by M C Beaton
‘He is leaving in the morning, which in the circumstances is the most unfeeling thing I have ever heard of.’
Agatha made up her mind. ‘I’ll be along in the morning.’
She put down the receiver and turned to Toni, her eyes gleaming. ‘That was Olivia Bross-Tilkington. She’s engaged me to find out who killed her daughter.’
‘Want me to stay with you?’
‘No, Charles will do. He’s helped me before. I’ll just phone him.’ But Charles was not in his room and a call to reception informed Agatha that he had already left.
‘I’ll stay,’ said Toni. ‘For a bit anyway. You’ll need an assistant. I’ll run along and tell Harry to man the fort until I’m back, and you’d better get hold of Patrick and get him to take over your business.’
As Agatha and Toni drove to Downboys the next day, the weather had broken and a miserable drizzle was oozing down from a grey sky.
‘I’m not much looking forward to staying with them,’ said Toni.
‘I was just thinking about that,’ said Agatha. ‘I might suggest we continue to stay at the pub and just turn up every day. We have to find out more about Felicity. Damn James. I hope he hasn’t left. Maybe he has some idea if she had any enemies.’
The large electronic gates to the Bross-Tilkingtons’ house were closed. Agatha groaned when she saw the press gathered outside.
‘Reverse fast,’ she ordered Toni.
When they were once more outside the village, Agatha phoned Olivia Bross-Tilkington and asked if there was a back way into the property. Then she turned the phone over to Toni, who scribbled down instructions.
By approaching the village from a different angle, they found themselves outside a small lodge house where a man was waiting by the gates. He studied their car and then opened the gates.
‘Odd, very odd,’ said Agatha as the car bumped up a narrow road leading to the back of the house. ‘Why all this security?’
‘Yeah,’ said Toni. ‘I wonder if they were afraid of something even before the murder.’
Chapter Three
GEORGE BROSS-TILKINGTON WAS waiting for them when they arrived. He was a thickset man with a pugnacious tanned face under a thatch of grey hair.
‘I don’t want you here!’ he said.
‘But your wife -’ began Agatha.
‘I don’t care what my wife says. Shove off!’
Olivia appeared behind him. ‘I invited Mrs Raisin,’ she said. ‘I told you. She has the reputation of being a good detective and I want to know who killed our daughter!’
‘The police -’
‘I am not waiting for the local plods. Besides, Sylvan agrees with me.’
‘He what?’
‘Talking about me?’ Sylvan strolled into the hall. Agatha’s heart beat a little faster. Then she remembered the humiliation of that phone call to Paris.
‘I encouraged Olivia to call in the services of Agatha,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ mocked Sylvan. ‘One would think you did not want the identity of the murderer to be discovered.’
‘Oh, do what you like,’ said George and stomped off.
‘I’m so sorry about that,’ said Olivia. ‘Poor George is grieving and so he covers it up by getting angry.’ Her eyes were puffy with weeping. ‘First, I’ll show you to your room. I was only expecting you, Mrs Raisin.’
‘Call me Agatha. This is another detective, Toni Gilmour, who is going to assist me. But I think it would be better if we both continued to stay in Hewes. That way we can take a more objective view of things.’
‘Very well. Let’s go into the lounge and discuss the matter.’
Toni looked around the drawing room, or lounge, as Olivia had called it. It certainly looked more like a hotel lounge than a room in a private house. There were little islands made up of polished tables and tapestry-upholstered chairs embellished with gilt paint on the woodwork. There was no fire burning on the hearth. Instead the grate was decorated with orange crinkled paper. On a table by the french windows stood a large vase of silk flowers. A polished yacht wheel emblazoned with the name CYNTHIA in gold letters hung over the fireplace. In one corner was a padded leather bar with glass shelves behind it full of all those odd bottles of drink that people usually collect on package holidays, and the shelves were illuminated with pink strip lighting.
Sylvan, Agatha, Toni and Olivia sat down round one of the tables. Toni took out her notebook.
