Agatha Raisin Love, Lies and Liquor

FIVE

AGATHA was in her room telling Patrick about the failed attempt to find out whether Wayne had the jewels, when they heard screams. They both ran out into the corridor. Agatha’s room was on the third floor. The screams were coming from the floor below. They both ran down.

Cyril Hammond was holding Kylie in his arms and trying to calm her down. “I’ll need to call the police,” he was saying.

“What’s up?” asked Agatha.

Cyril nodded in the direction of Wayne’s room. Agatha and Patrick looked in. Wayne was lying on his back, his T-shirt covered in blood. Chelsea was lying over by the window, the side of her head blown away. A few feathers from a pillow lying on the floor drifted in a draught from the window.

“Shot through the pillow,” muttered Patrick. “Tried to deaden the sound.”

Kylie’s screams still rent the air. Agatha went back to her and slapped her soundly across the face and she dissolved in sobs.

Agatha took out her phone and called the police. Then she turned to Cyril. “You’d best take this girl downstairs and get her some sweet tea or something to calm her down.”

Patrick waited until they had gone. Then he extracted the key from the lock and wiped it thoroughly with a handkerchief, and holding it by the handkerchief, put it back in the lock again.

“You’re destroying evidence,” gasped Agatha.

“Exactly. No doubt the murderer wore gloves. I’ll bet neither you nor Harry did when you were handling the key. We’ll all be fingerprinted.”

Guilty thoughts raced through Agatha’s shocked brain. She had talked to Harry about the jewels in that pub. She had talked again to Mrs. Bloxby about them. What if Charlie Black, the armed robber, had been one of the listeners?

The police arrived, headed by Detective Inspector Barret. He told Agatha and Patrick to wait downstairs.

Harry was already there, having heard the grim news from one of the maids.

“They’re going to find out about that missing key,” said Agatha.

“They’ll assume the murderer took it,” said Patrick. “I mean, he must have. You say Harry left it on the floor behind the desk. The girl probably found it and put it back. We’re all in for a lot of hard questioning. I think Harry here should tell them about that necklace. The sooner they start looking for Charlie Black, the better.”

“And how are all the happy holidaymakers?” asked a cheerful voice behind them.

They swung round. Charles Fraith stood there, the smile dying on his face as he saw their strained looks.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

James Lacey finally reached the villa owned by his friends, Kenneth and Mary Clarke. Before his retirement from the army, he had done a short desk stint at the Ministry of Defence. That was where he had got to know Kenneth along with the Hewitts, now retired to Ancombe. He had kept in touch with Kenneth, learning that Kenneth on his retirement had decided to set up a bed and breakfast in France. He remembered Kenneth as a round, jolly man with a charming wife.

But the Kenneth who came out to welcome him had changed. He looked so much older and had lost weight. His once thick grey hair was now thin and his pink scalp shone though. He was wearing a Hawaiian beach shirt and droopy grey cotton shorts and open leather sandals with black socks.

“Come in,” he cried. “Mary’s down at the shops. She’ll be back soon. You’re our only guest, so we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on the gossip.”

“Is she here?” asked James.

“Who?”

“My ex. Agatha Raisin.”

“No, old chap. Were you expecting her?”

“I sent her your address. I expected her to join me.”

“Might come along later. Let’s have a drink. I’ll show you to your room first.”

The bedroom had a double bed, a large Provencal wardrobe, one easy chair and a washbasin with a mirror above over by the window.

“Just leave your things,” said Kenneth. “We’ll sit in the garden.”

He led the way back downstairs and through a cluttered messy kitchen and out into the back garden, where chairs and tables had been placed on a stone terrace overlooking a weedy and uncultivated garden.

“So how are things?” asked James, accepting a glass of the local wine and wondering where Agatha was. Surely she would come and join him. He thought ruefully of the times he had changed his holiday destination just to make sure that Agatha did «or join him.

“To tell you the truth, I’m a bit homesick. Gets lonely up here when we don’t have guests.”

“What about the locals?”

“Difficult to get to know. Never could master the language.”

“Can’t you learn? Surely it would help.”

“Fact is,” said Kenneth moodily, “I’m homesick. I’d swap all this for rainy London. Damned euro. Everything’s so expensive.”

“You’ve got a big garden. You could grow your own vegetables.”

“My back hurts,” said Kenneth.

They heard the sound of a car. “That’ll be Mary. She’s dying for some company.”

They heard the front door open. Kenneth shouted, “In the garden, darling. James is here.”

James remembered Mary as a neat blonde woman. As she came onto the terrace, he barely recognized her. Her hair was grey and she had put on weight She was wearing a faded blue house-dress and her bare feet were thrust into a pair of battered espadrilles.

