Agatha Raisin Love, Lies and Liquor

TWELVE

AGATHA had given her staff the weekend off. While Roy fidgeted around, she read the file. Harry had not bothered about Brian McNally. The whole focus of the report was on the murder of Geraldine Jankers.

When she had finished reading she looked up at Roy, who was walking about. “I’m beginning to feel I should have asked further questions.”

Roy said, “From all you’ve told me about that dreary watering hole, I’ve no intention of ruining my weekend by going there.”

“Nobody will be there now. The hotel will be boarded up for repairs.” Agatha went to her computer and rang up a list of addresses that Patrick had inveigled from his contact. Fred Jankers was in Lewisham, as was Gyril Hammond. That left only Archie Swale in Brighton.

“Let me see,” she said. “Fred and Cyril are in Lewisham—”

“I am not, repeat not, going to Lewisham.”

“And Archie Swale is in Brighton.”

“Now Brighton I don’t mind.”

“Maybe we could just run down there and have a word with him. It’s a lovely day.”

“All right.”

In the car Roy switched on the radio to a “golden oldies” pop station. The voice of Gloria Gaynor belting out “I Will Survive” filled the car.

“Listen to that,” said Roy. “She’s singing your tune—the anthem of the dumped.”

“Turn it off.”

Roy switched off the radio. “You’ve never mentioned James Lacey.”

“Why should I?”

“He’s right next door to your cottage and yet he hasn’t called, you don’t speak about him, and you never looked in the direction of his cottage once.”

“That’s finished. I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Thank goodness for that. I feel your heart has bled enough.”

“I wonder just exactly how much Cyril got from Geraldine’s will,” said Agatha. “And how much was her life insured for. I don’t think Fred killed her for the insurance. I’ll bet the whole thing was her idea. She would strike a deal where she insured her life and he insured his.”

“So what has this Archie Swale got out of it? Nothing at all, if I remember Harry’s report properly.”

“He’s got a vile temper,” said Agatha. “He was in the paratroopers. He’s got strong wrists.”

“But how could he get her to dress and come out into the night and walk down to the beach? Fred was in the room. There was no phone call. He says he fell asleep before she went out, butif there had been a call he would have known about it. So it must have been prearranged.”

“If it was Archie Swale,” said Agatha, “what could he say to entice her down?”

“Maybe she liked power. Maybe she kept in touch with him. Maybe she said she was going to Snoth and he arranged to meet her, saying he had a present for her. Did you ever tell the police about those items of jewellery Geraldine had stashed under the mattress?”

“I couldn’t. I would have had to tell them how I knew.”

“Harry says in his report that he’s sure Fred did not know they were there.”

“Let’s see what Archie has to say, although he’ll probably slam the door in our faces.”

“What! You mean we’re going all this way just to get a door slammed in our faces?”

“I thought you’d be delighted, Roy. Brighton is hailed as the San Francisco of the British Isles.”

“It’s no use you implying I’m gay. I’m thinking of getting married. Watch out! You nearly hit that man on the pedestrian crossing.”

“You amaze me. Who’s the lucky girl?”

“I haven’t got one yet.”

“So why get married?”

“It’s my boss, Mr. Pedman. He only invites members of staff to parties at his home if they’re married.”

“You can’t just get married to please your boss and go to a few parties.”

“I want to further my career,” said Roy primly. “There are plenty of single girls out there.”

“Think hard about it before you do anything,” said Agatha. “I mean, you could find a nice quiet girl and then, after you were married, she might start to bully the life out of you. What about children? I can’t see you with children.”

“Then you know bugger all about me. Drive.”

To Agatha’s amazement, not only was Archie Swale at home, but he actually seemed pleased to see them.

“Come in,” he said. “It’s Mrs. Raisin, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and this is my young friend, Roy Silver,” said Agatha, heartily glad that Roy was not wearing his Indian outfit.

“I was just about to have a little tincture,” he said. “Drink?”

“I’m driving,” said Agatha. “Oh, well, one won’t hurt. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

He went over to a small side table laden with bottles. “I’ve no tonic, but I do have bitters. What about a pink gin?”