‘Why is there a ship’s wheel over the fireplace?’ asked Toni.
‘That was my husband’s first boat. Cynthia was his first wife.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She died of cancer.’
Agatha was painfully aware of Sylvan Dubois. He was every bit as attractive as she remembered, with his thick fair hair going slightly grey, his hooded eyes and his slim figure.
‘Now, about your daughter,’ said Agatha. ‘Did she have any enemies you can think of?’
‘Everybody adored her.’
‘Had she been married?’
‘No.’
‘But she was very beautiful,’ said Toni. ‘Surely she must have had a lot of offers.’
‘Of course.’
‘So was there a rejected man who might have wanted to kill her?’ asked Agatha.
‘It was the other way round,’ said Sylvan, his French accent light and mocking.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Toni.
‘She was what you call a dumpee.’
‘And what does that expression mean exactly?’ demanded Agatha.
‘It means she was engaged two times and two times the fellow called the engagement off.’
‘Sylvan,’ said Olivia, beginning to cry, ‘if you were not a friend of my husband’s I would ask you to leave.’
‘How did you come to be a friend of James Lacey?’ asked Agatha.
‘I spilt some beer over him in a brasserie by accident. I apologized and we got talking. I gave him my card and said if he was ever in Paris again to look me up and I would buy him dinner. He did. I told him I was going to a friend’s party and took him along. That was where he met Felicity.’
Olivia dried her eyes. ‘It was love at first sight,’ she said.
‘How do you know the Bross-Tilkingtons?’ asked Toni.
‘I was on holiday in Cannes. I met them there – oh – ten years ago and we’ve been friends ever since.’
‘What does Mr Bross-Tilkington do for a living?’ pursued Toni.
‘George is retired,’ said Olivia. ‘He dealt in real estate. Foreign properties, mostly.’
‘In Spain?’ asked Agatha.
‘Yes, Spain and other countries.’
‘A lot of angry people have lost their homes in Spain. They’ve found out that the properties their flats were in had been built on agricultural land and after they had invested their life savings, the local Spanish council came along and bulldozed the buildings. A lot of them claim they had been tricked. The estate agents would say, “Don’t worry about a solicitor. We’ll supply one.” And so they never found out about the danger until it was too late.’
‘None of that was going on when my George was selling houses,’ said Olivia angrily. ‘May I remind you it was my dear daughter who was killed?’
‘I thought that maybe,’ said Agatha cautiously, ‘someone might have wanted revenge on the family by killing the daughter.’
‘Nonsense!’
All right. Sylvan, are you sure that Felicity’s two previous engagements were broken off by the men?’
‘So I was led to believe.’
‘Have you their names and addresses?’ Agatha asked Olivia.
‘I’ll get them for you.’ Olivia hurried out of the room. Then they all heard the doorbell and a voice saying, ‘We are sorry to trouble you, Mrs Bross-Tilkington, but my forensic team would like another look at your daughter’s room. And if you are up to it today, we have some more questions to ask you and your husband. Oh, don’t leave, Mr
Dubois. You as well.’
When Olivia and Sylvan had left the room, Agatha whispered to Toni, ‘Let’s get out of here. See if that kennel man knows anything.’
They went out through the french windows. The rain had stopped but the lawn was spongy under their feet.
‘I hope he’s got the dogs safely locked up,’ said Agatha uneasily.
‘Yes, I can see them prowling about behind the fence,’ replied Toni as they drew nearer to the kennels.
‘There’s that little shed over there,’ said Agatha.
As they approached the shed, a small burly man came out and stared at them.
He wore a flat tweed cap, sports jacket, worn corduroy trousers and large battered black leather boots. His gnarled face had a squashed look, as if someone had put a heavy weight at some time on top of his head.
‘What do you want?’ he called.
Agatha approached him. ‘Just a word,’ she said. ‘Mrs Bross-Tilkington has asked me to investigate her daughter’s murder. Have you worked for the family long?’
‘Five years.’
‘May I know your name?’
‘Jerry Carton.’