“How are you, James?” She gave him a peck on die cheek. “Do pour me a glass of wine, darling. It was hot as hell in the town. So what have you been up to, James, since we last saw you?”

“I wrote a military history, but now I’m writing travel books.”

“How splendid! Give us a plug. We could do with the business.”

“What about August? All the Parisians flock south.”

“Well, they aren’t flocking here.”

“Have you advertised?”

“Oh, yes,” sighed Kenneth. “Put a small ad in the Spectator.”

“What about the French newspapers?”

“We never actually thought of having French people here,” said Mary. “We advertised good English home cooking.”

“Maybe not a good idea,” said James. “The English like to come to France for French cooking and the French won’t like the idea of English cooking either.”

“Oh, what do you know about it?” Mary’s voice had a waspish tone. “You’re a bachelor. No cares. You’re not stuck in this stinking hot villa miles from anywhere. It was Kenneth’s idea. I sometimes think men never grow up. When we had our first guests, all he wanted to do was play mine host while I slaved in the kitchen.”

There was an awkward silence. I want to get out of here, thought James. But I’d better suffer it for a day or two in case Agatha does turn up. Aloud he said, “Why don’t I take the pair of you for lunch in Marseilles?”

They both brightened. “That would be great,” said Kenneth.

So James entertained them at an outdoor restaurant on the Corniche where Mary ate too much and Kenneth drank too much. The hard sun glittered on the water.

And then James saw a stocky woman with good legs walking towards the restaurant. She was wearing a large straw hat and dark glasses. Agatha at last.

He leaped to his feet. “Agatha! Over here!”

The woman removed her sunglasses and stared at him blankly. James actually blushed and sat down hurriedly. “Sorry,” he called to her. “A mistake.”

Charles leaned back in his chair and surveyed the group. “You’re in for some hard questioning from the police. They’ll want to know why you didn’t tell them about your suspicions.”

“I’m not going to tell them.” Agatha looked strained and weary. “What would they have done anyway if Harry had told them about that necklace? Nothing, that’s what. It wouldn’t have been enough to justify a search warrant.”

Her heart sank as Betty Teller walked into the hotel. A policeman led her towards a little-used smoking room which the police had commandeered as an office. They would take Betty through the events of yesterday evening. They would ask her if she had left the desk. She might tell them about Harry calling her to the door.

“I’d better check in,” said Charles, getting to his feet. “Where’s James?”

“He decided to visit friends in the south of France.”

“Typical,” said Charles cheerfully.

Agatha watched his well-tailored figure approach the desk, now manned by the manager, Mr. Beeston. Agatha never knew whether Charles was fond of her or simply looked on her as someone who occasionally provided interesting diversions.

After ten minutes, Betty Teller emerged. “Mrs. Raisin,” called the policeman. Agatha suppressed a groan and walked into the smoking room.

“Mrs. Raisin,” began Barret, “first of all, I would like to know why you are still here and why two members of your staff are here also. We checked up on you. That unsavoury-looking youth, Harry Beam, is employed by you, as is Patrick Mulligan. You all had your photographs in the newspaper a year ago. Mr. Lacey, your companion, has left.”

“It was my scarf that was used in the first murder,” said Agatha defensively. “I am a detective. I felt compelled to stay on to see if we could find out who had committed the murder.”

“Indeed. Now to yesterday evening. Betty Teller, the receptionist, said that you were sitting in reception, reading a magazine, when Harry Beam came down the stairs. He walked to the door and called to her. He told her he had just seen a man on stilts with a monkey on his shoulder, but she could not see anyone there. Did you take the key to Wayne Weldon’s room?”

“No.”

“This is only the initial interview. You will be asked to report at the station later, make a full statement, and sign it. Why do you think Harry Beam lied?”

“I really don’t know.” Agatha felt herself becoming flushed and cross. “Maybe he didn’t lie. Maybe he fancied the receptionist.”

“We’ll ask him. Now, why do you think Mr. Weldon and his wife were murdered? Do you think they knew the killer of Mrs. Jankers?”

Agatha decided to tell the truth. “I found out that Mrs. Jankers’s second husband, Charlie Black, robbed a jewellery store, but the jewellery was never been recovered. Harry noticed that Chelsea Weldon was wearing a necklace that looked like real diamonds. I think they may have had the jewels and Charlie Black may have murdered both of them for them.”

“These suspicions of yours—did you tell anyone else, apart from your colleagues?”

“No, certainly not.” Agatha felt uneasy, thinking of how she had talked about the jewels in that pub and then in the restaurant.

