Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye by MC Beaton

Author:MC Beaton [Beaton, MC]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery
ISBN: 9781472121424
Goodreads: 2069541
Publisher: Constable
Published: 2007-10-11T00:00:00+00:00

Phil was delighted to be able to temporarily drop the divorce case. As he drove into Lower Tapor and parked beside the village green, he could see no one about and yet was conscious of eyes staring at him from behind net curtains. He had never considered himself to be imaginative or psychic in any way and yet he could swear he felt the weight of the hidden watchers’ curiosity and animosity.

Cotswold buildings weather very well. It was hard for Phil to guess the age of the houses. Some were thatched and timbered, so were probably seventeenth century or maybe earlier, their little dormer windows under the eaves looking like eyes. Others had slate roofs and lintels over the door in the style of Queen Anne.

He made his way past the pub to the sisters’ cottage and knocked on the door. Once again Doris opened the door to him. She looked wary.

‘I wonder if I might have another word with you,’ said Phil.

Doris leaned forward and looked to right and left and then said reluctantly, ‘Come in.’

This time her sister, Mavis, was in the parlour. Phil was not asked to sit down. They both faced him, work-reddened hands folded over their aprons.

‘I heard a rumour there was witchcraft in this village,’ said Phil.

They stared at him in silence and then Mavis turned and walked out.

‘I don’t know where you heard such rubbish,’ said Doris. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.’

‘Terrible thing about Fred Instick,’ pursued Phil, not wanting to return to the office with nothing to report.

‘That’s what happens to nosy parkers,’ said Doris.

‘You mean he had found something out and someone wanted to silence him?’

‘Look,’ said Doris, ‘Fred was always bragging about what he called gardener’s privileges. One of them was to help himself to a bottle of wine on his road out of the kitchen. He was the only one I knew who would touch the stuff. Mrs Tamworthy did try to sell some at a village fête but nobody liked it. We make the good stuff here. It was sickly sweet and tasted a bit like medicine. I reckon her never allowed it to mature long enough. Now, get on with you.’

Well, that was something to report, thought Phil. It looked as if the poisoning of the old man had been deliberate. He walked back to his car on the village green. Just as he opened the car door, something struck him viciously on the back of the head and he slumped to the ground, red blood trickling through the white hair on his head.

Two minutes later, George Pyson drove into the village. He saw Phil lying on the ground by his car, braked to a halt and got out and knelt beside him. He took out his phone and called urgently for an ambulance.

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