There Goes The Bride

Chapter Eight

DESPITE THE THREATENING recession, business was booming at Agatha’s detective agency. The publicity given to the finding of Trixie had engendered a great deal of work. It was time to expand. A surprising number of policemen were anxious to get out of the force, fed up with government targets. If an officer did not achieve a good number of arrests he had little chance of promotion, which meant that the more ruthless were charging normally law-abiding citizens with every petty offence they could think of. They were also overburdened with paperwork. She hired two men in their forties, Paul Kenson and Fred Auster. Paul was thin, gangly and morose and Fred was chubby and cheerful. But they were both highly competent.

Only, Toni and Sharon were becoming increasingly upset. The interesting cases no longer came their way. Agatha had them both back to looking for missing pets.

Phil and Patrick were pleased with the newcomers because both were able to take a much-needed holiday.

Phil had decided to spend his holiday at home, working in his garden.

Autumn was creeping into the Cotswolds. The leaves on the lime trees were already beginning to turn and the harvest had been brought in. But the Cotswolds were enjoying the rare glory of an Indian summer and one Saturday morning Phil’s white hair was bent over a flower bed when he became aware of being watched.

He straightened up and turned round. Toni stood there. ‘What a nice surprise,’ said Phil. ‘I made a jug of lemonade this morning. Let’s sit in the garden.’

Toni sat down in a garden chair in front of a white wrought-iron table. When Phil came out of the kitchen door carrying glasses and a jug of lemonade, Toni said, ‘I can hear the faint sounds of a band.’

‘That’ll be over at the pub. There’s some sort of village fête going on.’

‘No Agatha?’

‘I gather from Mrs Bloxby that she seems to have lost interest in village things. I’m glad to see you. Any particular reason for this visit?’

Toni accepted a glass of lemonade and sighed. ‘It’s Agatha.’

‘Ah.’

‘You might have noticed that ever since I found Trixie and got all that publicity and she hired those two new men, I’m being given all the rubbish.’

‘Yes, I had noticed,’ said Phil awkwardly. ‘You should speak to her about it.’

‘I suppose I should. The fact is, I’m tired of being grateful to Agatha. She rescued me from home, found me a flat, has protected me and looked after me. If I complain to her, yes, she’ll probably put me on to something decent, but she should want to without me prompting her.’

‘She doesn’t have telepathic powers, you know. You have to speak to her.’

‘You know, she scares me.’

‘Well, she can be a bit scary but she’s got a heart of gold. You are very young. Maybe she’s jealous.’

‘Of course she’s jealous. Maybe she has a reason to be. I told Sharon after we had found Trixie to phone her and Sharon said she had. But it turns out she didn’t and as Sharon is a friend of mine, Agatha thought we were deliberately cutting her out.’

‘Would you like me to speak to her?’ asked Phil.

‘No, it’s all right. I’ve been thinking for a long time about joining the police force. It’s so frustrating having to interview people when you haven’t really any official capacity. But Agatha would think I was being ungrateful.’

‘Talk to Bill Wong about it and then maybe talk to Mrs Bloxby. Mrs Bloxby’s such a sensible, calming sort of lady.’

‘As I’m in the village, I may as well call on her now. Thanks for the lemonade.’

‘You’ll find her at the fête. It’s in the field behind the pub.’

‘What if Agatha’s there?’

‘Then just pluck up your courage and talk to her.’

Mrs Bloxby was standing wearily behind a table boasting the legend VILLAGE HANDICRAFTS.

‘Oh, Miss Gilmour. How very nice to see you,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘Ah, here is Mrs Jardine to relieve me. Let’s go over to the refreshment tent and get some ice cream. Such an unusually hot day.’

Once they had queued up and paid for small dishes of strawberry ice cream, Mrs Bloxby led the way to a table in a corner of the tent.

‘Is Mrs Raisin coming to join us?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.

‘No, the reason I’m here is to ask your advice about Agatha.’

‘She is not in any trouble, I hope?’

‘No, I am. Ever since I received all that publicity over the Trixie case, Agatha has been giving me all the unimportant work.’

‘Then you must talk to her. Mrs Raisin is a friend of mine. I cannot discuss her behind her back unless she herself has a problem that I might be able to help with. You have a great deal of courage to go out on nasty cases and yet you cannot speak to your kind – very kind -employer!’

