by M C Beaton
At that moment, the door opened and the policeman who had been on guard outside said, “A word with you, sir. It’s urgent.”
Barret joined him. They went out together. Agatha half rose to leave. “Sit down!” barked Detective Sergeant Wilkins.
The door opened again and Barret called, “Wilkins!”
The detective went out to join him. A policewoman was seated in a corner of the room. Had she not been there, Agatha would have pressed her ear to the door.
At last Barret came back, looking excited. “You pair can go,” he said. “We’ll be in touch later.”
“What’s happened?” asked Agatha.
“Mind your own business.”
Charles Fraith had been joined by Cyril and his wife. “This is awful,” said Cyril. “Why are the police going away? We were told to wait to be interviewed.”
“Something’s happened,” said Agatha, “that’s sent them running off.” Dawn Hammond was crying quietly.
“Where’s Patrick?” Agatha asked Charles.
“He went up to his room to make some calls.”
“I think we should go up and join him. He may have heard something.”
“Give me his room number,” said Charles. “I’ll join you there. I haven’t unpacked yet.”
James sat gloomily nursing a glass of wine in the villa garden. Perhaps it was just as well that Agatha hadn’t joined him. Kenneth moaned constantly about the folly of having ever left Britain and of having sunk his savings into this bed and breakfast.
Mary drank quite a lot and complained so much about the price of food that at last James suggested he pay for his visit just as if he were a customer. He had expected his generous offer to be refused and was quite taken aback when it was accepted with alacrity.
Mary came out into the garden and placed a radio on the table. “Just going to get the news on the BBC World Service,” she said. “It’s like a little bit of home.”
For heaven’s sake, thought James impatiently, you would think she was in Outer Mongolia.
She switched on the radio in time for the Greenwich time signal, followed by the strains of Lily Bolero. The news began. A bomb explosion in a busy street in Toronto, an outbreak of cholera in Bangladesh, protesters in Africa demonstrating over the cull of elephants, and the discovery of a mummy in Egypt.
“They hardly ever give any news of home,” complained Mary. “You would think there still was a British Empire the way they go on.”
“Shh!” admonished James, for the the announcer had gone on to say, “There was a shooting yesterday evening in the quiet seaside town of Snoth-on-Sea. Wayne Weldon, son of the Geraldine Jankers who was recently found strangled to death on the beach, was found shot in his hotel room along with his wife, Chelsea. Now, to our main story. A bomb went off in the early hours of this morning in a busy street in Toronto …”
“Excuse me. I’ve got to phone,” said James, getting to his feet.
“Just put the money for the call next to the box on the table in the hall,” said Mary.
“I’ll use my mobile.”
James went up to his room and dialled the Palace Hotel and asked to be put through to Agatha’s room. He waited impatiently. At last he was told there was no reply. “Can you page her?” he asked. There was another long silence, and then the manager came on the line. “Mrs. Raisin’s friend, Sir Charles Fraith, has arrived,” said Mr. Beeston, proud of having a title staying at his hotel. “I’ll try his room, if you like, sir. Mrs. Raisin may be there.”
“Don’t bother,” said James.
He rang off and sat staring out of the window. In the hope that Agatha might arrive after all, he had booked for two weeks and paid in advance.
Now she had Charles with her, he thought bitterly, she would not bother to come. He wanted to leave. He knew he wouldn’t get a refund, but the thought of enduring another day of Kenneth and Mary was too much for him. He would go back to Carsely and immerse himself in work. He had a travel book on Tunisia to write. He had travelled extensively in that country and had all his notes. It was odd, but he had always assumed Agatha would follow him wherever he went. For the first time he realized how much Agatha’s unstinting adoration meant to him. The only thing that made him glad she had not come was the knowledge that she would have hated it as much as he did.
Agatha, Harry, Patrick and Charles were seated in Patrick’s room. “I wonder what’s up,” said Agatha.