“No, thank you. Sherry will do if you have any.”

“Yes, I do. What about you, young man?”

“The same.”

When the drinks were served and they were all seated, Archie said, “I’m so glad that dreadful case is solved. Poor Geraldine. I didn’t like the woman, but I would have gone on wondering who killed her. I remember when I was in Northern Ireland…” His voice droned on in a long military anecdote while Agatha wondered how she could ask him some pertinent questions.

A fly buzzed against the window. The room was hot and stuffy. Agatha was beginning to feel as trapped as the fly.

Then she realized he was asking, “Would you like to see my medals?”

“Very much,” said Agatha.

Archie staggered slightly as he rose to his feet and Agatha thought, he’s been drinking a lot before we arrived.

“Now, where did I put them?” Roy stifled a yawn as Archie jerked open drawers on his desk. Agatha stared numbly at a picture over the fireplace. Then, as Archie jerked open another drawer, Agatha saw reflected in the glass of the picture a flash of brilliance. Archie slammed a door of the desk shut violently, muttering, “Not that drawer.”

“Maybe you keep them in the bedside table,” said Agatha. “I often keep mementos there.”

“I’ll go and look. It’s my memory these days. I can remember things a long time ago but I can hardly remember what happened yesterday.”

When he had left the room, Agatha moved quickly and quietly to that desk. He had been bending over. Must be one of the bottom drawers. She opened the one on the left. Nothing but papers. She opened the one on the right and stifled a gasp as she looked down at a blaze of jewels—necklaces, bracelets and watches; all glittering like the treasure trove in an illustration to a child’s detective story. She heard Archie’s slow step on the stairs, shut the drawer quietly and regained her seat just in time.

“I can’t figure it out,” said Archie, coming into the room. “Blessed if I can remember where I put them. What about another drink?”

“Nothing for us,” said Agatha. “We really must be going. I only called to see if you were all right.”

She and Roy stood up. “Can’t I persuade you to stay?” he pleaded, loneliness shining in his old eyes.

“No, honestly. Thanks for the drink. Come along, Roy.”

Outside, Agatha said urgently, “I’ve got to phone Barret at Snoth.”

“Who’s he?”

“The detective inspector who was in charge of the case.”

“Why?”

Agatha turned and then waved. “He’s watching us from the window. Wait until we get into the car.”

“You’ve got a ticket,” said Roy, removing it from under the wiper. “This is a residents’ parking area.”

“I’ll pay it gladly. Get in.”

Once they were in the car, Agatha drove off. “I want to phone when we’re out of sight Roy, in that bottom drawer were piles of jewels. Don’t you see? Geraldine probably gave them to him for safekeeping, keeping back a few bits and pieces for herself under the mattress. So there’s a prearrangement to meet her on the beach and hand over the jewels. But he strangles her instead. Let’s stop in the car park of this pub and I’ll phone Barret.”

James Lacey had seen Agatha drive off with Roy. He wondered what she was up to. He still could not quite believe that the formerly adoring Agatha was avoiding him so completely. He had been reluctant to go off on holiday on his own and so had returned to Carsely. Immediately after his return, every time his doorbell rang he answered it, sure he would find Agatha on his doorstep. But it was always either the postman with a parcel or one of the village women with a cake for him.

He went along to the village stores and saw Mrs. Bloxby just leaving. He hailed her.

“What’s Agatha up to these days?” he asked.

“My dear Mr. Lacey, why don’t you ask her yourself? She lives right next door to you.”

James burst out, “She’s not talking to me!”

“Then perhaps you should talk to her,” said Mrs. Bloxby mildly. “Now, if you will excuse me …”

And I hope you never do climb down off your high horse and speak to her, thought Mrs. Bloxby. Mrs. Raisin has suffered enough.

Agatha had made her phone call. How long would it get Barret to get a search warrant, and on a Saturday, too?

Roy and Agatha occasionally walked back to the square and watched Archie’s house from a safe distance.

The sky was darkening and they had not eaten anything. Roy was starting to complain loudly.

Agatha capitulated. They went back to the pub for beer and sandwiches, but then Agatha insisted they go back to the square one more time.