“I think you stole the key to that room,” said Barret. “I think you waited until young Weldon and his wife went out and went upstairs.”

“Of course not,” said Agatha, glad now that Patrick had had the foresight to wipe that key clean.

“Right, just you wait there. We’ll get Mr. Beam in here and see if your stories match.”

Harry was summoned. He must have made a lightning change of clothes, thought Agatha. The studs had been removed. He was wearing a plain charcoal-grey suit, striped shirt and silk tie.

“Sit down on that chair next to Mrs. Raisin,” ordered Barret. “Now, yesterday evening, why did you distract the receptionist by telling her that fairy story about a man on stilts?”

“I was considering chatting her up,” said Harry. “I felt like having some young company for a change.”

Agatha winced.

“Then I spotted Mrs. Raisin in reception. I hadn’t noticed her before because she had been hidden behind the magazine she was reading. Mrs. Raisin expects us to work all hours of the day. So I dropped the idea.”

Barret studied him for a long moment. Then he said, “I want both of you to stay in the hotel. A policeman will call for you later and take you both down to the station, where you will make official statements.”

At that moment, the door opened and the policeman who had been on guard outside said, “A word with you, sir. It’s urgent.”

Barret joined him. They went out together. Agatha half rose to leave. “Sit down!” barked Detective Sergeant Wilkins.

The door opened again and Barret called, “Wilkins!”

The detective went out to join him. A policewoman was seated in a corner of the room. Had she not been there, Agatha would have pressed her ear to the door.

At last Barret came back, looking excited. “You pair can go,” he said. “We’ll be in touch later.”

“What’s happened?” asked Agatha.

“Mind your own business.”

Charles Fraith had been joined by Cyril and his wife. “This is awful,” said Cyril. “Why are the police going away? We were told to wait to be interviewed.”

“Something’s happened,” said Agatha, “that’s sent them running off.” Dawn Hammond was crying quietly.

“Where’s Patrick?” Agatha asked Charles.

“He went up to his room to make some calls.”

“I think we should go up and join him. He may have heard something.”

“Give me his room number,” said Charles. “I’ll join you there. I haven’t unpacked yet.”

James sat gloomily nursing a glass of wine in the villa garden. Perhaps it was just as well that Agatha hadn’t joined him. Kenneth moaned constantly about the folly of having ever left Britain and of having sunk his savings into this bed and breakfast.

Mary drank quite a lot and complained so much about the price of food that at last James suggested he pay for his visit just as if he were a customer. He had expected his generous offer to be refused and was quite taken aback when it was accepted with alacrity.

Mary came out into the garden and placed a radio on the table. “Just going to get the news on the BBC World Service,” she said. “It’s like a little bit of home.”

For heaven’s sake, thought James impatiently, you would think she was in Outer Mongolia.

She switched on the radio in time for the Greenwich time signal, followed by the strains of Lily Bolero. The news began. A bomb explosion in a busy street in Toronto, an outbreak of cholera in Bangladesh, protesters in Africa demonstrating over the cull of elephants, and the discovery of a mummy in Egypt.

“They hardly ever give any news of home,” complained Mary. “You would think there still was a British Empire the way they go on.”

“Shh!” admonished James, for the the announcer had gone on to say, “There was a shooting yesterday evening in the quiet seaside town of Snoth-on-Sea. Wayne Weldon, son of the Geraldine Jankers who was recently found strangled to death on the beach, was found shot in his hotel room along with his wife, Chelsea. Now, to our main story. A bomb went off in the early hours of this morning in a busy street in Toronto …”

“Excuse me. I’ve got to phone,” said James, getting to his feet.

“Just put the money for the call next to the box on the table in the hall,” said Mary.

“I’ll use my mobile.”

James went up to his room and dialled the Palace Hotel and asked to be put through to Agatha’s room. He waited impatiently. At last he was told there was no reply. “Can you page her?” he asked. There was another long silence, and then the manager came on the line. “Mrs. Raisin’s friend, Sir Charles Fraith, has arrived,” said Mr. Beeston, proud of having a title staying at his hotel. “I’ll try his room, if you like, sir. Mrs. Raisin may be there.”

“Don’t bother,” said James.

He rang off and sat staring out of the window. In the hope that Agatha might arrive after all, he had booked for two weeks and paid in advance.

Now she had Charles with her, he thought bitterly, she would not bother to come. He wanted to leave. He knew he wouldn’t get a refund, but the thought of enduring another day of Kenneth and Mary was too much for him. He would go back to Carsely and immerse himself in work. He had a travel book on Tunisia to write. He had travelled extensively in that country and had all his notes. It was odd, but he had always assumed Agatha would follow him wherever he went. For the first time he realized how much Agatha’s unstinting adoration meant to him. The only thing that made him glad she had not come was the knowledge that she would have hated it as much as he did.

