by M C Beaton
‘Gone bankrupt,’ said one of the girls. ‘Just like that. We’re to pack up and get out.’
‘What? I want my money back,’ roared Agatha. ‘Where is Amanda Carlson?’
‘She’s most horribly upset. She’s at her house.’
‘And where is her house?’
‘It’s at Kynance Mews in Kensington. Just along beside the vet’s place.’
Agatha took a taxi over to Kensington, marched down the mews and rang the bell at Amanda’s door. A curtain upstairs twitched but no one came to answer the door.
Agatha shouted through the letter box: ‘Open this door or I’ll make such a scene all your neighbours will know about your bankruptcy.’
She heard footsteps descending the stairs inside. The door opened and Amanda stood there. She was a handsome woman in her forties with an hourglass figure and sculpted hair.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said bleakly. ‘I might have known. Come in.’
Agatha followed her into a downstairs living room. Her quick eye took in what she privately thought of as landlord’s ‘posh’ furnishings: pseudo mini country house.
‘You don’t even own this place,’ complained Agatha. ‘And I want my money back. I must have been mad. Ten thousand pounds and so far all I’ve met are a couple of freaks.’
‘I am sorry. I haven’t any money.’
‘I bet you have. You’re the sort that hides cash away from the income tax. You either get it or I will go straight to the newspapers.’
‘You bitch!’ hissed Amanda. ‘Wait here.’
Agatha waited impatiently. At last Amanda came down the stairs and handed her a packet of notes. ‘It’s all there,’ she said sulkily.
Snatching the packet and stuffing it in her handbag, Agatha went out and slammed the door behind her.
It was only after she had collected her car from the car park at Moreton-in-Marsh station and was driving down to Carsely that she realized she should have asked for her file back and insisted that all her details be erased from the computer at the agency.
But she was reluctant to make the long journey back. She was also strangely reluctant even to phone. Agatha felt like a fool. She went to see Mrs Bloxby instead and told that lady for the first time of her futile attempts to find a mate.
Mrs Bloxby was tempted to burst out laughing at Agatha’s descriptions of the two men she had met, but Agatha looked so upset, she didn’t dare. When Agatha had finished, she said quietly, ‘Did you not check out the agency first?’
‘I should have done, but it seemed so respectable. It was right near where I used to have my office. They advertised in all the main glossy magazines. I got my money back. I’d better put it down to experience and just get back to work.’
‘Is finding a man so important to you, Mrs Raisin? I always thought of you as being self-sufficient.’
Agatha sighed. ‘It would be great to have someone to go on holiday with, to have someone at the end of the day to talk over cases with.’
‘Sometimes someone appears when you least expect it,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Mr Lacey was looking for you yesterday.’
‘Oh, what did he want?’
‘I suppose he just wanted to talk to you.’
‘I can’t ever look at him the same way again,’ said Agatha. ‘First he ends our marriage because he wants to be a monk. Then he decides to get engaged to a girl nearly half his age and almost flaunts her in front of me. I feel nothing for him now.’
‘But you used to discuss things with him. Has there been any sighting of Sylvan?’
‘Nothing, last heard.’
Agatha went back to her cottage. She dug some fish out of her freezer and defrosted it before cooking it for her cats. They had barely touched the hard food she had left for them.
Then she went next door and rang James’s bell. He opened the door and smiled at her. ‘I was looking for you yesterday.’
‘I was up in town,’ said Agatha. She followed him in and sat down on the sofa.
‘Coffee?’
‘Drink.’
‘Okay. I suppose it’s a G and T. But don’t smoke!’
When he came back with her drink, he asked, ‘No news of Sylvan?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Are you absolutely sure that Olivia knows nothing?’
‘The police seem pretty sure. I wonder if she’s got any money of her own, because the police will want to seize what they can, claiming the house and everything were the results of crime.’
‘It might be an idea to go and see her. I’ll come with you, if you like.’
Agatha groaned. ‘I can hardly bear the thought of that long journey to Downboys.’
‘I’ll drive.’
