by M C Beaton
Then he returned to the house, stopped the van, and walked confidently up to the house and round to the back door. To his relief, there was a high hedge screening the back garden. He pulled on a pair of thin latex gloves and got to work with the lock picks. After a quarter of an hour, he managed to get the door open.
He found himself in the kitchen. It was a mess; Geraldine Jankers had obviously not bothered to clean up before she and her husband left. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink and there were the remains of a breakfast on the table.
He moved quietly through to the living room. A low coffee table was covered with glasses and bottles. Newspapers and magazines were scattered about. A set of bookshelves did not hold any books but various photographs of Geraldine. He went across a small square hall and opened a door on the other side, which revealed a dining room that looked as if it had hardly been used. He shut the door on it and opened a door next to it.
This, he judged, had been Fred’s study. Unlike the other rooms, it was neat and tidy. Here were shelves of well-read books and a desk by the window had neatly arranged papers on it. He debated whether to pull the curtains, but decided against it. No one was moving on the street outside. He sat down and began to go through the papers. There was nothing of interest on the top of the desk except bills due to be paid. He opened the drawers. In a deep left-hand drawer he found clearly marked files—tax, VAT, insurance, bank—and decided it would not be worth going through them. He opened the right-hand drawer and found a file marked “Personal Correspondence” and lifted it out.
At first, the contents seemed disappointing. Fred belonged to a bowling club and there were letters inviting him to various functions connected with it. There was one from Wayne saying he was looking forward to the holiday at Snoth-on-Sea. Modern Harry was amazed that people still wrote letters instead of texting messages, but he had noticed that Fred did not appear to own a computer. There was one from a ballroom dancing class, querying Fred’s non-attendance. Then he found a small square envelope and opened it up.
It was written in block capitals and simply said, IF YOU MARRY GERALDINE IT WILL BE THE WORSE FOR YOU. It was signed ARCHIE SWALE.
Harry whistled under his breath. Here was something at last. Archie Swale was the old geezer who lived in Brighton and who had been married to Geraldine. He carefully replaced the letter in the file and put everything back in the desk.
He then proceeded to search the rest of the house. In the main bedroom, he searched through the bedside tables without finding anything of significance. He ripped the duvet and sheets off the bed and lifted up the mattress.
Lying on the box spring and gleaming in the faint light coming through the window he saw two gold watches, a diamond brooch, a sapphire-and-diamond necklace and four gold chains. So Charlie Black didn’t get all the jewellery, he thought. Did Fred know about this?
He carefully made the bed up again. Harry went quietly downstairs and let himself out Fortunately for him, the lock clicked back into place.
He walked briskly to his van and drove off. Once he was well clear, he stopped the van and phoned Agatha on her mobile and told her what he had found.
“The police should know about that jewellery,” said Agatha, “but we can’t tell them. And what about old Archie Swale? He can’t have killed Geraldine. He’s just not strong enough. Maybe that letter was just to warn Fred what he was letting himself in for by marrying Geraldine. Good work, Harry. Charles and I will pay Archie a visit.”
Agatha and Charles drove to Medlow Square in Brighton to confront Archie Swale. “We’d better try to find out what he was doing on the night of the murder,” whispered Agatha.
But when she saw Archie again as he stood in the doorway—elderly and frail—her heart sank. He surely could never have had the strength to strangle someone like Geraldine.
She introduced Charles, stressing his title. “Where’s the other fellow?” asked Archie.
“I don’t know,” said Agatha, privately relieved to note that for the first time in her life she really did not care where James was. “We just wanted to ask you a few more questions.”
“Oh, all right,” said Archie reluctantly. “You’d better come in.”
When they were seated, Agatha asked, “Did the police ask you where you were the night Geraldine was murdered?”
“The police haven’t been near me, I’m glad to say.”
Charles stood up and began to prowl about the room.
“As a matter of interest, where were you?” asked Agatha.
