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Authors: M. C. Beaton
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my room.’
She staggered as if she were drunk as her son supported her out of the dining room.
‘I think you’d better call a doctor,’ said Agatha.
‘She’s had turns before,’ said Bert. ‘She’s got a weak heart. She always comes around if she gets a rest.’
‘I still think you should call her doctor,’ insisted Agatha. ‘Give me his name and I’ll call him.’
‘You are not family,’ said Bert crossly. ‘There’s no need to make a fuss.’
Upstairs afterwards, Charles joined Agatha in her room. ‘I went along to see how Phyllis was doing. Fran was coming out of her room. She said she was fine, so no
poisoning. I mean if she had been poisoned, there would have been vomiting or convulsions. Let’s get out of here for a couple of hours and find a pub.’
‘Not the local. Somewhere else,’ said Agatha.
Feeling much restored after a pub dinner of sausage, egg and chips, Agatha and Charles returned to the manor. ‘Lead me to Phyllis’s room,’ said Agatha. The
sounds of television coming from the drawing room reached their ears. ‘They’re all probably downstairs watching the box.’
‘Follow me,’ said Charles.
He led the way upstairs and along a corridor. ‘It’s been done up like a hotel,’ he said. ‘The big bedrooms seem to have been split in two. Here we are.’ He rapped
gently on the door.
No reply.
‘Go on in,’ urged Agatha.
Charles turned the handle and they both walked in. By the light of a bedside lamp they could see Phyllis.
Agatha walked forward and looked down at her. ‘Charles,’ she said shakily, ‘I think she’s dead.’
Phyllis was lying on top of the bedclothes dressed in what she had been wearing for high tea. Bits of salad stuck to her black top.
Charles felt for a pulse and found none.
Fran’s voice sounded from the doorway: ‘What are you doing?’
‘I think your mother’s dead,’ said Agatha.
Fran rushed up to the bed. She stared at her mother for a brief moment and then reached to pick up the bedside phone.
‘Let’s leave the room as it is,’ commanded Agatha. ‘Phone from downstairs.’
‘What . . .?’
‘I think your mother may have been murdered.’
‘You’re stark staring mad. I will phone the doctor and you’ll find it was a heart attack.’
‘I am not a friend of your mother,’ said Agatha. ‘I am a detective. She invited me here because she told me she suspected a family member would kill her.’
Fran turned paper-white. Agatha registered that the news that she was a detective and that Phyllis had suspected one of her family might murder her had shocked Fran more than the death of her
mother.
‘It’s all madness,’ whispered Fran. ‘I’ll phone from downstairs.’
‘Let’s leave and lock the door. We’ll wait for the police.’
The news spread throughout the house and they all gathered in the drawing room.
‘Dr Huxley is on his way,’ said Fran.
‘Didn’t you call the police?’ demanded Agatha.
There came a shocked chorus of Whys?
‘Because,’ said Agatha loudly above the babble, ‘as I told Fran, I am a detective hired by your mother to protect her this weekend. She thought one of you might try to kill
her.’
‘She was old,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Losing her marbles. There’s proof of it. Here’s the doctor now.’
Agatha quickly scanned the faces around the room. They betrayed various levels of shock and apprehension but not one of them was grieving.
Bert went to the door and ushered the doctor in. ‘Here’s the key to her room,’ said Agatha. ‘I thought it better to lock it until the police get here.’
Dr Huxley was a small, thin, fussy man. He took the key from her and said firmly, ‘I am sure I will find that Mrs Tamworthy died of a heart attack. Her heart was not strong. She was taking
heart medicine.’
Bert led the doctor upstairs.
‘I’m going out for some air,’ said Agatha.
‘It’s pouring,’ said Charles.
‘Don’t care.’
Agatha went outside and
She staggered as if she were drunk as her son supported her out of the dining room.
‘I think you’d better call a doctor,’ said Agatha.
‘She’s had turns before,’ said Bert. ‘She’s got a weak heart. She always comes around if she gets a rest.’
‘I still think you should call her doctor,’ insisted Agatha. ‘Give me his name and I’ll call him.’
‘You are not family,’ said Bert crossly. ‘There’s no need to make a fuss.’
Upstairs afterwards, Charles joined Agatha in her room. ‘I went along to see how Phyllis was doing. Fran was coming out of her room. She said she was fine, so no
poisoning. I mean if she had been poisoned, there would have been vomiting or convulsions. Let’s get out of here for a couple of hours and find a pub.’
‘Not the local. Somewhere else,’ said Agatha.
Feeling much restored after a pub dinner of sausage, egg and chips, Agatha and Charles returned to the manor. ‘Lead me to Phyllis’s room,’ said Agatha. The
sounds of television coming from the drawing room reached their ears. ‘They’re all probably downstairs watching the box.’
‘Follow me,’ said Charles.
He led the way upstairs and along a corridor. ‘It’s been done up like a hotel,’ he said. ‘The big bedrooms seem to have been split in two. Here we are.’ He rapped
gently on the door.
No reply.
‘Go on in,’ urged Agatha.
Charles turned the handle and they both walked in. By the light of a bedside lamp they could see Phyllis.
Agatha walked forward and looked down at her. ‘Charles,’ she said shakily, ‘I think she’s dead.’
Phyllis was lying on top of the bedclothes dressed in what she had been wearing for high tea. Bits of salad stuck to her black top.
Charles felt for a pulse and found none.
Fran’s voice sounded from the doorway: ‘What are you doing?’
‘I think your mother’s dead,’ said Agatha.
Fran rushed up to the bed. She stared at her mother for a brief moment and then reached to pick up the bedside phone.
‘Let’s leave the room as it is,’ commanded Agatha. ‘Phone from downstairs.’
‘What . . .?’
‘I think your mother may have been murdered.’
‘You’re stark staring mad. I will phone the doctor and you’ll find it was a heart attack.’
‘I am not a friend of your mother,’ said Agatha. ‘I am a detective. She invited me here because she told me she suspected a family member would kill her.’
Fran turned paper-white. Agatha registered that the news that she was a detective and that Phyllis had suspected one of her family might murder her had shocked Fran more than the death of her
mother.
‘It’s all madness,’ whispered Fran. ‘I’ll phone from downstairs.’
‘Let’s leave and lock the door. We’ll wait for the police.’
The news spread throughout the house and they all gathered in the drawing room.
‘Dr Huxley is on his way,’ said Fran.
‘Didn’t you call the police?’ demanded Agatha.
There came a shocked chorus of Whys?
‘Because,’ said Agatha loudly above the babble, ‘as I told Fran, I am a detective hired by your mother to protect her this weekend. She thought one of you might try to kill
her.’
‘She was old,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Losing her marbles. There’s proof of it. Here’s the doctor now.’
Agatha quickly scanned the faces around the room. They betrayed various levels of shock and apprehension but not one of them was grieving.
Bert went to the door and ushered the doctor in. ‘Here’s the key to her room,’ said Agatha. ‘I thought it better to lock it until the police get here.’
Dr Huxley was a small, thin, fussy man. He took the key from her and said firmly, ‘I am sure I will find that Mrs Tamworthy died of a heart attack. Her heart was not strong. She was taking
heart medicine.’
Bert led the doctor upstairs.
‘I’m going out for some air,’ said Agatha.
‘It’s pouring,’ said Charles.
‘Don’t care.’
Agatha went outside and
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