‘All right. Tomorrow, though. I’d better get into the office and see how things are going.’
Downboys looked every bit as bleak as Agatha remembered it to be. They drove to the house. But there was a for sale sign outside and no one was at home.
They went to the pub and asked if anyone knew where Olivia had gone. A woman said that Olivia had gone to stay with her sister in Brighton and Mrs Fellows or Mrs Dimity, her former cleaners, might have the address.
Mrs Fellows found the address after a long search. ‘It’s in number five, Beau Square, near the Steyne.’
‘Well, it’s not too far to Brighton,’ said James.
Does he feel nothing? wondered Agatha, studying his profile. We were married, we made love, and yet here we are like a couple of old bachelors.
Beau Square was actually not a square but a cul-de-sac with pretty little painted houses fronting on the cobbled street.
A stout grey-haired woman answered the door. ‘We wish to speak to Olivia,’ said Agatha.
‘Are you from the press?’
‘No, here is my card. Olivia knows me.’
‘Wait there,’ she said, slamming the door in their faces.
She was gone so long that they began to fear that Olivia was not going to see them, but the door eventually opened and they were ordered inside.
Olivia was in a pleasant downstairs living room. She had lost weight but she seemed composed.
‘This is my sister, Harriet,’ said Olivia, introducing them. ‘Harriet, Agatha was the detective I once hired to try to find out what happened to my dear daughter. James was engaged to her.’
‘I remember you from the wedding,’ said Harriet, fixing James with a cold eye. ‘Too old for her by half, that’s what I thought.’
‘Please sit down, both of you,’ said Olivia. ‘Could you give us a minute or two, Harriet?’
Harriet stomped out. Olivia sighed. ‘My sister is very protective of me.’
‘We wondered,’ said Agatha, ‘if you knew why on earth Sylvan would kill your daughter on her wedding day?’
‘The trouble is,’ said Olvia, ‘the police still can’t figure out how he did it. He had a perfect alibi.’
‘Do you think your daughter knew about the smuggling and said something – like, she would tell her new husband?’
‘My daughter was an innocent, through and through. Just a child, really. My husband and I had separate bedrooms and sometimes she would come into my bedroom at night and ask me to read her a story, just like she used to do when she was little. The police think Sylvan hired someone to kill her.’
‘What I can’t understand, Olivia,’ said Agatha, ‘is how you could possibly not suspect something criminal was going on?’
‘How could I? George made so much money from real estate in Spain. He said he loved his boat. I get seasick, so I was happy when he went off on his own or with Sylvan. Sylvan! I still find it hard to believe. We were both dazzled by him. Felicity wanted to get married. A white wedding was her great dream. She was quite childlike. The headmistress at her school said she was a trifle retarded. But she was so sweet. She cost George a fortune getting her whole appearance altered. Liposuction, the best plastic surgeon in California, personal trainer, everything of the best. Sylvan said men never noticed a wo
man had no brains provided she was beautiful.’
James flushed dark red. ‘Sylvan said an older man was just what she needed. When I think of it, all he did was pull the strings like a puppet master,’ said Olivia. ‘I’ve cried and cried until I can’t cry any more. Do you think they will ever find Sylvan?’
‘I hope so,’ said Agatha. ‘My great fear is that he’ll find me first. Do you miss your husband?’
‘I don’t know. He became such a bully. I got so used to being shouted at and ordered around, it feels strange – empty, somehow. I can’t really think of him. I’m sorry he had to die so terribly but to think he was still consorting with the man who may have got my daughter killed…’
Harriet came into the room and said gruffly, ‘You’d better leave.’
‘I feel that was a wasted journey,’ said James, as they took the long road home.
‘Not really,’ said Agatha. ‘I don’t think Olivia is any sort of actress. I think she’s a bit simple herself. I feel a loose end has been tied up.’
‘What about dinner when we get back?’ suggested James.
‘All right. But just the pub will do.’
‘You can’t smoke, you know.’
‘Oh, yes, I can. He’s got patio heaters.’