This time, there were a police car and an unmarked car outside Archie’s house. They watched and waited.

Suddenly the door opened and Archie was led out and put into the police car. Barret and Wilkins followed, got into the unmarked car and drove off.

“Good, now back to Carsely,” said Roy.

“No,” said Agatha. “We’re going to Snoth.”

“Correction, sweetie. You’re going to Snoth. I’m going back to Carsely to get my stuff. Drop me at the station.”

“Roy, you may as well come with me. It’ll take you ages to get to Carsely. Train to Victoria, tube to Paddington, train to Moreton-in-Marsh and then taxi to Carsely.”

“Oh, all right,” said Roy sulkily. “But don’t be all night over it.”

A police car stopped them on the road out of Brighton. “You are to follow us to Snoth police station,” she was instructed.

“I was going there anyway,” said Agatha cheerfully.

At the police station Agatha was told to wait. They wanted a statement from her.

So she and Roy waited and waited while the muffled sound of the rising tide reached their ears.

“What’s happening about the sea wall?” Agatha asked the desk sergeant.

“They’re building a new high one, and about time, too. The hotel’s finished. Pity, that. I remember it as a boy. Grand place, it was.”

“Mrs. Raisin?” A policewoman appeared. “Will you and your companion follow me?”

Agatha and Roy were buzzed through and followed the policewoman to an interview room.

Barret and Wilkins were there. A feeling of familiar fatigue assailed Agatha as the tape was switched on and the questioning began.

At one point Barret asked, “How could you possibly believe that there were the jewels in that drawer because of a single flash of light you saw reflected in the glass of a painting?”

“The sun was shining brightly into the room,” said Agatha, “and that reflected glitter got me thinking it might be the missing jewels.” She waved one arm expansively. “The way I see it is that Swale was given the jewels by Geraldine for safekeeping. But he doesn’t want to give them back. So he lures her onto the beach. Probably arranged it beforehand. That is one good solid reason why she would leave her hotel room in the middle of the night.”

Said Barret, “Mr. Swale insists that Mrs. Jankers did give him the jewels to look after. He did not know anything about the theft. He meant to deliver them to her solicitor, but forgot about them.”

“You can’t forget about a drawerful of gems!”

“Nonetheless, he is sticking to his story. We will probably charge him with harbouring stolen property, although even that’s doubtful because he’s sticking to his story that he did not know the stuff had been stolen, but apart from that we have no evidence whatsoever that he committed the murder. You should really leave detecting to the police.”

“Oh really? Would you have found the jewels?”

“Sooner or later,” said Barret.

“That’s a load of rubbish. Are the jewels from that robbery?”

“Swale tried to say at first that they were from an aunt of his, but we had the record of the stolen stuff faxed over and, yes, they’re from the robbery. When we asked him why he had invented the aunt, he said Geraldine had sworn him to secrecy and he was honouring her memory.”

“And you believe that?” raged Agatha.

“Interview ended,” said Barret, switching off the tape. “You are free to go, Mrs. Raisin. Just stay out of it.”

“And that’s all the thanks I get!” complained Agatha on the road home.

Roy stifled a yawn. “So you keep saying over and over again. Let it go.”

Agatha drove on for several miles. Then she said, “Of course I could be wrong. Swale might not be the murderer. I would like to go and see Cyril Hammond.”

“If you want me to go with you to Lewisham tomorrow, the answer’s still no.”

“I tell you what,” said Agatha, “I’ll run you up to London tomorrow and then I’ll go to Lewisham.”

“On your own?”

“No, I’ll see if Harry will come with me.”

Harry was delighted at the prospect when she phoned him the next morning. Agatha was relieved. She had been sure that a young man like Harry would have a busy social life. She did not know Harry had cheerfully cancelled a date with his latest girlfriend and was glad of an excuse to do so, as his interest in her had been wearing thin.

They dropped Roy at his home in Fulham and then made their way to Lewisham.

“Where does Cyril live?” asked Agatha.

“Perry Way. I’ll direct you. Haven’t been there, but I looked up directions before in case we needed them.”

