by M C Beaton
“I think she was plotting something,” said Fred. He ran one podgy hand nervously over his head.
“Like what?”
“Maybe plotting to kill me.”
“My dear Mr. Jankers!”
“She made me take out a heavy insurance policy, and if she was plotting with anyone it would be that old friend of hers, Cyril Hammond.
“Have you told the police this?”
“I tried, but Cyril says he was asleep and his wife backs him up.”
“Mr. Jankers, have you not considered leaving here? I am sure the police would allow you to go.”
“Fact is, I think the answer to that murder is here. Mind you, that friend of yours doesn’t strike me as much of a detective.”
“Oh, she is very good. She never lets a case go until she has an answer.”
Could this man have murdered his wife? wondered Mrs. Bloxby. He seemed too quiet and neat in his business suit.
“Time to eat,” said Fred. “Care to join me?”
But Mrs. Bloxby felt she had done enough for Agatha. “I really must go upstairs and pack,” she said, rising to her feet.
He rose as well. A magazine which had been half hidden by his bottom fell to the floor. He whipped it up and put it behind his back, but not before Mrs. Bloxby had seen the lurid cover and the title, Hot Tits.
Mrs. Bloxby felt suddenly tired as she walked along the long corridor to her room. How eerie this old hotel was, she thought, with all those empty rooms.
A maid was just coming out of Agatha’s room, which was next to her own. The woman ducked her head by way of greeting and hurried off along the corridor. Mrs. Bloxby’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. The maid had not been carrying any cleaning materials.
She unlocked the door of her own room and went in. She phoned the manager. “I have just seen a maid coming out of Mrs. Raisin’s room. She was wearing a blue overall. She was thin and sallow with black hair. Do you have a maid like that on your staff?”
“Doesn’t fit the description of anyone I’ve got,” said Mr. Beeston.
Mrs. Bloxby thanked him and then phoned the local police station and asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Barret. When he came on the line, she told him about the suspicious maid.
He said he would be right along.
When he arrived, Mr. Beeston supplied the pass key, and Barret, followed by Mrs. Bloxby, went into Agatha’s room. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. “I’ll get someone along to check for fingerprints,” said Barret. “Mrs. Raisin is at headquarters in Lewes. I’ll phone there and tell her when she’s returned not to go up to her room until we’re finished.”
“That’s new,” said Mrs. Bloxby, noticing a tray containing a flask, a jug of milk, sugar bowl and plate of biscuits on the table by the window.
“We’ll check that as well,” said Barret.
James Lacey went out for a long walk that day. He missed not working with Agatha. He felt he would really need to sit down with her and have a long talk. He had finally accepted that he would need to apologize.
He returned to the hotel in the early evening, hurrying to beat the high tide which was already sending waves smashing into the sea wall.
Agatha was sitting in the reception area, looking tired and wan. Patrick was with her.
“How are things going?” asked James.
Agatha told him briefly about the suspect maid and ended by saying, “They’re still working on my room.”
“Might I have a word with you in private, Agatha?”
Patrick started to get to his feet. “It’s all right,” said James. “I’ll take Agatha into the bar.”
Cyril Hammond and his wife Dawn were in the bar. Not for the first time Agatha wondered why they did not go home. They waved to Agatha to join them, but she called, “Later.”
She and James settled in a corner of the bar away from the Hammonds.
James ordered drinks and then leaned forward. He took Agatha’s hands in his and her treacherous heart began to thump.
“Agatha… dearest,” he began.
And then a voice called, “Coo-ee, James. It’s me!”
Deborah Fanshawe sank down in a vacant chair next to James. “I thought I would give you a nice surprise,” she said. “What a dismal hole this place is! But it was the least I could do, considering you missed my splendid dinner.”
Agatha rose to her feet.
“Where are you going?” asked James.
“I’m buggering off to where I’m wanted,” said Agatha savagely.
Mrs. Bloxby had joined Patrick when Agatha stormed back into the reception area. She looked at Agatha’s hurt and angry face and said sympathetically, “I believe Mrs. Fanshawe has arrived.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” said Agatha, jerking a chair forward and sitting down.
“Mrs. Bloxby has found out something interesting,” said Patrick. “Fred Jankers was reading a porno magazine.”
“Him and every other blasted man in this country, I should think,” said Agatha.
“Please listen,” urged Mrs. Bloxby.
“When I was in the force,” said Patrick, “we once employed a profiler to see if we could find out the identity of a rapist in the Mircester area. He said that rapists often have an abused childhood and start with torturing animals and then a bit of arson and often then proceed to sex crimes. Now we know our Fred set fire to his school. It would be interesting to find out if there are any unsolved cases of rape in the Lewisham area.”