Charles turned up and joined them for dinner. It was an easy, companionable meal. What on earth would today’s feminists make of me? thought Agatha. They would point out that I have a successful business and friends. Why do I need a man? Sex. Well, they would point out, sex is easily come by. But it’s love I want, thought Agatha. It’s love that causes the high and fills up the brain with golden thoughts so that one feels invulnerable. It’s love that makes all the tiresome maintenance of a middle-aged woman easy.
But one thing she had learned the hard way: no more dating agencies.
After a few weeks, Agatha received a letter with the heavily embossed heading ARISTO DATING. They said they had taken over the premises of the Diamond agency. Diamond had sold them their list of clients. Would Agatha like her details erased? If not, they could introduce her to some very suitable men. There would be no fee unless she found someone she liked.
Hope again sprang in Agatha’s bosom, although a voice of common sense was telling her to forget it. But Christmas was slowly approaching. She did not want to be alone. She conjured up a vision of a tall handsome man who owned a pleasant country mansion with dogs and wood fires. They would go for long walks and return in the evening to a companionable dinner. And then later, they would walk up the stairs to the master bedroom hand in hand, and he would say…
‘I’ve finished, Agatha,’ called her cleaner, Doris Simpson. The bubble of Agatha’s dream burst as she went to pay Doris. But the dream came back during the day.
She finally e-mailed the agency and said any man they considered suitable should e-mail her along with a photograph.
A reply came the following day. His name was Geoffrey Camden. He was tall and rangy with thick grey hair. He was standing on the steps of a country mansion with two gun dogs at his heels. He wrote that he was a widower who liked shooting, fishing and visits to the London theatres. He had seen her photograph and read her details.
Agatha thought that Mrs Bloxby would probably tell her to forget the whole thing, but she felt she had to talk to someone. It was Sunday evening. She phoned the vicar’s wife who said immediately that she would call round. ‘Alf is always like a bear with a sore head by Sunday evening,’ she said. Alf was her husband and Agatha felt that by Sunday evening, the vicar should have been feeling spiritually uplifted.
Mrs Bloxby sank down gratefully on the soft feather cushions of Agatha’s sofa, accepted a glass of sherry, and asked, ‘What’s been happening?’
Agatha had printed off the e-mail. She showed it to her.
‘I think you had better check up on him first and find out if he is who he says he is,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘If he’s got a mansion, he might be in Who’s Who. Do you have a copy?’
‘It’s about five years old. Wait. I’ll get it.’
Agatha came back with the book and searched the pages. ‘Well, I’m blessed. Here it is. Retired army major. Widower. Address, The Grange, Abton Parva, Shropshire. Hobbies – just like the ones in the e-mail. Age fifty-five.’
‘Maybe you should go up to London first and check out this agency. Sniff out if they’re competent.’
‘I think I’ll continue to e-mail him for a bit. I didn’t put down “detective” in my CV for the last agency. I’ll tell him and if that doesn’t put him off, maybe I’ll take a chance.’
By the end of two weeks of e-mails, Agatha felt she knew this Geoffrey very well. He described his country life, talking about the people in the nearby village, about his occasional clashes with the vicar, and mentioned that he planned to go up to London soon.
In the last e-mail, he suggested they meet in London for dinner.
Agatha agreed. To her surprise, he suggested that restaurant in Chinatown where she had met her previous date. Agatha said she would prefer somewhere else.
Three days passed without a reply. Agatha could hardly concentrate on her work. Then finally an e-mail arrived suggesting a rendezvous at a restaurant called The Lifeboat in Saint Katharine’s Dock at eight o’clock on Saturday evening.
Agatha cheerfully e-mailed an acceptance and phoned Mrs Bloxby with the good news. She then made appointments with the beautician and hairdresser for Saturday morning.
Mrs Bloxby was sitting in a dentist’s waiting room on Saturday afternoon. A filling had fallen out of a tooth. She felt she was lucky to get an appointment because most dentists shut down for the weekend. It was a private dentist and Mrs Bloxby hoped the treatment would not turn out to be too expensive. The woman who had gone in before her seemed to have been in the treatment room for ages. Mrs Bloxby wished she had brought a book.