Cyril’s home was in a row of terraced houses. Two children were playing in the weedy front garden.

“Must have visitors,” said Agatha, ringing the bell.

A tired-looking woman with a baby on her hip answered the door.

“Mr. Hammond?” asked Agatha.

“Don’t live here any more. We bought the house from him.”

“Do you know where he lives now?”

“Wait there. Got the address somewhere. Here, hold the baby.”

Agatha clutched hold of the baby, which began to cry. “Let me,” said Harry, taking the baby from her and starting to talk nonsense to it. The baby gurgled happily and sucked its thumb.

After a while the woman came back and handed them a piece of paper which had grease spots on it.

They thanked her, Harry handed back the baby, and they left.

“So where is he?” asked Harry.

“He’s moved to Swindon. I hate Swindon. I always get lost in the roundabouts.”

“Should we go there, or try to see Fred Jankers now we’re here?”

“Maybe. But I’d really like to see Cyril. My money’s on him.”

“I’ll drive if we go to Swindon.”

Agatha capitulated, and Harry drove off.

“It’ll be interesting to know what state of mind Cyril’s in,” said Harry. “It’s a hell of a way to Swindon. It’ll take us nearly three hours.”

On they went through Forest Hill, Dulwich, Streatham, Clapham, Wandsworth Common, East Putney, Kew Bridge, the traffic hell of the Chiswick Roundabout, and then, with a sigh of relief, Harry drove down onto the M4.

“I’d better drive in the centre of Swindon and ask for directions,” said Harry. “What’s that address again?”

Agatha fished the greasy piece of paper out of her handbag. “Tullis House, Maycombe Avenue.”

Harry lowered the window and asked various passers-by, but no one seemed to recognize the address.

He drove on a bit, seemingly happily oblivious to the angry hooting of horns from cars behind him every time he stopped. Then he cried, “Oh, look, there’s a copper on the beat. Haven’t seen one of those in years.” He stopped and asked the policeman for directions.

Agatha was glad she wasn’t driving. She could never have remembered all these turn-rights and turn-lefts.

She sat silently while Harry weaved his way competently through street after street out to the outskirts of Swindon.

“Here we are,” he said at last. “Gosh, they must have got then-hands on Geraldine’s money pretty fast.”

They had expected Tullis House would turn out to be a block of flats, but it was a large white villa in a street of equally large white villas. Harry drove up the short driveway at the front and then parked. “If he’s not at home,” said Harry, “I’ll scream.”

Agatha felt that awful pain in her hip and swung her right leg out of the car by putting one hand under her hip to support it.

Harry rang the doorbell and they waited. The Indian summer day bathed everything in a golden glow. Then they could hear light footsteps approaching the door. A pretty young Asian woman stood smiling at them. She had skin as golden as the day and she had long black hair down to her waist.

“Mr. Hammond?” asked Agatha.

“You are friends of his?”

“Just tell him Mrs. Raisin is here to see him.”

The girl giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. “Such a funny name.”

“What’s so funny about it?” asked Agatha as the girl pattered off into the house.

“I suppose it’s a bit like being called Mrs. Prune.”

“No, it is not!” said Agatha huffily. “And who is this, anyway? Has he got himself a maid?”

The girl came back. “Please to come in.”

She shut the door behind them and led the way to a sitting room on the ground floor. Cyril was waiting to meet them.

“Nice to see you again,” he said. “You’ve met Lin.”

The sitting room was furnished with Victorian chairs and a Victorian sofa. Dull landscapes in need of cleaning hung on the walls. A portrait of a severe-looking woman in a black gown and lace cap hung over the marble fireplace. Agatha guessed that Cyril had bought the contents along with the house.

“Sit down,” said Cyril. “Like a drink?”

“Just coffee,” said Agatha. Harry said he would have the same. Cyril nodded to Lin, who hurried off.

“Where’s Dawn?” asked Agatha.

“We broke up. We’re getting a divorce. I’ll be marrying Lin as soon as the divorce comes through.”

“Where did you meet Lin?”

“Chinese restaurant in Swindon. Love at first sight. What brings you?”