‘Agatha is more terrifying than a nasty case.’

‘Now, that’s enough! Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’

‘I called on Phil Marshall before I came here.’

‘This is a small gossipy village. Mrs Raisin will soon hear about your visit and she will ask Mr Marshall why you called and I have no doubt he will tell her. You had better go and see Mrs Raisin immediately.’

Toni approached Agatha’s cottage with lagging footsteps. She rang the bell, hoping that Agatha was out. But the lady herself answered the door.

‘Toni! What a nice surprise. Come through to the garden.’

When they were seated at the garden table, Agatha asked, ‘Is this a social call?’

‘No,’ said Toni, staring down at her feet.

‘Then what is it?’

‘Why are you giving me all the unimportant cases?’

‘Well, I have two new detectives, Paul and Fred, and I want to really try them out.’

Toni raised her blue eyes and looked straight into Agatha’s face. ‘I think ever since the Trixie case that you’ve become jealous of me.’

She waited for the storm to break. But Agatha’s reaction surprised her. Agatha sat very still, staring out at the Cotswold hills beyond the village. From the fête came the faint sounds of the village band.

Then Agatha heaved a deep sigh and said quietly, ‘Yes, of course, you’re quite right.’

‘But why?’

‘I hate not being photogenic,’ said Agatha. ‘Even if I’d broken the case, the photographers and reporters have only got to see you and they forget I exist. I’m sorry. I’ve not been myself recently.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Age, I suppose. They say the fifties are the new forties, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. Charles comes and goes, James treats me like a fellow, and Sylvan’s only interest in me was to keep track of what I might be finding out. It’s very lowering. Charles is really the one who caught Sylvan. It was his idea, you know. You were the one who found Trixie. So not only am I worried about losing my looks and any attraction I might have had, I’m beginning to doubt my worth as a detective.’

‘Do you want me to leave?’ asked Toni.

‘Good God, no! I’ll make it up to you on Monday morning. Now, I’ll get us a drink. What would you like?’

Toni asked for a vodka and tonic.

When Agatha went off to get the drinks, Toni felt trapped. How could she leave now after Agatha’s amazing burst of self-honesty?

Agatha came back with the drinks and looked at Toni’s troubled face. ‘Forget about it,’ she said gruffly. ‘You’d have felt better if I’d shouted at you and told you you were talking rubbish, now wouldn’t you?’

Toni gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Something like that.’

‘So let’s move on to something else. Sylvan’s body hasn’t been washed up anywhere and that bothers me. The police have pretty much closed the case, although they’re still looking for Sylvan – but not very hard. They have decided that Felicity knew something about the smuggling and that’s why she was shot. Yet, they have accepted that George Bross was gulled by Sylvan and is innocent. I can’t see that. I really don’t trust that man. I wish I could get to his wife, Olivia. She was keen to employ me but it was her husband who cut her off.’

‘The agency is running well,’ said Toni. ‘Why don’t you go back to Hewes and see if you can catch Olivia when she’s out shopping or something?’

Agatha brightened. ‘That’s an idea. I just don’t like to leave the whole case alone with so many unanswered questions.’

‘You’d better go in disguise,’ said Toni uneasily. ‘If Bross is a villain, you might be in trouble.’

‘I’ll go as myself,’ said Agatha defiantly. ‘It might stir things up.’

Before she set out on Monday morning, after announcing to her staff that she was leaving Toni in charge, Agatha was tempted to phone Charles. But she quickly rejected the idea. If anything were to be found out about this case, then she would find it herself.

She booked herself into The Jolly Farmer and then wondered where to start. Downboys was such a small village. Perhaps if she parked somewhere along the road leading from Downboys to Hewes, she might see Olivia driving past. The countryside, basking in the Indian summer that was also blessing the Cotswolds, looked much friendlier and less threatening than she remembered. She parked a little way outside Downboys under a stand of trees and waited.

The hours dragged by. She probably shops in the village, thought Agatha, stifling a yawn. By late afternoon, she returned to Hewes, deciding to drive up to Downboys after dark and see if there were any lights on in the house. It would be silly to waste any more time if Olivia and George were not at home.

