Agatha Raisin Love, Lies and Liquor

EIGHT

“JAMES,” said Agatha faintly. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I thought I’d better come,” he said awkwardly.

Agatha pulled herself together. ‘Til see you tomorrow—if I have time.” She put down the receiver.

James stared at the dead phone. He felt he should have apologized Maybe tomorrow.

Agatha switched off her computer. She felt she should be feeling some sort of excitement over the fact that James had come back, but all she knew was that she was suddenly very tired.

She undressed and crawled into bed. Her last waking thought was a hope that Charles was having a miserable time.

James was taken aback when he entered the dining room next morning for breakfast to find Mrs. Bloxby placidly tucking into a plate of bacon and eggs. He was very surprised to see her and then surprised again by the fact that Mrs. Bloxby did not seem in the least surprised to see him.

“Why are you here?” he asked, joining her.

“For the same reason as you, Mr. Lacey. Agatha needs all the support she can get. I knocked on her door before I came down. She will be joining us shortly.”

James felt guilty and uncomfortable. When Agatha walked into the dining room he jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair for her. Mrs. Bloxby had just finished her bacon and eggs and wondered for a moment whether to leave them, but Agatha looked fresh and brisk, and not at all flustered by the presence of her ex-husband.

“I’m waiting to hear from Patrick,” said Agatha. “He’s checking out your theory, Mrs. Bloxby.”

“What theory’s that?” asked James.

Agatha’s bearlike eyes turned on him, cool and efficient. It’s as if I’m now a stranger, thought James. Agatha described how Mrs. Bloxby had thought that the two ex-husbands might have something criminal in their backgrounds.

Under her apparent calm, Agatha was privately praying that the gunman, Brian McNally, had gone back to Spain, or anywhere out of the country for that matter, and would not come back to try to assault her again.

Outside the long windows of the dining room the day was bright and sunny. James and Agatha ordered breakfast. Mrs. Bloxby decided to withdraw tactfully to another table, assuming James would want to make some sort of apology, if he had not done so already.

“So what’s the plan for today?” asked James.

“I think your plan for the day should be to go back to Carsely,” said Agatha.

“I suppose you must be upset with me…”

“Upset with you? That’s putting it mildly. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I can do without you luridng around and getting under my feet.”

James’s face flamed with temper. “You should be grateful, yes grateful that I am here to protect you.”

“I have Patrick. You weren’t around when I was being kidnapped. Fat lot of good you were. Eat your breakfast and stop staring at me.”

“I did nothing wrong,” said James stiffly. “We were supposed to be going on holiday together, but you changed your mind, not me. I was very angry with you, but I have forgiven you.”

“Were you always such a pompous prat, or have I just begun to realize it?” said Agatha, stabbing her fork into a poached egg. “Oh, thank goodness, here’s Patrick.”

“It’s been interesting,” said Patrick. “Any hope of breakfast?”

“Sure.” Agatha signalled to the waitress. She waited impatiently while Patrick gave his order.

“Well?”

“Minor stuff. Fred Jankers once set fire to his school. Served time in a juvenile offenders hostel. Nothing that anyone knows since then.”

“What about Archie Swale?”

“When he was serving in Northern Ireland with the paras—he was a corporal—he attacked one of the soldiers in a drunken rage. Spent some time in the glasshouse, but not discharged from the army.”

“Be back in the minute,” said Agatha. “I’ll just tell Mrs. Bloxby to come back and join us. She should hear this.”

When Mrs. Bloxby joined them, Agatha said, “You’re such a shrewd judge of character. I would like you to get a look at both Jankers and Swale.”

“I’d better try to do that today. I promised my husband I would be back tomorrow. He telephoned me this morning.”

“I’ll drive you to Brighton,” said Agatha. “We can park outside his house and when he leaves you can get a look at him. Good. There’s Fred Jankers just coming in. I’ll take you over and introduce you.”

Agatha is going on as if she’s forgotten my very existence, thought James.

Agatha introduced Mrs. Bloxby to Fred Jankers. Mrs. Bloxby began to talk in her soothing voice about how sorry she was to hear of his wife’s death. Agatha made an excuse and left her to it.

“I’m going up to my room to make some calls,” said James, getting to his feet.