“I don’t know if it’s in the papers yet,” said Agatha, easing herself down onto the sofa and trying not to wince. “Archie Swale was arrested yesterday.”

“Geraldine’s ex! Why?”

“He had a drawerful of jewellery. Turns out to be the jewellery from that theft.”

Lin came in with a laden tray. The cups rattled as Cyril shouted, “The old bitch! She told me Charlie had hidden the jewels after giving a few pieces to Wayne. She said she didn’t know where they were.” He suddenly calmed down, and taking out a gaudy silk handkerchief, mopped his brow.

Lin cast him nervous little looks as she poured cups of coffee.

“Go away and do something,” Cyril ordered her. Lin scurried from the room, her head bent.

“I thought I knew everything there was to know about Geraldine,” said Cyril, sinking down into an armchair. “We were childhood sweethearts.”

“Why didn’t you marry her?” asked Harry.

“Because at that time we had no money and Geraldine wanted money andwhat Geraldine wanted, Geraldine got. But Archie Swale! She despised him. She thought she’d married into money and then found out he had pretty much only his pension.”

“I can’t understand it either,” said Agatha. “I could swear Archie hated her. Why would she let him have the jewellery?”

“Perhaps because she hit another bum one with Fred Jankers. I remember her telling me he had this chain of dress shops. But the shops weren’t doing much business. She tried to get him to sell the lot, but he stuck his heels in and said his father had started the business and he was damned if he would sell even one shop. Wait a bit. Archie must have murdered her. That’s why she went out in the middle of the night. Of course she’d go, knowing he had the jewellery.”

“Trouble is,” said Harry, “the police don’t have a shred of evidence.”

“Why wouldn’t Geraldine sell the jewels if she liked money that much?” asked Agatha.

“The stuff was hot. She would guess if she held on to it for a long time, she could then get rid of it bit by bit. But Archie! I can’t get over it. I was her friend. She’d still be alive if she’d asked me to keep them.”

“You mean you would have kept stolen goods?” asked Agatha.

“What else could I have done? I wouldn’t have turned her over to the police.”

Said Agatha, “I gather she left you comfortably off. How did she manage to amass so much money?”

“May as well tell you, now she’s dead. When she was only a teenager, she was gorgeous-looking. She went on the game. Got picked up by a rich businessman who kept her in a flat in Chelsea. When he got tired of her she threatened to tell his wife and so he paid her off. He’d put the flat in her name and she sold it. Then she decided she wanted marriage and kids. By that time I was married to Dawn, so she married Jimmy, who had a good bit of cash and left it all to her when he died. She went back on the game and got herself another rich man. He was the kind who thinks criminals glamorous. He took her to Marbella and she met Charlie Black there. Fell hook, line and sinker, she did, especially when he promised to bring up Jimmy’s boy, Wayne, as if he were his own. But she’d got to know a stockbroker and had invested her money and she was too canny to let Charlie get his hands on it. She went off him after a bit and kept complaining she’d left a rich man for him. So he planned the jewel theft. Silly bugger got caught.”

“Where’s Dawn living?” asked Harry.

“Why?”

“Just thought we might want to tell her the news as well.”

“Here.” Cyril took out a notebook and scribbled down an address. “Thanks for giving me the news, but if there isn’t anything else…”

“No, we’ll go now,” said Agatha, wishing she had not sunk so far down into the feathery cushions of the sofa. But when she rose, there was no pain. All I need is more exercise, she thought. I’m damned if I’m getting a hip replacement. No ageing.

Outside in the car she said to Harry, “Let’s look at this address. If it’s in Lewisham, I’ll give up for the day.”

She read the note. “No, it’s here in Swindon.”

“I saw a newsagent’s a few streets away,” said Harry. “I’ll nip in and buy an A to Z street directory. What’s the address?”

“Flat five, Wemley Court, Burford Street.”

At the newsagent’s Harry bought a street directory and studied it. “Other side of town, but we may as well go while we’re here. I’m starving.”

“Let’s see Dawn first and then we’ll eat.”

Wemley Court turned out to be a block of council flats. Flat five was mercifully only one floor up because the lift was broken, its inner walls covered in graffiti.