‘I am Agatha Raisin and this is my assistant, Toni Gilmour. Can you suggest any reason why Felicity was murdered?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Why is there all this security? I mean, state of the art burglar alarms, electronic gates and those Alsatians?’
Jerry spat in the direction of Agatha’s feet. ‘It’s a wicked world, lady.’
‘But not that wicked,’ put in Toni. ‘I mean, were you asked to be on your guard against any people in particular?’
‘Why don’t you take your questions and shove them up -’
‘Now, now,’ admonished Agatha in her best Carsely Ladies’ Society manner. ‘Ladies present.’
‘Oh, yeah. Where?’
‘Come on,’ said Toni. ‘This moron doesn’t know anything.’
‘Have you got a police record?’ asked Agatha.
He took a menacing step towards her. ‘Get out of here or I’ll turn the dogs loose.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Toni urgently, tugging at Agatha’s sleeve.
Agatha reluctantly walked back with her to the house. She took out her mobile phone and called Patrick.
‘I’m still on the road back,’ said Patrick. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ said Agatha. ‘I wondered if you could use your police contacts to find out if the kennel man here has a police record. His name is Jerry Carton.’
‘I’ll try. Bill’s in the car in front of me on the motorway. I’ll follow him to Mircester and see if he’ll look up the files.’
Agatha thanked him and rang off.
She and Toni walked back into the drawing room. Toni looked around and sighed. ‘This is not what I expected of the middle classes.’
‘Just like any other class,’ said Agatha. ‘They come in all flavours and some of them are horrible.’
‘Did you read any Betjeman at school?’
Agatha thought of the violent comprehensive she had gone to, where most of the day was taken up fighting off bullies and trying to hear what teachers were saying above the racket made by the pupils in the classrooms.
‘I hope you’re not going to turn all intellectual on me,’ said Agatha. ‘I used to get a lot of that from James.’ James, she suddenly thought, where are you now?
‘It’s the poet John Betjeman. I remember reading a poem, “The Subaltern’s Love Song”. Betjeman had a crush on a girl called Joan Hunter Dunn. She died recently at the age of ninety-two.’
‘What on earth has that to do with anything?’ grumbled Agatha.
‘Well,’ said Toni, ‘you know what things were like in my home. I had a picture of the middle classes as portrayed in that poem: a picture of secure, solid homes, money, adoring parents welcoming suitable young men to take me to the club dance. But it’s not like that at all.’
‘To be fair,’ said Agatha, ‘the sorts of people who get into trouble so that we have to go detecting are usually not very normal.’ Then she thought of some of James’s friends and repressed a shudder. She had to admit to herself that she had taken early retirement and moved to the Cotswolds because she had been following a dream of classy security.
‘There are good people around,’ she added. ‘Take Mrs Bloxby. People like that.’
Sylvan came into the room. ‘This is all very tiresome,’ he said. ‘Questions, questions, questions. And now I suppose you have more.’
Agatha glanced at her watch. ‘Why don’t I take you to lunch?’
‘That would be fine. And your pretty assistant?’
Agatha glared at Toni, who said hurriedly, ‘Actually, if you don’t mind I’d rather go back into the town to find out what I can there.’
‘We can walk down to the pub,’ said Sylvan. ‘I’ve eaten there before. The food’s quite good.’
The pub in the centre of Downboys was called The King Charles. A badly executed painting of Charles II swung in a rising wind outside the old inn. It was a Tudor building, whitewashed with black beams, bulging at the front with age.
‘There’s a free table just over there,’ said Sylvan, propelling her towards it.
‘Do they take an order for drinks here or do I have to go to the bar and get it?’
‘We get our drinks first and then a waitress will come round for our order.’
‘I’ll get them,’ said Agatha. ‘My treat. What are you having?’
‘A half of lager.’
The bar was blocked by villagers. One man turned round on his bar stool and saw her. He whispered something to his companions and they all swivelled round.
‘If you’ve had a good look,’ said Agatha, ‘then make way. I want to get my order in.’