“I can’t go along to the police station,” said Patrick. “There’s a policeman on guard outside the hotel.”
“Is there anyone you could phone?”
“I’ve got a contact at the station, but he won’t want to speak to me if there’s something important going on.”
There was a tentative tap at the door. “Come in,” shouted Agatha.
Cyril and his wife Dawn entered. “This is terrible,” said Cyril. “Poor Wayne. Poor Chelsea. Who could have done such a thing?”
“It could be that ex-husband of Mrs. Jankers,” said Patrick. “He’s just out of prison and he might have come looking for the jewels.”
“Wayne wouldn’t have had them,” exclaimed Cyril. “I mean, after all this time. Charlie got twelve years.”
He focused his attention on Harry. “What’s he doing here?”
“Harry works for me. And this is Sir Charles Fraith, a friend of mine.”
“I’m frightened,” wailed Dawn. “What if we’re next?”
“Well, I’m hungry,” said Charles. “We could all go to the dining room.”
“Not there.” Agatha repressed a shudder. “The food’s awful.”
Harry picked up a copy of the Yellow Pages. “I’ll order something in. What about pizza?”
“That’ll do,” said Charles. “I’ll take your drink orders and we’ll get them up from the bar.”
Harry searched the Yellow Pages. “Got it,” he said. “Luigi’s Pizzeria. What about just getting simple ones like cheese and tomato?”
They all agreed. Harry phoned and gave the order and told them to deliver the pizzas to the hotel room.
“How is Mr. Jankers?” asked Patrick.
“He’s lying down. He says he’s not ill but it’s all been a great shock,” said Cyril.
They talked in a desultory manner until the drinks and then the pizzas arrived.
“I wish I could get out and see what’s happening,” said Harry. “There must be a fire escape here.”
“There’s a fire escape at the end of the corridor,” said Agatha. “You could try that way, but don’t get caught.”
Harry finished his pizza. “I’ll see if I can discover anything.”
Harry went along the corridor and pushed open the fire door. He wedged a business card in it to keep it open and then went nimbly down the rusty stairs.
He found himself in «ft unkempt garden. He saw a gate lead« ing onto the promenade. It was padlocked and chained. He climbed over it. Waves were buffeting the sea front and washing across the promenade.
He ran along the front, keeping to the buildings, pausing as a particularly large wave smashed over, and then running on when it retreated. There were sandbags outside some of the houses to stop them from being flooded.
Harry wondered why the council didn’t do anything about the increasingly high tides.
He turned off towards the police station and saw a crowd of reporters and photographers outside.
“What’s going on?” he asked one reporter.
“We just know the police brought a man in for questioning. He had a blanket over his head, so we couldn’t see him. The police say they’ll make a statement later.”
Harry couldn’t find out any more, so he dodged the waves again and got back to the hotel.
When he reached Patrick’s room, there was a note in the door. “Downstairs in the bar.”
Harry went down and found the party minus Cyril and his wife. “Where’s Cyril gone?” he asked.
“Upstairs, comforting Mr. Jankers.”
Cyril and Dawn joined them in the bar, having been summoned by the detectives.
“We have arrested Charles Black, Mrs. Jankers’s ex-husband,” said Barret. “He was spotted in a pub outside the town called the Feathers.” Agatha winced. Charlie had probably been in the bar when she and Harry had been discussing the jewels. “We found a quantity of jewellery in his car along with a sawn-off shotgun. It’s an open-and-shut case. He has been charged with the murders of Wayne and Chelsea Jankers.”
Cyril brightened. “That means we’re free to leave.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Barret. “You, Mrs. Raisin, and your travelling circus may leave, but I am afraid that you, Mr. Hammond, your wife and Mr. Jankers will need to stay a few days longer.”
“Why?” wailed Dawn.