Dawn opened the door to them. She seemed to have aged and her face was bare of make-up. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “What do you want?”

“May we come in?”

“If you must.”

The flat smelt of stale food and unwashed clothes.

“How did you end up like this?” asked Agatha. “Isn’t Cyril obliged to give you some money?”

“He beat the hell out of me,” said Dawn, “and said unless I settled for nothing, he’d kill me.”

“My dear girl, get yourself to the Citizens Advice Bureau, get legal aid and sue the pants off him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” demanded Agatha.

“I’m afraid of him. Leave me alone. Why did you come?”

Agatha told her about Archie Swale.

“Good for him,” said Dawn, lighting a cheap cigarette. “I’ve often wanted to kill her myself.”

“Would Cyril have killed her?”

“Him? He thought the sun shone out of her fat arse.”

“Look, here, Dawn, when he beat you up you should have gone straight to the police.”

She hugged her thin body with her skinny arms. “I just want to forget about the whole thing.”

“One more thing. If Cyril had asked Geraldine to meet him on the beach in the middle of the night, would she have gone?”

“Sure, she would.”

“Did he leave the room that night?”

“I told the police he didn’t, but the fact is I’d had a lot to drink and then I took sleeping pills.”

They could not get any more information out of her and left.

“Food!” said Harry, “and lots of it.”

After a substantial meal they decided to leave calling on Fred until the following day.

Back in Carsely, Agatha fussed over her cats and then returned to studying Harry’s file. Cyril was the prime candidate. He must have known Geraldine meant to leave her money to him. Now he had ruthlessly got rid of poor Dawn and had found a pretty little Chinese girlfriend.

Agatha planned to return to Dawn in the near future and see if she could do anything for her. Maybe she would get her a good lawyer.

She could almost sense the presence of James Lacey next door, distracting her from concentrating on the file. For the first time, she hoped he would keep away from her. Her intelligence told her it would be madness to go down that obsessive road again. Her emotions nagged at her, mourning the loss of that very obsession.

What could she say to Fred Jankers to prompt some sort of lead? Perhaps the best idea would be to ask him questions about Cyril and to take him back over the night of Geraldine’s murder. Maybe he remembered something now that he had not told the police.

The doorbell rang, making her jump nervously. She went quietly to the front door and peered through the spyhole. She saw the face of James, distorted by the glass of the spyhole.

She reached out for the doorknob and then drew her hand back.

Agatha retreated to her desk. The doorbell went again. She nervously lit a cigarette.

Then she faintly heard his footsteps retreating and her shoulders relaxed.

The phone rang. She stiffened up again, waiting until the ringing stopped. After a few minutes she went and picked up the receiver. She was told there was a message for her, press one. She pressed one. “You have one message,” said the voice of British Telecom. “Message received at ten twenty-five p.m.” James’s voice started to speak. “Agatha, I know you are home. Why …” Agatha held the phone away from her ear so that she could just hear when he had finished speaking without hearing the rest of the words. When he had finished, she pressed button three on the receiver to cancel the message in case she might be tempted to listen to it later.

Agatha silently cursed James as she and Harry drove off the next morning. He was invading her thoughts, and already part of her brain was wishing she hadn’t cancelled that message.

“Penny for them,” said Harry.

“I was just wondering what to ask Fred,” Agatha lied.

“Maybe ask him about Cyril,” suggested Harry. “That might get him to open up a bit.”

“Good idea,” said Agatha, just as if she hadn’t thought of it already. “Mind you, it might have been a better idea to phone him first. It’s a long way to Lewisham and now the working week has started, the traffic will be hellish. What if he’s not at home?”

“Then we’ll just need to hang around until he comes back,” said Harry cheerfully.

Fred Jankers was not only at home but seemed glad to see them. “Come in,” he hailed them. “I get a bit lonely these days.”

His house appeared much cleaner than when Harry had last seen it. Fred fussed around, making them tea and producing a plate of biscuits. When they were all settled, Agatha began.

“We went to see Cyril Hammond yesterday.”

Fred’s face darkened. “That shyster! Getting all Geraldine’s money.”