“You do that,” replied Agatha.

“What’s going on with you and your ex?” asked Patrick.

Agatha was suddenly furious. “He said it was my fault he had gone off and left me.”

“I always thought he was a confirmed bachelor,” said Patrick. “Anyway, what do you want me to do now?”

“I’d like you to come with me and Mrs. Bloxby to have a look at Swale. I think he’s too old and frail to have committed such a violent murder, but I’d like to see what you think.”

Upstairs in his room, James paced up and down. He had been so sure that Agatha would treat his arrival with gladness and relief. And he had turned down a dinner with a very attractive woman. He fished in his pocket and riffled through some cards until he found Deborah’s.

His ego was bruised. It was just that adoring Agatha hadpreviously always been there in his life. Perhaps he had vaguely thought, forgetting the disaster of their marriage, that they would settle down together at some point.

James decided that he should really phone Deborah and apologize properly for having rushed off. It never dawned on him that a proper apology to Agatha would have mended fences.

He dialled her number. “Deborah?”

“James, darling,” she cooed. “How nice of you to call. Where are you?”

“Snoth-on-Sea.”

“What a funny name! And how is Mrs. Raisin?”

“Detecting as usual. I really shouldn’t have come. I thought she would be shattered after her experience, but she’s as tough as old boots. The reason I phoned was to apologize for having dashed off like that.”

“Don’t worry. We can make it another night. When are you coming back?”

James hesitated. He was the one who had worked on cases with Agatha in the past. He had a sudden desire to find out something that would impress her.

“Maybe another day or two,” he said. “I’ll phone you when I get back.”

Deborah replaced the receiver and sat at her kitchen table deep in thought. Her cottage was decorated in what she fondly considered to be true country style, with chintz and horse brasses and bunches of herbs hanging from hooks on the kitchen ceiling. She had just been beginning to wonder why she had buried herself in the country when she had come across James Lacey and had decided she wanted to marry him.

She had invited several of the members of the ladies’ society for dinner that evening, but as she looked around the piles of ingredients spread about her kitchen, she wished she hadn’t bothered. Deborah was strictly a colour-supplement cook. She specialized in recipes that demanded a whole string of totally unnecessary herbs.

She had bagged her previous husband after a ruthless campaign, forgetting that it was that very ruthlessness of hers which had eventually made him ask for a divorce.

At last she picked up the phone again and rang all the women she had invited and cancelled the dinner. Then she got out a road atlas and searched it until she found Snoth-on-Sea. She conjured up a mental image of Agatha Raisin based on that group photograph. No competition at all, she told herself.

As they drove to Brighton, Mrs. Bloxby gave her impressions of Fred Jankers. “It’s hard to tell. He seems very quiet and gentlemanly. Quite old-fashioned, and yet he is only in his fifties. But it could be an act he’s perfected. You say Mrs. Jankers married him for his money? Perhaps it might have been the other way around. Was she rich?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha.

“It would also be interesting to find out how his businesses are doing and whether he insured her life.”

“Good point,” said Patrick. “I’d better get on to that when we get back.”

Agatha felt suddenly tired. All her bright hard efficiency seemed to be draining away and, horror of horrors, deep down she felt the beginnings of that old longing for James. He had looked as handsome as ever that morning with his bright blue eyes, tanned face and dark hair going grey at the temples.

They parked outside Archie Swale’s house in Brighton and waited. “Maybe he’s gone out already?” suggested Patrick after an hour.

“I know,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I’ll go and knock at the door and say I’m collecting for something. I’ve had years of practice.”

“Be careful,” warned Agatha as the vicar’s wife got out of the car.

Mrs. Bloxby went across the road and knocked at the door. When Archie answered it, she gave him a sweet smile and said, “I am collecting for Help the Aged and wondered whether you could spare anything.”

“I can give you a pound.”

“That would be marvellous.”

“You’d better come in. I emptied the change out of my trousers last night and left it on the desk.”

She followed him into his sitting room. He went to his desk and picked up a pound. Mrs. Bloxby opened her handbag and produced a sticker from a previous Help the Aged collection from a number of other old charity stickers.

“No sticker,” he said. “I had a good suede jacket ruined by one of those. Must be hard on the feet, all this collecting.”