“It appears that on the night Mrs. Jankers was murdered, Charles Black was in London at a gambling club and did not leave until two in the morning. There are plenty of witnesses to attest to that fact. So that leaves us with the unsolved murder of Geraldine Jankers. We will be back tomorrow to take both of you and Mr. Jankers over your earlier statements.”
“We’ll never get out of here,” moaned Dawn.
“So what are we going to do now?” asked Patrick after the Hammonds and the detectives had left.
“Wait!” Agatha took out her phone and called Phil Marshall. “How are things going at the agency?” she asked.
“I wish you’d get back here,” said Phil. “There’s a lot of work come in and I can barely cope.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Agatha rang off.
“There’s a lot of work back in Mircester. I think you, Patrick, and you, Harry, should go back. If I get any leads, I’ll get you back down here.”
* * *
“Alone at last, darling,” said Charles the next morning after they had waved goodbye to Patrick and Harry.
“I hope you are here to help me,” said Agatha. “The trouble is if you see some pretty girl you know, you’ll be off like a shot.”
“I don’t know anybody in the whole wide world who would want to visit a place like this. I haven’t seen the mysterious Mr. Jankers.”
“I suppose I’d better start all over again,” sighed Agatha, “in case Mr. Jankers might have some idea. Cyril had known Geraldine for a long time. Maybe she knew something unsavoury about him and threatened to tell his wife. Let’s go up to Fred Jankers’s room.”
Fred Jankers was sitting in a chair wrapped in a blanket. “It’s the shock of all this,” he said. “I can’t seem to get warm.”
Agatha introduced Charles and then asked, “Did the police inform you that Charles Black has been arrested for the murders of Wayne and Chelsea?”
“Yes. I want to go home, but they say I’ve to stay here for a bit because they are still investigating Geraldine’s death.”
“In the short time you knew your wife, did she seem afraid of anyone?”
He shook his head. “Geraldine wasn’t afraid of anyone.”
“Not even of Charlie Black?”
“No. Not as far as I know.”
“When you first met her at ballroom dancing, was there anyone else in the offing? I mean, did she seem romantically involved with anyone?”
He wrinkled his brow and pulled the blanket closer up to his chin. “Let me think. She did come along with some chap. What was his name? Peter somebody.”
“Where was this dancing class?”
“In Lewisham.” He lowered the blanket and fished his wallet out of his pocket. “I think I still have their card.” He took a small pile of cards out of his capacious wallet and flicked through them. “Ah, here it is. ‘Jane and Jon’s Ballroom Dancing, Cherry Street, Lewisham.’ ”
Agatha took the card. “I’ll just borrow this for the time being.”
When they left Mr. Jankers, Agatha said, “We may as well go up to London tomorrow. I can’t get much more out of Cyril or his wife or Fred Jankers. Who knows? She had a habit of annoying people. She was once married to a criminal. Blast! I wonder if Char-he did the job himself. Say he had an accomplice and the accomplice was after the jewels and got down here before Charlie. Let’s see if this place has a library so we can check the old newspapers.”
When they went downstairs, Mr. Beeston was checking in members of the press and looking delighted with this unexpected custom.
Agatha saw Cyril in the bar and went in, followed by Charles. “That armed robbery,” she asked Cyril, “when exactly did it take place?”
“Let me see; Charlie was on remand for six months before it got to court. It would be in 1994. In October, I think it was.”
They thanked him and went out in search of the library, finding it among the winding streets that formed part of the original town. It was a red sandstone building, or rather, it had been red, but it was one of those buildings that had never been cleaned up, and so it was mostly black with old soot.
They went in and found the newspaper section. Whatever money had been stinted on the outside of the building had been used on the inside, which was bright, cheerful and modernized. But they met with a setback. The library only contained records of what had been in the local papers. They went back out again and found a nearby pub.
Agatha took out her phone and called a journalist she used to know and asked if he could look up the records for an armed robbery that had taken place in October of ‘94 at a jeweller’s in Lewisham, promising him an exclusive if she solved a murder case she was on. She gave him her mobile phone number and he said he would ring her back.