“Here, watching television.”
Agatha decided to lie. “Mr. Jankers said you sent him a threatening letter telling him it would be the worse for him if he married Geraldine.”
“I was just giving him a friendly warning from one man to another.”
“But your letter sounded threatening.”
“Wasn’t meant that way. Look, I’ve been pretty patient with you, but you aren’t the police. Get out and don’t come here again.”
Archie’s face was red with anger.
“Don’t you want to find out who murdered your ex-wife?” asked Agatha.
“The only reason I would want to know would be to shake him by the hand. Now, get the hell out of here!”
He loomed over her, suddenly seeming powerful in his rage.
Agatha rose shakily and edged round him. “Come along, Charles,” she said.
Outside, Agatha rounded on Charles. “You were a fat lot of help.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, sweetie. I was looking at photographs. Do you know old Archie used to be in the paratroopers? There was a regimental photo of him and his buddies in that dark corner by the fireplace. He must have been very tough at one time.”
They got in the car. “Well, he isn’t tough now,” said Agatha.
“Think about it,” said Charles. “A dark night, a man in a rage, a man who’s been taught to kill. Geraldine all unsuspecting. She turns her back on him. He seizes the scarf and twists it tight. He’s still got powerful hands. Didn’t you notice?”
“I don’t think it could be him,” said Agatha stubbornly. “I mean, Charlie Black didn’t need to do the murder himself. He could have sent one of his villainous friends. Told him to find out from her where the jewels were and get them. Geraldine refuses and the villain loses his rag and murders her.”
“My money’s on Archie,” said Charles.
James Lacey was once more Carsely’s most wanted single man. Before she left, Agatha had bragged to Miss Simms, secretary of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, about her holiday with James. Miss Simms had told the other members, and so it was noticed that James had returned on his own.
A newcomer to the village, Deborah Fanshawe, was particularly interested. She was in her forties, recently divorced, rich and attractive. She was a tall, leggy woman with masses of brown curly hair and a great deal of energy. Deborah was the ladies’ society’s newest member and considered a great acquisition. She organized sales of work and outings for the aged. She seemed to be indefatigable. Only Mrs. Bloxby found her somewhat wearisome. When Deborah appeared on her doorstep yet again one morning, the vicar’s wife found it hard to hide her irritation.
“I am very busy, Mrs. Fanshawe,” she said.
“Just wanted a word,” said Deborah cheerfully.
“Oh, come in, but you can’t stay long.”
Deborah sprawled out on the sofa. She always wore very short skirts and Mrs. Bloxby averted her eyes from those long legs and the skirt that was hitched up to show an edge of frilly knickers.
“It’s about James Lacey,” said Deborah. “I am most definitely interested.”
Mrs. Bloxby turned her mild gaze on her and said nothing.
“How do you think I should go about getting him?”
“My dear Mrs. Fanshawe. That is entirely up to you. I have no advice to give.”
“But you’re a friend of this Agatha Raisin. Is he still keen on her?”
“I suggest you ask
him. Now, if there is nothing further…”
Deborah pouted and got to her feet. “Well, I’ll get him. Just you see.”
The vicar came in when Deborah had left. “Who was that?”
“Mrs. Fanshawe.”
“Tremendous lady. Such a help in the parish.”
“I think she has too many hormones,” said Mrs. Bloxby and walked off to the kitchen, leaving her husband staring after her.
Agatha and Charles returned to the hotel. Betty Teller was once more at the reception desk. She handed Agatha her key and then said, “Letter for you.”
Agatha took the envelope. It had simply her name on the envelope. It must have been delivered by hand.
She ripped it open. Written in block capitals was the simple message: YOU’RE DEAD.
SEVEN
CHARLES looked over her shoulder. “Could be some nutter.”
“I’m taking this to the police,” said Agatha.
“Do you mind going on your own? I’m tired.”
“Charles! Someone could be out there waiting to murder me!”