After dark she drove slowly past the house. Lights were on at the downstairs windows.

Now what to do? wondered Agatha.

She drove a little farther and came to a stop again. She wondered if she phoned whether Olivia would answer. But if she called and George answered and she hung up, he might check to find out who had been phoning, recognize her number from before and then start chasing her all around Hewes, shouting at her not to interfere.

Still, she had come all the way to Downboys to see if she could stir something up. She took out her mobile after checking the phone number and dialled.

To her relief, Olivia answered. ‘This is Agatha Raisin here,’ said Agatha quickly. ‘Remember me? I just wondered how you were getting on.’

‘I have to speak to you,’ whispered Olivia.

‘We can meet,’ said Agatha urgently. ‘I’m at The Jolly Farmer in Hewes.’

‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ said Olivia and rang off.

I might get something here at last, thought Agatha cheerfully. If Olivia is sure that Sylvan killed Felicity, then I’ll be able to get back to Mircester and stop fretting about the whole thing.

Agatha waited the next morning. Ten o’clock came and went. She had been waiting in the hotel lounge but she went out into the street and waited there, looking anxiously to left and right.

By noon, she finally decided that something had happened. She got in her car and drove slowly in the direction of Downboys, studying approaching cars in case Olivia passed her on the road.

An ambulance raced past her heading in the Hewes direction. I hope that’s got nothing to do with Olivia, thought Agatha.

She drove up to the house. The gates were shut. With Jerry Carton gone, she wondered if the other entrance would still be guarded. She drove round there. No one tried to stop her.

Agatha crossed the lawn towards the french windows, looking nervously to right and left in case the dogs were still around. She saw a woman pushing a vacuum cleaner in the sitting room. The windows were open.

The woman saw Agatha, switched off the machine, and asked, ‘What do you want?’

‘Are you Mrs Fellows?’ asked Agatha, remembering the name of one of the cleaners Toni had interviewed.

‘No, I’m Mrs Dimity. There’s nobody home. Mr Bross has gone to the hospital with his wife.’

‘What happened?’ asked Agatha.

‘Poor lady fell down them stairs out in the hall and broke her jaw on the banisters.’

‘Do you know which hospital she is in?’

‘Hewes General, I should suppose.’

Agatha hurried back to where she had left her car. Did Olivia slip or was she pushed? She had to get in to see her.

At The Jolly Farmer, she wrote down instructions to the hospital. She found a medical supplies shop and bought herself a white lab coat and a stethoscope.

She drove to the hospital and parked. She struggled into the white coat. Luckily, she had a name tag in her handbag left over from a conference she had attended as part of a former case. She pinned the white plastic name tag to the lab coat, slipped her phone into one of the pockets, and then locked her handbag in the boot of the car.

With the stethoscope dangling around her neck, she made her way into the hospital. Agatha guessed that Olivia had probably been put into a private room. The trouble was, in order to look like an authentic member of staff, Agatha had to walk briskly up and down, all the time fearing she would be challenged.

At last, at the end of a corridor, she saw George coming out of a room. Agatha hurriedly backed into the nearest room.

‘And about time, too,’ said a querulous old voice. ‘I’ve been ringing and ringing for that bedpan. Hurry up about it. I don’t want wet sheets.’

An elderly lady with sparse silver hair and a withered face was lying glaring at her. Agatha went into the bathroom and reluctantly picked up a bedpan. If she told the old lady it wasn’t her job, then the old dear would start ringing that bell again.

Agatha went back into the room, pulled back the covers and slipped the bedpan under the old lady. It seemed to take forever and then a dreadful smell rose up. Agatha remembered seeing some moist tissue wipes in the bathroom. She came back with a bundle, eased the patient up and cleaned her, then carried the bedpan back to the bathroom. Shuddering, Agatha tipped the contents down the toilet, poured some disinfectant into the pan, and then hurriedly made her escape.

That’s what’s waiting for us all when we get old, thought Agatha. She walked along to the room she had seen George leaving and opened the door and went in.

Olivia was lying in bed with her eyes closed. Her jaw had been wired shut.

Agatha softly approached the bed. ‘Olivia,’ she whispered. ‘It’s me. Agatha.’