“Just as well you got the insurance,” said Agatha.

“Geraldine told me she was leaving everything to me. She even showed me the will.”

“Have you got that will?”

“No, she took it away again. Said she was leaving it with the solicitor.”

“Maybe the will leaving everything to Wayne and then to Cyril if Wayne died was an old one?”

“Can’t be. She drew up that will leaving everything to me right before we went on our honeymoon.”

Asked Agatha, “Did you never think that Cyril might have murdered her?”

“No. The police say it must have been one of Brian McNally’s men.”

Harry said, “We were just wondering, now that it’s all over, if you happened to remember something about that night that might have escaped your memory up until now?”

“Can’t remember a thing except falling asleep and then waking up to the news that she was dead. I’m a heavy sleeper.”

Fred looked at them, a glint of suspicion in his eyes. “Why are you two still ferreting around? The case is closed. Geraldine’s murder was the result of clever planning. A pair of amateurs like you will never find out if anyone did it apart from that drug baron.”

“If you thought we were so amateurs,” said Agatha, “why did you ask me to investigate?”

“I was in shock and grasping at straws.”

“How did you feel when you read in the papers that Archie Swale had been arrested?”

He goggled at her. “What! I haven’t been reading the newspapers.”

“He had a drawerful of jewellery from that robbery that Charlie Black committed. Thousands of pounds’ worth of stuff. Geraldine had given it to him for safekeeping.”

Fred jumped to his feet and began to pace up and down the room. “That bitch,” he said savagely. “She told me she was loaded. Why else do you think I married a tart like that? Told me she would see me all right. Then that ghastly so-called honeymoon and I learn I’m to pay for bloody Wayne, creepy Cyril and their wives. Now all I hear is that she was out to see everyone all right except me.”

Agatha felt suddenly calm. All the bits of the jigsaw seemed to be clicking into place.

“You murdered her,” said Agatha. “How did you get her down to the beach? Did you suggest a romantic walk in the moonlight because you had a present for her, say, a valuable present?”

He sat down again, his head drooping, staring at the floor. “You’ll never prove it.”

Heart beating hard, Agatha said gently, “I know. But you’ll feel better for telling someone. You’re quite right. There’s no proof. You must have been awfully clever.”

He raised his head. “I was, wasn’t I? I found those bits of jewellery under the mattress and I knew immediately where they must have come from because she actually seemed proud of having been married to a villain. So I told her I knew something that would put her in prison, but I didn’t want to tell her in the hotel. I suggested a walk.

“When we were down on the beach, I told her I had found those items of jewellery under the mattress and if she didn’t pay me off handsomely and give me a divorce, I would go straight to the police and turn her in for harbouring stolen property.

“She started to howl insults at me, sexual insults, coarse and horrible. She turned her back on me and said over her shoulder, ‘I’ll tell Cyril and Wayne. You little wimp, by the time they’re finished with you, you won’t dare go near any police station.’

“That bright scarf was fluttering behind her in the breeze. I seized the ends and twisted them and twisted them, hearing her gurgle. I was mad with rage. I only meant to frighten her or something. I don’t know now. I only know I wanted to shut that awful jeering voice up. She fell silent. I dropped her down onto the beach.

“I ran back to the hotel. That night receptionist was nowhere in sight. I ran all the way to our room, took strong sleeping pills and went to bed. So now you’ve got what you want, you can leave. Oh, you can tell the police, but I’ll deny every word and they’ve no proof. Get out!”

Agatha jumped to her feet and backed away. Fred was no longer a pathetic little figure, but a madman capable of anything.

She and Harry ran to their car and got in. Agatha drove off and stopped round the corner.

“Who would have thought it? We’ve no proof, he’s right about that, but I’m going to tell the police anyway.”

Harry grinned. “Oh, we’ve got proof of every word. I’m wired for sound.” He opened his jacket. There was a tape recorder against his chest which he had hung round his neck with two strings.

“Oh, Harry Beam, I love you!” cried Agatha, giving him a hearty kiss on the mouth.

“That’s all right,” mumbled Harry, turning away but not quickly enough to hide the fact from Agatha that he was wiping his mouth.