“That would take forever,” grumbled Agatha, “and we don’t have the resources of the police. Let’s eat.”
They went into the dining room. “I must leave first thing in the morning,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
James and Deborah entered the dining room and sat at another table. Agatha scowled horribly.
After a while Mrs. Bloxby said gently, “Deborah is laughing and flirting, but Mr. Lacey looks miserable.”
“Don’t care,” said Agatha sulkily, poking at her food with her fork.
Barret walked in and joined them. “You can go back to your room now. We’re finished there.”
“Any results?”
“Yes. We got a quick result on fingerprints. The woman who went into your room is Candice Skirisky, a Bulgarian. She’s a mule.”
The lyrics of “Would You Like to Swing on a Star” danced through Agatha’s brain.
“A mule?”
“One of those women who are drug carriers. She was arrested a few years ago. The police had a tip-off and she was arrested at Heathrow. She had swallowed packages of cocaine. She said she was to be paid two thousand pounds, but when she went to a hotel room in Sofia to meet this man, he told her she would be paid according to how many cocaine packages she could swallow. She was told that when she arrived in London she would be met by another man who would give her a laxative, retrieve the drugs and pay her. But she would not give any names. She said the man had told her that if she gave up any names, she would be killed, We think maybe Brian McNally got hold of her.”
“What was in that flask?” asked Agatha.
“We’re still analysing the contents. We are putting two policemen on guard at this hotel.”
“Maybe Mrs. Raisin should go home,” suggested Patrick.
“We need her here,” said Barret, “and she would be safer here with the police guarding the place.”
“If this Brian McNally is a powerful drug baron and can command people like this woman to try to murder me—that’s if there turns out to be something sinister in that flask of coffee,” said Agatha, “then surely he could command someone to murder Geraldine Jankers if he thought she had double-crossed a member of his gang.”
“We’re looking at that angle.”
“The thing that puzzles me,” said Patrick, “is why was the haul of jewels from a Lewisham jeweller so valuable? I mean, it’s hardly Cartier or Tiffany’s.”
“Benson and Judge, the jeweller’s, is an old-established firm. Their main
showroom is in Mayfair. They had moved a quantity of their best items down to Lewisham for an exhibition for a children’s charity. All the local worthies were to be invited. The robbery took place a day before the party.”
“Why wasn’t the stuff fenced right away?” asked Agatha.
“I think Charlie Black had managed to stash the stuff before he was arrested. I think he planned to fence it when he got out and then found it had disappeared.”
Barret got to his feet. “I’ll be off. I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
He looked across the drawing room. “Isn’t that Mr. Lacey who was here with you during the murder?”
“Yes,” said Agatha curtly.
“Who’s that woman with him?”
“The village tart,” said Agatha savagely.
“I see.” Barret looked down at Agatha with a glint of humour in his eyes.
When he had left, Mrs. Bloxby said gently, “Would you like me to stay in your room tonight, Mrs. Raisin?”
“It’s all right,” said Agatha. “I know you are right next door. Or rather, the new next door. I changed our rooms and got your stuff moved into the new one.”
“I shall be leaving before breakfast.”
“I’ll look after her,” said Patrick.
They finished their meal and left the dining room, Agatha avoiding looking at James.
James Lacey was feeling hunted. Deborah should never have come. She did not seem to notice his silence but chattered on about the iniquities of her ex-husband and all the men who had tried to sleep with her.
At last, when she paused for breath, he said, “Look, Deborah, it’s like this. I was about to have some sort of reconciliation with Agatha and you arrived at precisely the wrong minute.”
Deborah’s mouth fell open in surprise. “But why?”
“I am very fond of her still.”
Deborah’s eyes narrowed. “You are a very silly man. I thought we had something going.”
“You must be mad. I’ve barely spoken to you before this evening.”
Deborah burst into tears. She had fantasized so much about him on the journey down that she was sure they would be in bed together before the night was out.
James waited until she had finished crying and then said quietly, “You must see you have made a mistake. You had better go home.”
He rose and left the dining room and nearly collided with Cyril Hammond and his wife. As he walked away, James wondered what the couple were doing staying on. He wondered whether to go straight to Agatha’s room and try to explain things but then decided to leave it until the morning.
NINE
CHARLES Fraith was not feeling guilty at having abandoned Agatha. But he was bored. He could not understand why his friends, Cynthia and Guy Partington, had suddenly decided to cut short their visit. It did not occur to him that on the two occasions when Charles had invited the Partingtons out for dinner, he appeared to have forgotten his wallet.