Olivia’s eyes opened and she stared at Agatha in fright. One hand appeared from under the bedclothes and made shooing motions.

Agatha saw a pad of paper and a pen on the table beside the bed. She was about to write, ‘What happened?’ but instead she wrote, ‘Where is Sylvan?’

And then George’s voice could be clearly heard coming back along the corridor. ‘I’ll just have a last look-in on my wife and see if she’s comfortable.’

Agatha darted into the bathroom and closed the door. The door did not have a lock but there was a stool for the elderly and infirm to use when sitting under the shower. She jammed it under the door handle and then pressed her ear to the door.

She heard a voice say, ‘I would leave your wife to sleep, Mr Bross-Tilkington. She’s had a bad shock and needs rest. I’m just going to give her a shot of sedative.’

‘Good idea. Make sure she has no visitors. Got it? Not one.’

‘Certainly. I will give instructions to the desk.’

Agatha waited until she was sure they had gone, removed the stool, and went back into the hospital room. Olivia’s eyes were closed but tears were running down her cheeks. ‘I can help you,’ whispered Agatha. She gave her the pad. ‘Quickly. Before the sedative kicks in.’

With a great effort, Olivia wrote something and then fell back on the pillows.

Agatha ripped off the sheet of paper and hurried out. When she finally got into her car, she heaved a sigh of relief. She took the piece of paper out of her pocket and studied it. The spidery writing straggled across the page. Olivia had written, ‘Calle Miro, Ramblas, Barcelon…’

Agatha frowned. Was Sylvan still alive? She had always been sure he had escaped. It was no use going to the police with this information. George would say they spent their honeymoon in Barcelona. He would get Agatha charged with something or other.

She would need to go herself. She would tell her staff she needed a break. Toni would be left in charge to make up for her, Agatha’s, lousy treatment of the girl. If it all turned out to be a load of rubbish which led nowhere, then everyone would believe she had simply been in Spain on holiday.

Agatha decided to spend another couple of weeks making sure the agency was running smoothly and then say she was going on holiday.

But someone really ought to know where she was and why she was going. It was dark when she drove down into Carsely. The church was illuminated, shining with a golden light, welcoming her home.

She decided if Charles was in her cottage, she would tell him and maybe persuade him to go with her. But her cottage was dark and silent, with only the patter of the cats’ feet as they came to investigate.

Agatha desperately wanted to find out something all by herself, to prove to herself and others that she really was a good detective.

Agatha sat in an open-air café on the Ramblas in Barcelona and watched the crowds go up and down. She wondered if that’s what most of them did on Saturday – walk up one way and then down to the port the other way. Earlier that morning, she had located Calle Miro, but it was a narrow street leading off the Ramblas, with tall apartment buildings on either side. She did not have a house number and there was no café where she could sit and look to see if Sylvan appeared, so she had settled on the Ramblas. If Sylvan – if he were alive – had bought a new boat, then surely he would head from his apartment down the Ramblas to the port.

Her eyes grew tired with watching the moving crowd. At last, she decided it might be better to go down to the port herself and study the yachts. With her sore hip seeming to make the walk very long, she pushed her way through throngs of people gathered around the living statues. She stopped to watch a man posing as a statue of Julius Caesar, wondering how he could manage to remain so motionless.

The sun was warm as she reached her goal and strolled along looking at all the yachts and motor cruisers.

By early evening, Agatha was beginning to feel tired, hungry and defeated. She found a restaurant and ordered a small jug of red wine and a plate of roast rabbit, noticing with pleasure the large glass ashtray on the table in front of her. Unlike the French and British, the Catalans were happy to flout the cigarette ban.

She decided to stay just one more day. Then she would take Olivia’s scrawled note back to the police, although she would need to think up a good reason as to why she had kept it so long.

Fortified by a good dinner, she decided to take a taxi back up to the Calle Miro and have one last look around.

The tall buildings reared up on either side of the narrow street. It was hopeless, she decided after half an hour of gazing up at windows.

She turned away towards the Ramblas and was passing a dark alley when she was suddenly grabbed and a pad of something was thrust over her mouth. She kicked and struggled, feeling herself losing consciousness.