Agatha, Harry, Patrick and Charles were seated in Patrick’s room. “I wonder what’s up,” said Agatha.

“I can’t go along to the police station,” said Patrick. “There’s a policeman on guard outside the hotel.”

“Is there anyone you could phone?”

“I’ve got a contact at the station, but he won’t want to speak to me if there’s something important going on.”

There was a tentative tap at the door. “Come in,” shouted Agatha.

Cyril and his wife Dawn entered. “This is terrible,” said Cyril. “Poor Wayne. Poor Chelsea. Who could have done such a thing?”

“It could be that ex-husband of Mrs. Jankers,” said Patrick. “He’s just out of prison and he might have come looking for the jewels.”

“Wayne wouldn’t have had them,” exclaimed Cyril. “I mean, after all this time. Charlie got twelve years.”

He focused his attention on Harry. “What’s he doing here?”

“Harry works for me. And this is Sir Charles Fraith, a friend of mine.”

“I’m frightened,” wailed Dawn. “What if we’re next?”

“Well, I’m hungry,” said Charles. “We could all go to the dining room.”

“Not there.” Agatha repressed a shudder. “The food’s awful.”

Harry picked up a copy of the Yellow Pages. “I’ll order something in. What about pizza?”

“That’ll do,” said Charles. “I’ll take your drink orders and we’ll get them up from the bar.”

Harry searched the Yellow Pages. “Got it,” he said. “Luigi’s Pizzeria. What about just getting simple ones like cheese and tomato?”

They all agreed. Harry phoned and gave the order and told them to deliver the pizzas to the hotel room.

“How is Mr. Jankers?” asked Patrick.

“He’s lying down. He says he’s not ill but it’s all been a great shock,” said Cyril.

They talked in a desultory manner until the drinks and then the pizzas arrived.

“I wish I could get out and see what’s happening,” said Harry. “There must be a fire escape here.”

“There’s a fire escape at the end of the corridor,” said Agatha. “You could try that way, but don’t get caught.”

Harry finished his pizza. “I’ll see if I can discover anything.”

Harry went along the corridor and pushed open the fire door. He wedged a business card in it to keep it open and then went nimbly down the rusty stairs.

He found himself in «ft unkempt garden. He saw a gate lead« ing onto the promenade. It was padlocked and chained. He climbed over it. Waves were buffeting the sea front and washing across the promenade.

He ran along the front, keeping to the buildings, pausing as a particularly large wave smashed over, and then running on when it retreated. There were sandbags outside some of the houses to stop them from being flooded.

Harry wondered why the council didn’t do anything about the increasingly high tides.

He turned off towards the police station and saw a crowd of reporters and photographers outside.

“What’s going on?” he asked one reporter.

“We just know the police brought a man in for questioning. He had a blanket over his head, so we couldn’t see him. The police say they’ll make a statement later.”

Harry couldn’t find out any more, so he dodged the waves again and got back to the hotel.

When he reached Patrick’s room, there was a note in the door. “Downstairs in the bar.”

Harry went down and found the party minus Cyril and his wife. “Where’s Cyril gone?” he asked.

“Upstairs, comforting Mr. Jankers.”

The day dragged on and it was six o’clock before Detective Inspector Barret and Detective Sergeant Wilkins arrived.

Cyril and Dawn joined them in the bar, having been summoned by the detectives.

“We have arrested Charles Black, Mrs. Jankers’s ex-husband,” said Barret. “He was spotted in a pub outside the town called the Feathers.” Agatha winced. Charlie had probably been in the bar when she and Harry had been discussing the jewels. “We found a quantity of jewellery in his car along with a sawn-off shotgun. It’s an open-and-shut case. He has been charged with the murders of Wayne and Chelsea Jankers.”

Cyril brightened. “That means we’re free to leave.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Barret. “You, Mrs. Raisin, and your travelling circus may leave, but I am afraid that you, Mr. Hammond, your wife and Mr. Jankers will need to stay a few days longer.”

“Why?” wailed Dawn.

“It appears that on the night Mrs. Jankers was murdered, Charles Black was in London at a gambling club and did not leave until two in the morning. There are plenty of witnesses to attest to that fact. So that leaves us with the unsolved murder of Geraldine Jankers. We will be back tomorrow to take both of you and Mr. Jankers over your earlier statements.”

“We’ll never get out of here,” moaned Dawn.

“So what are we going to do now?” asked Patrick after the Hammonds and the detectives had left.

