Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

drawer and stood hanging on to the kitchen counter. What fools they had all been. It was so dreadfully simple. Mrs Hardy was Mrs Gore-Appleton. It must have been she who recognized Miss Purvey in the cinema that day, even though she had said she was going to London. The mercenary Helen Warwick must somehow have decided to call on James and have spotted Mrs Gore-Appleton and recognized her. They must have spoken.
    Mrs Gore-Appleton was so changed in appearance that Helen might have said something like, ‘Aren’t you that woman I met at the health farm?’ Something like that. And did Mrs Gore-Appleton try to bribe her? Say she would call on her in London? What was the address? That sort of thing. And Helen might have gone along with it, hoping to make some money.
    The sound of Mrs Gore-Appleton coming down the stairs made Agatha’s blood freeze.
    Had Agatha not been so disoriented by the fever, which was rising again, she would have done the sensible thing and left immediately and called the police. But a sort of dizzy outrage took hold of her and she said, ‘Mrs Gore-Appleton, I presume.’ She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘I saw the photo of you and Jimmy in that drawer.’
    ‘You truly are a village person, poking your nose into things.’ Mrs Gore-Appleton was standing, her bulk blocking the doorway.
    Agatha could have asked her why she had murdered three people, but instead she heard herself saying stupidly, ‘Why Carsely? And why this cottage?’
    ‘I wanted out of London,’ said Mrs Gore-Appleton. ‘I’d tried living in Spain, but it didn’t suit. I’d asked a house agent to look for a place in the Cotswolds. I was sent several brochures and decided to come down and have a look around. I heard your name mentioned as one of the sellers. I didn’t know you had been married to Jimmy, he never mentioned your name or that he had been married, but the name amused me, and so I bought this.’
    ‘And Jimmy came back and recognized you and tried to put the screws on?’
    ‘Exactly. I’d changed my name to Gore-Appleton with some false papers. When I wound up the charity, I just reverted to my old name.’
    ‘Why didn’t you kill me?’ asked Agatha, her eyes darting this way and that, looking for a weapon.
    ‘Well, do you know, I did try by setting fire to Lacey’s cottage but in case some villager saw me at the scene, I had to look as if I was trying to put it out. Then I took rather a liking to you, and I saw a further way to remove any suspicion from myself and so hired someone to play the part of the gunman. That kick of mine was very well rehearsed.’
    ‘Who was that on the phone just now?’ demanded Agatha. ‘The police?’
    ‘No, it was the interfering vicar’s wife, demanding to know where you were for some suspicious reason.’
    Agatha braced her shoulders. Mrs Gore-Appleton had no weapon. ‘I am going to walk past you and phone the police,’ she said.
    Mrs Gore-Appleton stood aside. ‘I am not going to stop you, I am tired of running. At least they don’t have the death penalty any more.’
    She stood aside.
    Agatha marched past her and into the living-room. She put the receiver back on the hook and lifted it again and began to dial Mircester police headquarters.
    Mrs Gore-Appleton, who had crept up behind her, brought a brass poker down hard on Agatha’s head.
    With a groan, Agatha slumped to the floor.
    ‘Silly woman.’ Mrs Gore-Appleton gave her a kick and replaced the receiver.
    She went out into the back garden and into the potting-shed at the end and found a spade. She tore out some of Agatha’s finest shrubs and tossed them on the lawn and then began to dig a grave, thankful that the soil was loose and easily dug.
    Then she returned to the living-room and felt the unconscious Agatha’s pulse. She was still alive, but burying would soon solve that problem, thought Mrs Gore-Appleton. She seized Agatha by the ankles and dragged her through the kitchen and out into the garden, Agatha’s wounded head leaving a trail of blood across the paving-stones just outside the door. Then across the lawn she was dragged and tipped face-down into the grave.
    ‘RIP, Agatha dear,’ she said, and threw the first shovelful of earth into the grave. She was so intent on her job, with her back to the house, that she was not aware of anyone arriving until Fred Griggs seized her and threw her to the ground while Bill Wong jumped into the grave and frantically began shovelling the earth