“It is, rather.”

“I say, would you like a sherry?”

“Why, that is very kind of you.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes, my husband is the vicar of… Saint Edmunds,” said Mrs. Bloxby, privately praying that there was a Saint Edmunds in Brighton.

He handed her a small glass of sherry. Mrs. Bloxby looked across at the regimental photograph. “I see you are an army man.”

“Was. I miss it. Too old for it now.”

“This government does seem very determined to merge the old regiments.”

A tide of angry red suffused his face. “Bunch of Commie bastards. Lefties. Faggots. I’d shoot the lot of them! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s all right. We still have free speech in this country. Or do we?”

He went off on another rant while Mrs. Bloxby sipped her sherry and covertly studied him. She noticed he had very powerful wrists.

Feeling she had heard enough, Mrs. Bloxby waited until he had paused for breath, and said, “I really must be on my way.”

He looked disappointed. “Call again any time,” he said, ushering her to the door.

He was standing on the front step watching her leave, so Mrs. Bloxby walked right past the car where Agatha and Patrick were crouched down and out of the square. Agatha only cautiously raised her head when she heard the street door slam. She drove out of the square and caught up with Mrs. Bloxby.

“How did you get on?” she asked when Mrs. Bloxby had climbed into the car.

“I got an impression of a violent, angry man. He has powerful wrists. I think he has high blood pressure. He looks too old to have committed a murder and yet I feel he could have found great strength in one of his bursts of rage.”

“What was he raging about?”

“The government.”

“Well, I rage about them myself.”

“Not like this. Quite beside himself. If I am to make myself useful, perhaps I should try to engineer a further conversation with Mr. Jankers before I leave.”

Agatha checked the clock on the dashboard. “Nearly lunchtime. He’ll probably be in the dining room.”

“Such a big breakfast,” sighed Mrs. Bloxby. “But I will see what I can do.”

When they returned to the hotel a policeman was waiting to escort Agatha and Patrick back to police headquarters in Lewes for more questioning about the hunt for Brian McNally.

Mrs. Bloxby retreated to her room to telephone her husband to assure him she would be returning home as soon as possible and then she descended to the dining room. There was no sign of Fred Jankers. She walked through to the bar and found him ensconced in a chair by the window.

Mrs. Bloxby approached him. “Do you mind if I join you? I always feel rather self-conscious drinking on my own.”

“Please do. Let me buy you a drink. What’ll it be?”

“Just an orange juice, thank you.”

“Nothing stronger?”

“No, orange juice will do fine. I am thirsty.”

Fred ordered her drink. “I never asked you,” he said. “Are you a detective as well?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Jankers. I am married to the vicar of the village where I and Mrs. Raisin both live. I heard about the terrible attack on her and thought she might need some help.”

“So you came all this way? Wish I had friends like you.”

“You must miss your wife terribly,” said Ms. Bloxby in her quiet soothing voice.

“Here’s your orange juice. Cheers. Well, fact is, after I got over the awful shock of her being murdered and all, I felt a bit relieved. Is that wicked?”

“I gather you did not know her very long.”

“No, unfortunately. I hate to shock a lady like yourself, but I think Geraldine was after my money.”

“How dreadful for you. How did you find out?”

“Just after we were married. I overheard her talking to that Cyril Hammond, a friend of hers. He’s still in the hotel. I heard her saying, ‘I know Fred’s not much to look at, but there should be some rich pickings.’ That’s all I heard.”

“I cannot help wondering,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “why a lady such as your late wife would go down to the beach in the middle of the night. I mean, she cannot have known anything about the tides and it’s a dangerous place to go.”

“I think she was plotting something,” said Fred. He ran one podgy hand nervously over his head.

“Like what?”

“Maybe plotting to kill me.”

“My dear Mr. Jankers!”

“She made me take out a heavy insurance policy, and if she was plotting with anyone it would be that old friend of hers, Cyril Hammond.

“Have you told the police this?”

“I tried, but Cyril says he was asleep and his wife backs him up.”

“Mr. Jankers, have you not considered leaving here? I am sure the police would allow you to go.”