When Agatha came to, she opened her eyes cautiously. Her hands were bound behind her back with duct tape and her ankles were bound as well and she was wearing a bathing suit.

So this is it, thought Agatha, trying not to cry. I’m to be dumped at sea.

She was lying on her side. Apart from the bed on which she had been placed, there was only one hard chair and on the wall, a badly executed painting of the Virgin Mary.

Agatha felt nausea rising in her throat and rolled over to the edge of the bed and vomited violently on the floor.

The door opened and a woman came in. She had a gypsy appearance: swarthy skin, large brown eyes and masses of coarse dark hair.

She muttered something and came back with a bucket and mop and began to clean the floor. ‘Help me,’ croaked Agatha.

The woman continued mopping. Agatha stared at the painting and said desperately, ‘Madre de Dios.’

The woman started, crossed herself, but left the room, carrying the bucket and mop with her.

Agatha drifted off into unconsciousness again. When she recovered, the room was dark. A solitary candle burned under the portrait of the Virgin. Agatha’s face was stinging and burning. Chloroform, she thought bitterly. My face will be a mass of sores.

A light French voice sounded from the next room. ‘You know what to do, Maria. See to her.’

Maria, the woman from before, came in carrying a syringe. She knelt before the Virgin and then approached the bed. ‘Please,’ whispered Agatha. ‘Por favor.’

Maria put a finger to her lips and jabbed the syringe into the mattress and emptied it. She ripped the tape from Agatha’s wrists and ankles. Then she gently closed Agatha eyes. ‘Dead,’ she whispered. ‘Like dead.’

Agatha nodded.

Half an hour passed. Then she heard two men entering the room. She was lifted up and heaved over one man’s shoulder. Then she heard Sylvan’s voice. ‘The bitch weighs a ton.’

‘Get her out of here.’ George Bross! Surely that was George’s voice.

Agatha found playing dead very hard as she was bundled into a sack and carried down a staircase, her legs bumping against the banister.

‘Into the boot with her,’ ordered Sylvan.

She was thrown in and heard the boot lid slam down.

The car jolted and rumbled over cobbles. The journey did not seem to take very long. Then the boot was lifted and she smelled salt air.

Sylvan threw her over his shoulder again. ‘Is this the best you could manage?’ she heard George say.

‘We needed a cheap, anonymous-looking boat. This is it. Now take her out to sea, get her out of the sack and dump her. She’ll be dead to the world for another few hours. I’ll wait for you here.’

Agatha felt the dip and sway as she was carried aboard a boat. Then down the stairs to the cabin, banging her head and feet as she was hauled down.

She was thrown on some sort of bunk, the sack was dragged off her and then she heard George retreating.

Agatha opened her eyes. She was lying in a squalid, smelly cabin. The engine started up. Agatha realized she was very weak and would have to get up on deck and jump over the side as soon as possible.

Terror was giving her strength. She staggered to her feet and lurched to the companionway George was at the wheel and the roar of the engine stopped him from hearing her creeping up the stairs.

Agatha moved quietly away from him to the stern of the boat. Then she wondered whether she might be in danger of being caught up in the propeller. She moved back a bit and, summoning up all her courage, threw herself over the side.

She gasped as she went down and took in a gulp of salt water. She kicked and surfaced. Her heart sank. The lights of the port seemed very far away and she did not think she had enough strength left to swim that far.

And then the water was lit up with one mighty explosion. The boat with George in charge had exploded in a ball of flame.

Agatha realized that Sylvan had planned to get rid of both of them. A police launch came racing out from the port, its strong headlight shining across the sea. Agatha waved frantically, treading water.

The launch curved round Agatha and soon strong hands were helping her on board. A policeman who spoke English was hurried forward to her. Agatha gasped and explained briefly what had happened and that Sylvan Dubois, wanted by Interpol, was alive.

And then, for the first time in her life, the redoubtable Agatha Raisin passed out.

Agatha awoke in a hospital bed in a private room. She struggled up against the pillows. Two Spanish detectives were sitting beside her bed. One said in English, ‘You must tell us quickly, what happened? We found the apartment in the Calle Miro but there was no one there.’