They shuffled off their bar stools and left a space for her. Suddenly everyone fell silent. The barman was a small fussy man wearing a blazer, white shirt and cravat over grey flannels. His face was fake-tanned and his teeth cosmetically whitened. Agatha guessed – as it later turned out, correctly – that he was someone who had retired from show business to open a pub.
She ordered a gin and tonic for herself and a half of lager for Sylvan and walked back to the table.
A buzz of conversation rose again.
‘Cheers,’ said Sylvan.
‘Don’t you ever speak French?’ asked Agatha. When she had dreamed about him, he had always murmured to her in French.
‘When I am speaking to a French person, yes – otherwise, why bother?’ He handed her a menu. ‘The roast beef and Yorkshire pudding is very good,’ he said.
Agatha thought of her waistline, but she was very hungry, so she smiled and said she would try it.
Sylvan raised a hand. A waitress promptly appeared.
‘What will be your pleasure, sir?’
‘You, you gorgeous creature.’
The waitress, who was thin and spotty, giggled with delight. As if aware that Agatha Raisin’s eyes were boring into him, Sylvan gave the order. Agatha detested men who flirted with waitresses, or indeed anyone, whilst in her company.
‘I’m glad of this opportunity to talk to you,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘And I am glad of that.’
‘For a start, you know George Bross-Tilkington. Why all the security?’
‘It’s become a dangerous world. He’s a rich man. There were several burglaries in the village a few years ago. That’s when he began to take precautions.’
And what of Felicity? I’ll need to interview her two previous fiancés. Are you sure they broke off the engagements and not the other way around?’
‘So I was told. Would you like some wine?’
Just a short time ago, Agatha would have said yes, hoping for a romantic lunch, but now she was in full detective mode. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I want to keep a clear head. So what was Felicity really like?’
‘Very beautiful.’
‘I want to know about her character.’
‘But James is an intelligent man. Surely beauty wasn’t enough.’
‘Felicity had a special talent. Here’s our food. I am very hungry. Let’s leave the questioning for a little.’
The roast beef was delicious. Agatha ate a bit but then she felt she simply could not wait to find out what Felicity’s special talent had been.
‘What talent?’ she demanded.
‘She was very good in bed.’
Agatha slowly put down her knife and fork. ‘How do you know?’
He gave a very Gallic shrug and his eyes sparkled with amusement.
‘You mean, you had her?’
Again that shrug. Oh, James, thought Agatha miserably, was I not good in bed?
‘But that was surely not enough,’ she protested. ‘He told me he wanted out of the marriage.’
‘Ah, but he is an honourable man. The date was set, the ring was on the finger. He is much older than Felicity and runs on a different set of ethics. Now, if Felicity had changed her mind, she would have cancelled the wedding even at the last minute.’
‘Did she love him?’
‘Felicity had so much self-love there was not room for anyone else.’
‘Bitch!’ said Agatha. Her eyes filled with tears.
He leaned across the table and took her hand in a warm clasp. ‘You must care very deeply for your ex-husband.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Agatha furiously. ‘Whatever I felt for James is long gone.’
She could not explain that the whole business was making her feel old and frumpy. Also, she reminded herself that James had divorced her. No honour there. No sticking to the marriage vows.
‘Eat your lunch,’ he said gently.
‘I think I’ve had enough,’ said Agatha, pushing her plate away. ‘I should get back to the house.’
‘Have a coffee and brandy. You need it. Je t’en prie.’
Agatha pulled herself together. Good detectives surely didn’t emote all over the place. Patrick and Phil, for example, went doggedly on with their work. Bill Wong, even in the throes of a broken romance, never let emotion cloud his judgement. It was all to do with increasing age, she thought miserably. That awful feeling of losing powers of attraction, of growing wrinkles, nasty little face hairs, and a stomach that kept insisting on dropping slowly south were all very demoralizing. She must stop regarding Sylvan as a Frenchman she had thought attractive and stick rigorously to her job.