“Fact is, I think the answer to that murder is here. Mind you, that friend of yours doesn’t strike me as much of a detective.”

“Oh, she is very good. She never lets a case go until she has an answer.”

Could this man have murdered his wife? wondered Mrs. Bloxby. He seemed too quiet and neat in his business suit.

“Time to eat,” said Fred. “Care to join me?”

But Mrs. Bloxby felt she had done enough for Agatha. “I really must go upstairs and pack,” she said, rising to her feet.

He rose as well. A magazine which had been half hidden by his bottom fell to the floor. He whipped it up and put it behind his back, but not before Mrs. Bloxby had seen the lurid cover and the title, Hot Tits.

Mrs. Bloxby felt suddenly tired as she walked along the long corridor to her room. How eerie this old hotel was, she thought, with all those empty rooms.

A maid was just coming out of Agatha’s room, which was next to her own. The woman ducked her head by way of greeting and hurried off along the corridor. Mrs. Bloxby’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. The maid had not been carrying any cleaning materials.

She unlocked the door of her own room and went in. She phoned the manager. “I have just seen a maid coming out of Mrs. Raisin’s room. She was wearing a blue overall. She was thin and sallow with black hair. Do you have a maid like that on your staff?”

“Doesn’t fit the description of anyone I’ve got,” said Mr. Beeston.

Mrs. Bloxby thanked him and then phoned the local police station and asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Barret. When he came on the line, she told him about the suspicious maid.

He said he would be right along.

When he arrived, Mr. Beeston supplied the pass key, and Barret, followed by Mrs. Bloxby, went into Agatha’s room. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. “I’ll get someone along to check for fingerprints,” said Barret. “Mrs. Raisin is at headquarters in Lewes. I’ll phone there and tell her when she’s returned not to go up to her room until we’re finished.”

“That’s new,” said Mrs. Bloxby, noticing a tray containing a flask, a jug of milk, sugar bowl and plate of biscuits on the table by the window.

“We’ll check that as well,” said Barret.

James Lacey went out for a long walk that day. He missed not working with Agatha. He felt he would really need to sit down with her and have a long talk. He had finally accepted that he would need to apologize.

He returned to the hotel in the early evening, hurrying to beat the high tide which was already sending waves smashing into the sea wall.

Agatha was sitting in the reception area, looking tired and wan. Patrick was with her.

“How are things going?” asked James.

Agatha told him briefly about the suspect maid and ended by saying, “They’re still working on my room.”

“Might I have a word with you in private, Agatha?”

Patrick started to get to his feet. “It’s all right,” said James. “I’ll take Agatha into the bar.”

Cyril Hammond and his wife Dawn were in the bar. Not for the first time Agatha wondered why they did not go home. They waved to Agatha to join them, but she called, “Later.”

She and James settled in a corner of the bar away from the Hammonds.

James ordered drinks and then leaned forward. He took Agatha’s hands in his and her treacherous heart began to thump.

“Agatha… dearest,” he began.

And then a voice called, “Coo-ee, James. It’s me!”

Deborah Fanshawe sank down in a vacant chair next to James. “I thought I would give you a nice surprise,” she said. “What a dismal hole this place is! But it was the least I could do, considering you missed my splendid dinner.”

Agatha rose to her feet.

“Where are you going?” asked James.

“I’m buggering off to where I’m wanted,” said Agatha savagely.

Mrs. Bloxby had joined Patrick when Agatha stormed back into the reception area. She looked at Agatha’s hurt and angry face and said sympathetically, “I believe Mrs. Fanshawe has arrived.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” said Agatha, jerking a chair forward and sitting down.

“Mrs. Bloxby has found out something interesting,” said Patrick. “Fred Jankers was reading a porno magazine.”

“Him and every other blasted man in this country, I should think,” said Agatha.

“Please listen,” urged Mrs. Bloxby.

“When I was in the force,” said Patrick, “we once employed a profiler to see if we could find out the identity of a rapist in the Mircester area. He said that rapists often have an abused childhood and start with torturing animals and then a bit of arson and often then proceed to sex crimes. Now we know our Fred set fire to his school. It would be interesting to find out if there are any unsolved cases of rape in the Lewisham area.”