Agatha wearily began at the beginning of her story, of how Olivia had given her the street name in Barcelona. She said she decided to investigate the matter herself. But she called Maria ‘Carmen’, the only Spanish name she could think of, and gave the police a false description. She explained how she was supposed to be drugged and dumped at sea so that it would look like a swimming accident, or rather, that was what George Bross had been led to believe. Sylvan had really meant to kill them both. She was suddenly frightened that Sylvan might already be heading to England to deal with Olivia, but the detectives assured her that Olivia was now being guarded.

Then later that day, the Spanish detectives were replaced by English detectives from the Special Branch. She had to go through the whole story again. One detective said, ‘The press are clamouring outside. We’re not against getting this in the newspapers because it will put everyone on the alert. We’re offering a reward for the capture of Sylvan Dubois.’

‘Give me a mirror,’ ordered Agatha.

A nurse brought her a hand mirror and Agatha squeaked in horror. Her face was covered in red sores from the chloroform and her hair was lank and dull.

‘I must have make-up,’ she cried. ‘And a hairdresser.’

Agatha’s story made all the television channels and all the newspapers in Europe and Britain.

Maria, back in a gypsy encampment high up in the Pyrenees, read Agatha’s exploits and was glad she had escaped. She had been in love with Sylvan, besotted by him, right up until the evening when she realized he was a murderer.

Roy Silver felt sulkily that he could have done with some of that publicity and that Agatha should have taken him to Barcelona.

Charles and Mrs Bloxby were appalled at how near death Agatha had been. Sitting in the vicarage garden, Charles said, ‘I saw Agatha on television last night and she looked so white-faced.’

‘That was probably thick make-up,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘She said that she believed she was chloroformed and that burns the skin. I wonder where Mr Lacey is?’

James was at that moment sitting beside Agatha’s bed, giving her a lecture. ‘I could hardly believe my eyes when I read about you,’ he said. ‘You should have gone straight to the police.’

‘Oh, stop nagging,’ said Agatha. She was starting to feel more cheerful. ‘I was beginning to wonder about my detective abilities, but I have really proved myself.’

‘You were more like a tethered goat than a detective,’ said James. ‘Anyway, they say you can go home tomorrow, so I’ve decided to act as bodyguard.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ said Agatha, studying his handsome face and wondering why she didn’t feel a thing for him.

‘Did Olivia say anything now? Does she know who killed her daughter?’

‘She believes it was Sylvan. Evidently she genuinely knew nothing about the smuggling.’

Agatha did not return to a hero’s welcome from the police. Mircester was furious with her, as was Hewes. Thanks to a good lawyer supplied by James, she escaped being up in court on a charge of obstructing the police in an investigation.

Then she had to straighten out affairs at the agency. The two new detectives, Paul Kenson and Fred Auster, had complained about anyone as young as Toni being the boss and had been refusing to take orders.

Agatha, rattled by her interview with the police, blasted them and threatened both of them with the sack and then sent them scurrying off to do the jobs they had previously refused. James was calling at the office in the early evening to take her out to dinner. Agatha was looking forward to being seen with a handsome man – but that was all.

Well, that was all until James graciously extended the invitation to include Sharon and Toni. Toni took one look at Agatha’s face and said hurriedly that neither she nor Sharon was dressed to go out to dinner. But James was so insistent that Agatha felt obliged to urge them to join them.

Sharon had shaved her eyebrows and pencilled in two arches, giving her round face a look of surprise. She had also acquired a nose stud. Her red-dyed hair was streaked with blonde and her generous breasts slipped out of a low-cut blouse. Toni was wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans. But the pair of them were in high spirits and James smiled on them indulgently.

It was then Agatha wished she had a man of her own. James had turned into a sort of big brother, Charles came and went, and Roy made occasional visits. But someone of her very own by her side, thought Agatha dreamily, would mean company in her old age, would mean a protector as well, because the shadow of Sylvan was always there to haunt her.

‘What are you thinking about?’ demanded James suddenly.

‘Oh, this and that,’ answered Agatha vaguely. But she had just remembered hearing about an exclusive dating agency. It cost a lot of money and catered to the rich. ‘I’ll try that,’ said Agatha out loud.

‘Try what?’ asked Sharon.

‘Something for dessert,’ replied Agatha.