“So what really happened to dear James?” asked Charles.
“He cleared off. I told you.”
“Oh, really? I thought you two were off on a second honeymoon or something.”
“When the police told us we were free to leave this horrible burg, he suggested we go on holiday somewhere in the south of France. But I couldn’t leave the case, so off he went. He sent me a postcard with the address, expecting me to join him, but I didn’t feel like it.”
“Good heavens, Aggie grows up at last.”
“Don’t call me Aggie!”
Agatha’s phone rang. The journalist said, “You could have found it yourself on your computer. Here it is. Armed robbery. One Charles Black arrested. His partner got away.”
“Have you got a name for the partner?”
“Pete Silen. Police were looking for him but never found him.”
Agatha thanked him and rang off. “He says Charlie’s partner was a man called Pfete Silen. The police never got him. Now our Geraldine turned up on the dance floor initially with someone called Peter.”
“Longshot.”
“But worth trying. We’ll go tomorrow.”
SIX
AGATHA and Charles drove off early and headed for London. Agatha was glad that Charles was driving because she had slept badly and knew that the traffic on the way to Lewisham would be horrendous.
Agatha wondered how long Charles would stay on the case. In the past, he had had a habit of suddenly deciding to leave her, either because he had a date or because he had become bored. He led a self-contained, orderly bachelor life and maintained that lifestyle by doing exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it.
They stopped at a roadside restaurant for breakfast.
“Why should James want to take me to such a dreadful place?” Agatha burst out. “He said he used to go there as a child.”
“He’s in his fifties, isn’t he?” asked Charles. Agatha nodded. “So we’re talking about a little over forty years ago. Probably was a sweet little watering hole then. Shops selling ice cream and postcards, Punch and Judy and donkey rides on the beach, things like that. I’ll bet you he remembered every day as sunny as well. One does, and forgets all the rainy days. I mean, where did you go on holiday when you were a child?”
Agatha remembered occasional holidays at ho
liday camps with a shudder. Her parents were usually drunk and raucous.
“Here and there,” she said vaguely. “Anyway, he’s probably lazing in the south of France and basking in the sun. If you’ve finished your breakfast, we’d better get going.”
They circled around Lewisham until they found a car park. Charles looked up Cherry Street in the London A to Z he kept in the car. “It’s right off the High Street,” he said. “Not far to walk. I see you’ve taken to wearing flat shoes. Ah, when love dies, women lose two and a half inches in height.”
“I’m not even going to reply to that,” said Agatha. “Come on.”
Jane and Jon’s Ballroom Dancing was situated above an antique shop. As they mounted the stairs, they could hear the strains of “La Paloma “ “Tango time,” commented Charles. “I can just see you with a rose in your teeth, Aggie.”
“Stop being frivolous,” snapped Agatha. “This is a murder investigation, remember?”
They opened the door and went in. Six couples were gyrating in a genteel version of the tango. A tall thin woman wearing a leotard and black tights came forward to meet them.
“Are you interested in joining the class?” she asked. She thrust out a bony hand. “I’m Jane.”
“I’m a private detective,” said Agatha, “and this is Sir Charles Fraith.”
Jane looked alarmed. Her penciled eyebrows rose nearly into her black hair. “It’s all rubbish,” she said. “I never touched the silly man.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Didn’t Mrs. Smither send you?”
“Never heard of her.”
Jane visibly relaxed. “We’ve had some trouble because some woman is claiming I made a pass at her husband, but you should see Mr. Smither! Fat and fifty, my dear.”
The music stopped. “Excuse me,” said Jane. She started the CD over again and called, “Once more and put some feeling into it.”
Agatha wondered why Jane was dressed more for a ballet class than for ballroom dancing. As if reading her thoughts, Jane said, “I take them through some ballet exercises first to limber them up. Now what can I do for you?”