“That would take forever,” grumbled Agatha, “and we don’t have the resources of the police. Let’s eat.”

They went into the dining room. “I must leave first thing in the morning,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

James and Deborah entered the dining room and sat at another table. Agatha scowled horribly.

After a while Mrs. Bloxby said gently, “Deborah is laughing and flirting, but Mr. Lacey looks miserable.”

“Don’t care,” said Agatha sulkily, poking at her food with her fork.

Barret walked in and joined them. “You can go back to your room now. We’re finished there.”

“Any results?”

“Yes. We got a quick result on fingerprints. The woman who went into your room is Candice Skirisky, a Bulgarian. She’s a mule.”

The lyrics of “Would You Like to Swing on a Star” danced through Agatha’s brain.

“A mule?”

“One of those women who are drug carriers. She was arrested a few years ago. The police had a tip-off and she was arrested at Heathrow. She had swallowed packages of cocaine. She said she was to be paid two thousand pounds, but when she went to a hotel room in Sofia to meet this man, he told her she would be paid according to how many cocaine packages she could swallow. She was told that when she arrived in London she would be met by another man who would give her a laxative, retrieve the drugs and pay her. But she would not give any names. She said the man had told her that if she gave up any names, she would be killed, We think maybe Brian McNally got hold of her.”

“What was in that flask?” asked Agatha.

“We’re still analysing the contents. We are putting two policemen on guard at this hotel.”

“Maybe Mrs. Raisin should go home,” suggested Patrick.

“We need her here,” said Barret, “and she would be safer here with the police guarding the place.”

“If this Brian McNally is a powerful drug baron and can command people like this woman to try to murder me—that’s if there turns out to be something sinister in that flask of coffee,” said Agatha, “then surely he could command someone to murder Geraldine Jankers if he thought she had double-crossed a member of his gang.”

“We’re looking at that angle.”

“The thing that puzzles me,” said Patrick, “is why was the haul of jewels from a Lewisham jeweller so valuable? I mean, it’s hardly Cartier or Tiffany’s.”

“Benson and Judge, the jeweller’s, is an old-established firm. Their main showroom is in Mayfair. They had moved a quantity of their best items down to Lewisham for an exhibition for a children’s charity. All the local worthies were to be invited. The robbery took place a day before the party.”

“Why wasn’t the stuff fenced right away?” asked Agatha.

“I think Charlie Black had managed to stash the stuff before he was arrested. I think he planned to fence it when he got out and then found it had disappeared.”

Barret got to his feet. “I’ll be off. I’ll call on you tomorrow.”

He looked across the drawing room. “Isn’t that Mr. Lacey who was here with you during the murder?”

“Yes,” said Agatha curtly.

“Who’s that woman with him?”

“The village tart,” said Agatha savagely.

“I see.” Barret looked down at Agatha with a glint of humour in his eyes.

When he had left, Mrs. Bloxby said gently, “Would you like me to stay in your room tonight, Mrs. Raisin?”

“It’s all right,” said Agatha. “I know you are right next door. Or rather, the new next door. I changed our rooms and got your stuff moved into the new one.”

“I shall be leaving before breakfast.”

“I’ll look after her,” said Patrick.

They finished their meal and left the dining room, Agatha avoiding looking at James.

James Lacey was feeling hunted. Deborah should never have come. She did not seem to notice his silence but chattered on about the iniquities of her ex-husband and all the men who had tried to sleep with her.

At last, when she paused for breath, he said, “Look, Deborah, it’s like this. I was about to have some sort of reconciliation with Agatha and you arrived at precisely the wrong minute.”

Deborah’s mouth fell open in surprise. “But why?”

“I am very fond of her still.”

Deborah’s eyes narrowed. “You are a very silly man. I thought we had something going.”

“You must be mad. I’ve barely spoken to you before this evening.”

Deborah burst into tears. She had fantasized so much about him on the journey down that she was sure they would be in bed together before the night was out.

James waited until she had finished crying and then said quietly, “You must see you have made a mistake. You had better go home.”

He rose and left the dining room and nearly collided with Cyril Hammond and his wife. As he walked away, James wondered what the couple were doing staying on. He wondered whether to go straight to Agatha’s room and try to explain things but then decided to leave it until the morning.