“Tell you what, Aggie. Go up to your room. If you go to the police station, by the time they’ve finished with you the tide will be up and you’ll need to run the gauntlet of the waves. They’ll send someone.”
“All right,” said Agatha reluctantly.
Once in her room, she saw the bottle of brandy Charles had brought the night before. She poured herself a stiff measure and then phoned the police station and asked to speak to Barret.
When he came on the line, she told him about the threatening letter. “I’ll send someone to collect it,” said Barret. “We’ll let forensics have a look at it. It’s your own fault. You should go back to Shitface-on-the-Wold, or wherever it is you come from.”
“I run a successful detective agency in Mircester,” said Agatha crossly.
“Whatever. I’ll have someone along there in the next half hour.”
Agatha sat and sipped her brandy. Then she decided to go down to reception and wait for the policeman.
When he finally arrived, he was soaking wet. He took the letter from her and put it in an envelope.
“Now I have to go back out and dodge the waves,” he said crossly. “Two people were swept out to sea last year. If the council don’t do something about it soon, we’ll have more drownings, not to mention the whole front falling into the sea.”
When he had left, Agatha realized she was hungry. She went to the desk and phoned Charles’s room. There was no reply.
She could wait until the tide retreated and go out into the town for something to eat. Agatha decided to brave the dining room in the hope that the food would not be so awful as the last time.
The dining room was empty except for Fred Jankers. The press had gone.
He looked across the room and saw her. “Please join me,” he said.
Agatha thought he looked much better. He had regained colour in his cheeks and some sparkle in his eyes.
“What’s on the menu this evening?” asked Agatha, sitting down opposite him.
“I don’t know. The chef has left now that there’s so few of us to cook for. They’ve got some woman in from the town. We’re supposed to take pot luck.”
A waitress appeared bearing two bowls of soup. Agatha tentatively tasted it and then her eyebrows rose in surprise. “This is delicious,” she said. “Ham-and-pea soup.”
It was hard to make conversation because of the din of the waves outside. The soup was followed by roast lamb, roast potatoes and peas.
Fred suggested they order wine, but Agatha refused, so he ordered a half bottle for himself.
“I don’t know which has upset me more,” said Fred, “the murder of my wife or this business about the jewels. I really didn’t know anything about them. Poor Geraldine was a dark horse. They’re going to release her body for burial. I suppose I’ll have to bury Wayne and Chelsea as well.”
“Won’t Chelsea’s parents be responsible for her funeral?”
“She was an orphan. She lived with an aunt, but the aunt told me she didn’t want to know anything about it. Quite shocking. She said she always knew Chelsea would come to a bad end.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t like Wayne and she hated poor Geraldine. Made quite a scene at the wedding, she did. Drunk, of course.”
“Who inherits now that Wayne is dead?”
“I really don’t know. I haven’t been in touch with the solicitors recently. The police say I can leave, but somehow I can’t. I really want to know who murdered my wife.”
“Did she ever talk about Archie Swale, her ex?”
“No, she never did. Never talked about Charlie either. She would say, The past is past.’ One of her favourite sayings.”
I’ll bet it was, thought Agatha cynically.
* * *
Charles paced up and down his room, wondering what to do. When the phone had rung, he had not answered it, being sure it was Agatha. His manservant, Gustav, had rung him on his mobile and said that Guy and Cynthia Partington were coming on a visit. They were Charles’s great friends. They lived outside Inverness and he had enjoyed their hospitality during the grouse season.
But it would mean leaving Agatha in the lurch. He was tempted simply to pack up and disappear, except that Agatha might think he had been kidnapped and call out the police.
The really cheap and caddish thing would be to wait until she had gone to sleep and leave a note at the desk downstairs for her. Charles decided at last that the caddish way was the easiest.
He hung the DO NOT DISTURB notice outside his door and began to pack. The phone rang twice and then Agatha knocked at his door and called out, “Charles, are you there?”