Mrs Bloxby flicked through the pages of a copy of Country Life. She wished there were still magazines around with stories in them. She remembered when magazines like Good Housekeeping would serialize authors like Ruth Rendell.
And then she flicked it open at a double-page spread of photographs. Mrs Bloxby could hardly believe her eyes. It was a feature on the recent wedding of Geoffrey Camden. With shaking hands, she took out her mobile and asked directory inquiries for the number of Geoffrey Camden at The Grange in Shropshire. When she got the number, she asked to be connected. A woman answered the phone. Mrs Bloxby asked to speak to Mr Camden.
‘This is Mrs Camden,’ said the woman. ‘Geoffrey’s up in London to see an old friend. He won’t be back until tomorrow.’
Agatha must be warned. Mrs Bloxby dialled Agatha’s mobile. It was switched off.
Then she wondered if Geoffrey Camden, so recently married, would be the type of man to cheat on his wife – through a dating agency, of all things.
And fast on that came one dreadful thought – Sylvan.
What if Sylvan were tricking Agatha? Desperately she phoned Toni and explained the situation. Toni said she would phone Bill Wong and get up to London herself. Bill listened carefully but said he could hardly alert Scotland Yard on such a far-fetched theory. With the whole of Interpol still looking for Sylvan, he would hardly dare put in an appearance, but Bill would go up to London with Toni.
On the road to London, Toni phoned James and Charles and then phoned Roy Silver. But Roy was out. She left a message for him telling him to get down to Saint Katharine’s Dock and warn Agatha.
Agatha was ten minutes early when she arrived at the restaurant. The restaurant was very dark. Behind her a waiter asked her if she would like something to drink. Agatha ordered a Campari and soda. When it arrived, she sipped it as she studied the menu. It was one of those twee menus she hated so much: the Captain’s Table Special for two, Dirty Dick’s shrimp cocktail, Captain Hook’s battered cod and so on.
She began to feel slightly dizzy. She pulled out her mobile phone and switched it on in case he was going to be late and had been trying to contact her
.
Toni’s voice came on the phone. ‘Get out of there, Agatha. It’s a trick. It could be Sylvan.’
Agatha stumbled to her feet, staggered and almost fell. A smooth French voice said, ‘I’m afraid the lady has had too much to drink. I’ll help her outside.’
Agatha opened her mouth to scream but the restaurant swirled around her and something seemed to have happened to her voice. It was like one of those nightmares where you tried to scream and only whimpering little squeaks came out.
She had only taken a sip of the Campari and soda, thinking it a sophisticated drink, although it was one she did not like very much.
The air outside revived her and she began to struggle weakly. ‘There is a gun in your ribs,’ said Sylvan. ‘One squawk out of you and you’re dead.’
Bill, followed by Toni, rushed into the restaurant. The first thing Toni’s eyes spotted was Agatha’s handbag resting on a chair. ‘Where is the lady who belongs to this?’ she shouted. The manager came forward. ‘The lady had a dizzy turn and one of our waiters took her outside for some fresh air.’
‘Was he French?’
‘Yes, he was filling in for one of our waiters who was taken ill suddenly.’
Bill took out his phone and called Scotland Yard while Toni rushed out to the dock. Saint Katharine’s Dock is punnily named The Berth of London. Cruisers and yachts bobbed at anchor. Toni went up to an old man who was watching the boats.
‘Did a boat just leave here?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She was a big powerful motor cruiser.’
‘Name.’
‘What?’
‘The name of the boat?’ shouted Toni.
‘Versales.’
‘Versailles?’
‘Could be. Never could get my tongue round them French names.’
Bill came to join her. ‘The River Police will be with us in a minute. We’ve got to catch him before he throws her overboard.’
Agatha stared bleakly at Sylvan, who was sitting across from her in the boat’s cabin. ‘I see your old friend, Jerry Carton, is driving us. What are you going to do with me?’
