'

'So do you want me to pick you up at the school? Although I feel I should not be seen by the others if I'm going to investigate this case.'

'I have a little old Volkswagen. I'll get there myself,' said Deborah, 'and meet you there. There's one person I should warn you about. If anyone is capable of murder, he is.'

'Who is that?'

'Gustav. The manservant. He doesn't like me. He told me to stay away from Sir Charles.'

'And did you tell Sir Charles this?'

Deborah hung her head and muttered. 'No.' She hadn't wanted Sir Charles to know she was the sort of person of whom a servant disapproved.

'Don't worry,' said Agatha bracingly. 'No uppity servant is going to get the better of me.'