Affecting a sleepy voice, he shouted, ‘Tm awfully tired. Going to sleep.”
“See you in the morning,” called Agatha.
Charles sat down to write that note. He lied and said that Gustav had phoned him in the middle of the night and that he had had to leave immediately. He waited until one in the morning, and then, carrying his suitcase, took the creaky lift downstairs. He handed the note to the night receptionist, Nick Loncar.
“I’ll just get your bill, sir,” called Nick to Charles’s retreating back. Charles turned and reluctantly approached the desk. He handed over a credit card and waited impatiently while Nick made out a receipt.
Then he walked out of the hotel and round to the car park.
* * *
The next morning, Agatha tried phoning Charles’s room. No reply. She decided to go down for breakfast, hoping that the splendid local woman was on duty in the kitchen.
She was relieved to see the dining room was empty. Conversation with Fred had died the previous evening over the apple crumble. He had looked suddenly tired and had said he did not want to wait for coffee.
Betty Teller came in and handed her an envelope. “This was left for you,” she said.
Agatha opened it gingerly, expecting another threatening letter. To her amazement, it was from Charles. “Dear Aggie,” Charles had written. “Got phoned by Gustav in the middle of the night. My aunt is very ill. Didn’t want to wake you. Have to dash. Will phone. Love, Charles.”
“I don’t believe it,” muttered Agatha. “His aunt’s as strong as a horse.” She knew Charles’s aunt lived with him and sometimes answered the phone. She took out her mobile and dialled Charles’s number. His aunt answered. “Agatha Raisin here,” said Agatha. “I heard you were very ill and—”
“Absolute nonsense” came the robust voice. “Goodbye.”
Agatha felt bereft. Charles knew that someone had threatened her and yet he had decided to clear off.
She stared across the bleak expanse of the dining room and tried not to cry. Then she decided to take action. She phoned Patrick. “Can the agency spare you?” she asked. “I need some help down here.”
“I don’t think a few days would hurt,” said Patrick. “I’ll drive down today.” Agatha told him all she had learned s
o far and then rang off.
A waitress served her breakfast—fluffy scrambled eggs and bacon and a pot of excellent coffee. Despite her misery, Agatha resolved to tell Mr. Beeston, the manager, that if he paid the local woman a good salary he might entice customers back to his hotel.
After breakfast she decided to go out shopping. The hotel did not have a laundry service and she was tired of washing out her underwear in the handbasin in her room. Much easier to buy new stuff.
She walked to the promenade wall and looked out to sea. The tide was out and grey choppy waves stretched to the horizon under a grey sky.
Agatha had a sudden longing to be back in Carsely with her cats. Although she knew Charles’s friendship was often fickle, she felt abandoned. The new Agatha Raisin, she told herself firmly, must give up any emotional reliance on men. Bugger them all. Who needed them?
She turned up a side street that led up to the main street. There was a sex shop with a colourful display of gadgets in the window. A group of schoolgirls were staring in the window and giggling.
Whatever happened to romance? thought Agatha. Or will these girls grow up more sensible than me, never expecting any knight on a white charger to come along?
She went in to Marks & Spencer and bought herself six pairs of knickers and three brassieres.
Agatha was emerging from the shop with her purchases when she collided with a tall man. Her shopping bags fell to the ground. “Here! Let me.” He stooped and gathered up her bags and handed them to her. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Agatha smiled up at him. He was well dressed in a tailored suit and dark overcoat. His face was thin and tanned and his hair properly barbered.
“I recognize you!” he exclaimed. “You’re that woman detective. I saw your photo in the local paper. You must have a fascinating life. I say, have you time for a coffee?”
“That would be nice,” said Agatha. “You haven’t introduced yourself.”
“I’m Terry Armstrong.”
They walked together along the street. “What are you doing here?” asked Agatha.
“I’m a builder. My men are working on some new houses here. Here’s a café. It’s not too bad.”