“Wait!” Agatha took out her phone and called Phil Marshall. “How are things going at the agency?” she asked.

“I wish you’d get back here,” said Phil. “There’s a lot of work come in and I can barely cope.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Agatha rang off.

“There’s a lot of work back in Mircester. I think you, Patrick, and you, Harry, should go back. If I get any leads, I’ll get you back down here.”

* * *

“Alone at last, darling,” said Charles the next morning after they had waved goodbye to Patrick and Harry.

“I hope you are here to help me,” said Agatha. “The trouble is if you see some pretty girl you know, you’ll be off like a shot.”

“I don’t know anybody in the whole wide world who would want to visit a place like this. I haven’t seen the mysterious Mr. Jankers.”

“I suppose I’d better start all over again,” sighed Agatha, “in case Mr. Jankers might have some idea. Cyril had known Geraldine for a long time. Maybe she knew something unsavoury about him and threatened to tell his wife. Let’s go up to Fred Jankers’s room.”

Fred Jankers was sitting in a chair wrapped in a blanket. “It’s the shock of all this,” he said. “I can’t seem to get warm.”

Agatha introduced Charles and then asked, “Did the police inform you that Charles Black has been arrested for the murders of Wayne and Chelsea?”

“Yes. I want to go home, but they say I’ve to stay here for a bit because they are still investigating Geraldine’s death.”

“In the short time you knew your wife, did she seem afraid of anyone?”

He shook his head. “Geraldine wasn’t afraid of anyone.”

“Not even of Charlie Black?”

“No. Not as far as I know.”

“When you first met her at ballroom dancing, was there anyone else in the offing? I mean, did she seem romantically involved with anyone?”

He wrinkled his brow and pulled the blanket closer up to his chin. “Let me think. She did come along with some chap. What was his name? Peter somebody.”

“Where was this dancing class?”

“In Lewisham.” He lowered the blanket and fished his wallet out of his pocket. “I think I still have their card.” He took a small pile of cards out of his capacious wallet and flicked through them. “Ah, here it is. ‘Jane and Jon’s Ballroom Dancing, Cherry Street, Lewisham.’ ”

Agatha took the card. “I’ll just borrow this for the time being.”

When they left Mr. Jankers, Agatha said, “We may as well go up to London tomorrow. I can’t get much more out of Cyril or his wife or Fred Jankers. Who knows? She had a habit of annoying people. She was once married to a criminal. Blast! I wonder if Char-he did the job himself. Say he had an accomplice and the accomplice was after the jewels and got down here before Charlie. Let’s see if this place has a library so we can check the old newspapers.”

When they went downstairs, Mr. Beeston was checking in members of the press and looking delighted with this unexpected custom.

Agatha saw Cyril in the bar and went in, followed by Charles. “That armed robbery,” she asked Cyril, “when exactly did it take place?”

“Let me see; Charlie was on remand for six months before it got to court. It would be in 1994. In October, I think it was.”

They thanked him and went out in search of the library, finding it among the winding streets that formed part of the original town. It was a red sandstone building, or rather, it had been red, but it was one of those buildings that had never been cleaned up, and so it was mostly black with old soot.

They went in and found the newspaper section. Whatever money had been stinted on the outside of the building had been used on the inside, which was bright, cheerful and modernized. But they met with a setback. The library only contained records of what had been in the local papers. They went back out again and found a nearby pub.

Agatha took out her phone and called a journalist she used to know and asked if he could look up the records for an armed robbery that had taken place in October of ‘94 at a jeweller’s in Lewisham, promising him an exclusive if she solved a murder case she was on. She gave him her mobile phone number and he said he would ring her back.

“So what really happened to dear James?” asked Charles.

“He cleared off. I told you.”

“Oh, really? I thought you two were off on a second honeymoon or something.”

“When the police told us we were free to leave this horrible burg, he suggested we go on holiday somewhere in the south of France. But I couldn’t leave the case, so off he went. He sent me a postcard with the address, expecting me to join him, but I didn’t feel like it.”

“Good heavens, Aggie grows up at last.”

“Don’t call me Aggie!”

Agatha’s phone rang. The journalist said, “You could have found it yourself on your computer. Here it is. Armed robbery. One Charles Black arrested. His partner got away.”

“Have you got a name for the partner?”

“Pete Silen. Police were looking for him but never found him.”

Agatha thanked him and rang off. “He says Charlie’s partner was a man called Pfete Silen. The police never got him. Now our Geraldine turned up on the dance floor initially with someone called Peter.”

“Longshot.”

“But worth trying. We’ll go tomorrow.”