“That didn’t go entirely as I had hoped,” she said, sitting down on the top step. Charles took a couple of steps down and leant against the stone wall.
“Far more entertaining than I thought it would be.” He chuckled. “Mustard and ketchup? That was inspired.”
“First things that came to hand,” said Agatha forlornly. “What an embarrassment…”
“She hates mustard,” said Charles.
Agatha’s wig slipped out of her hand and tumbled down the steps like a soggy severed head.
“This may never recover.” Charles laughed, stooping to pick it up. “But you will. Come on, I’ll walk with you to meet that taxi.”
* * *
Mary flung open her bedroom door and marched into the large adjacent dressing room, ripping off her gown and kicking it across the floor. She pawed at the mustard splattered over her cheek. Agatha Raisin had gone too far this time! Too far! She would suffer for this. She felt tears welling in her eyes and went to wipe them away, then suddenly stopped. Mustard. Mustard in the eyes would be unbearable! How that woman would love her to miss out on the rest of the party with inflamed eyes. That was not going to happen. She would return to the party, laugh and smile and show everyone that a despicable old cow like Raisin could not get the better of her. She headed into her en suite bathroom to shower.
Minutes later, wrapped in a towel, she sat in front of the mirror at her dressing table, bathed in a pool of light, brushing her hair. She was considering what she should wear and how that would affect her choice of make-up when she suddenly had the chilling feeling that she was not alone.
“Hello, Darlinda,” came a voice from the shadows. “You’re missing the party.”
Mary spun round and her eyes widened with terror.
“YOU!” she gasped. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
She leapt to her feet and dashed for the bedroom door, only to find it locked. There was no way out.
* * *
Agatha and Charles walked slowly, at a pace dictated by Agatha’s dress. They exchanged few words. They hadn’t made it very far down the drive when Agatha stopped to fish a stone out of her shoe.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Not about Mary … I’m sorry that this is going to make things even worse for you.”
“I can handle it,” said Charles. “Don’t worry about me, sweetie.”
“But I do, Charles,” Agatha said, “and there are things you’re not telling me.”
“Honestly, Aggie, I can’t go into it all with you. I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“I already know some of it,” Agatha admitted. “The spa hotel plan, for instance.”
Charles sighed and admitted that he was sorely troubled by that particular idea. Agatha knew that the taxi Toni had summoned would take an age to arrive, and with Charles all to herself, she continued to press him for details of his situation. She tried to come up with suggestions about how he could rid himself of the Brown-Fields, and their discussion ranged back and forth, Charles maintaining all the while that he was not at liberty to discuss the intricacies of his financial arrangements with his wife and in-laws.
“If they hear that I’ve let out even a whisper about—” He froze as a woman’s scream cut through the stillness of the evening. It came again, and again—shrill, relentless, terrified.
“That’s coming from the stable block,” he said. “This way, hurry!”
Charles ran round the side of the house, past the door to the butler’s pantry, with Agatha, having hitched up her skirts, hot on his heels. At the entrance to the stables they could see a young woman, sobbing hysterically, being comforted by a young man. The stable was brightly lit and Charles stopped in the doorway. Hanging by her neck from a wooden beam was Mary. She was wearing her riding clothes. Her eyes were closed and her head had been forced sideways by the large knot in the thick rope. Her arms were limp by her sides and her legs dangled neatly together.
“Quickly, Charles, there may still be time!” yelled Agatha, dashing past him.
She grabbed Mary’s legs and lifted her, taking the weight off the rope. Charles swiftly righted a stepladder that was lying on its side and climbed up to loosen the rope around Mary’s neck and undo it from the beam. It was clear when they laid the body gently on the stable floor, however, that their efforts were in vain.
Lady Mary Darlinda Fraith was dead.
Chapter Four
Other people arrived while Agatha and Charles were laying Mary’s body on the floor of the stable. The security guards were first, followed by Gustav and a straggle of partygoers.
“Keep them all out of here, Charles,” said Agatha. “Get Gustav to phone the police. Tell the security guards to make sure that no one leaves until the police get here, especially the couple who found the body.”
Agatha looked down at Mary. The mustard-and-ketchup-stained gown was nowhere to be seen. She was dressed instead in her show-jumping outfit—black boots, white jodhpurs, a black jacket with a sparkling diamond horse brooch and a white shirt with a high collar. This is all utterly bizarre, thought Agatha. This is a classic suicide scene. Hanging is the most common form of suicide in the country, but none of this makes any sense. Why on earth did Mary change into these clothes? And suicide? She was a strong-willed and very determined young woman. She certainly wasn’t the sort to slope off and hang herself, even after the sort of confrontation we had on the dance floor. She was upset, but not suicidal. There is something very odd about all of this.
Agatha crouched over the body. The eyes were closed. On the eyelids, however, she noticed clusters of little red spots. There was also a swelling around the mouth and on closer inspection she could see that the lower lip was split, the small cut covered over with lipstick. I certainly didn’t smack her in the mouth, she told herself, so how did that happen? And she hasn’t done a very good job of covering it up.
She moved the rope slightly and noted the abrasion it had left on the neck. Then she spotted the edge of a bruise lower down and gently shifted the collar on the right side. There were a series of dark marks accompanied by small scratches. Finger marks, she concluded. Could I have done that when I grabbed her a few days ago? I didn’t take much of a grip, so it hardly seems likely.
She pulled the collar at the other side to reveal another set of marks, then immediately stood up and backed away. She was startled by a piercing shriek followed by the sound of Linda Brown-Field screaming, “My baby! My baby! Charles, get that rope off her neck!” Tears were streaming down her face and Darell was at her side, supporting her as she wept and sobbed.
“Don’t just stand there!” he yelled. “Do it, man!”
Charles turned towards the body but Agatha grabbed his arm, holding him back.
“You mustn’t touch anything,” she said. “She’s been murdered.”
“WHAT?!” Darell exploded. “Murdered? YOU did this!” He pointed an accusing finger at Charles. “YOU did this!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Charles yelled. “I was nowhere near the—”
“Let’s all try to calm down a little, shall we?” Detective Constable Alice Peterson hurried past the Brown-Fields into the barn and went straight to the body. With a radio crackling bursts of static, a female uniformed police officer took up position just inside the doorway. Alice looked up at her colleague and shook her head. “No signs of life,” she said softly.