He knew if he went back to join Agatha she would be very angry with him, but she had been angry before and had come round. It was worth a try. The previously dull summer weather had worsened and sheets of rain were making lakes on the lawn outside his windows.
Agatha had slept soundly that night because when she had changed her room and Mrs. Bloxby’s, she had demanded ones which did not overlook the sea, having become tired of the sinister roar of the waves at high tide.
She awoke in the morning feeling stronger than she had felt since the discovery of the fake maid. She wondered if they had found out yet if there had been anything sinister in that flask and then remembered that it seemed to be only on fictional forensic detective programmes on television that results came through immediately.
Mrs. Bloxby knocked on her door and came in to say goodbye. “I wouldn’t worry about Mrs. Fanshawe,” she said. “Such a pushy sort of woman. Mr. Lacey won’t like that at all.”
“Don’t care,” muttered Agatha, but she could not help wondering what James had been about to say to her before the awful Fanshawe woman had breezed into the bar.
“I must leave now,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Do take care of yourself.”
“I’ll try. Give my love to Carsely.”
“I’ll do that and I’ll make sure your cats are being well looked after.”
Agatha’s cleaner always looked after Agatha’s pets when she was away somewhere.
As she walked down the stairs with her friend, Agatha wondered what on earth she could do that day. Then she thought of the Hammonds. It was time to ask that pair just why they were staying on.
She walked Mrs. Bloxby round to the car park, waved goodbye and then walked slowly back to the hotel.
Agatha joined Patrick in the dining room. There was no sign of either Deborah or James. Agatha thought of those long legs of Deborah’s and had a sudden awful mental picture of them wrapped around James’s neck. She shrugged to dispel the image.
“Going to rain,” said Patrick. “Big black clouds creeping in across the sea. What’s the programme for today?”
“I think we have to hang around the hotel. The police will be back with more questions and I’d better be available. Have you seen James?”
“Not yet.”
“I want to have a go at the Hammonds. Cyril knew Geraldine for a long time. He knew Charlie Black. I wonder if there’s anything criminal in his record.”
“Trouble is, my contact at the police station is getting a bit tired of me using him. Maybe I’ll try later, take him a bottle of Scotch or something.”
“Okay, put it down on your expenses.”
“The gentlemen of the press were round earlier. There must have been a leak.”
“I’ll tell the manager to keep them outside the hotel.”
“Are you sure? In the first place, I already suggested to Beeston that he ban the press, but he says he can do with the custom. Also, a bit of publicity never hurt anyone. Hold a press conference. Hint that you are nearly about to expose the murderer of Geraldine.”
“I suppose I could do that. Is my hair all right? Maybe I should find a hairdresser.”
“I wouldn’t bother. Look. It’s started to bucket.”
Sheets of rain were being driven against the long windows of the dining room.
“Oh Lord,” muttered Agatha. “Here comes the femme fatale of Carsely.”
Deborah marched up to them. “Where’s James?”
“Blessed if I know,” said Agatha.
“He’s not in his room.”
“He’s probably gone out for a walk. Why don’t you go and hunt him down?”
“I’ll need to fix my hair first.”
Deborah strode off. “That’s the first time I’ve seen a mini-raincoat,” said Patrick. “Still, I suppose she knows she’s got good legs.”
Agatha, who prided herself on her own good legs, gave him a sour look. But she was comforted by the fact that James was not hanging around Deborah.
They fell silent, Agatha already missing the comforting presence of Mrs. Bloxby and Patrick wondering whether a bottle of whisky would elicit any information from his contact At times like this he wished he were in his old job with access to computer records and the right to interview anyone he felt like.
“Tide’s coming up,” said Patrick at last. “If it’s as bad as this now, God help the residents of Snoth when the autumn gales start.” Through the open door of the dining room he saw Deborah leaving again, carrying a large golf umbrella under her arm. He half rose.
“Where are you going?” asked Agatha.
“I’ve just seen Deborah heading out. I should warn her it isn’t safe.”
“Oh, sit down. Let the silly cow get a soaking.”
A high wind had got up and the rain was streaming down. Deborah unfurled her large umbrella. She hesitated. Waves were crashing over die sea wall.
But in the distance, heading towards the hotel, through the rain and waves, she could see James Lacey.
Deborah smiled. He could not really ha
ve meant all those things he had said to her. She had been successful in the hunt before by never taking no for an answer. She would run towards him. She saw it all in slow motion in her head as if on a film.
She started to run. Patrick, who had risen and was watching her through the windows, shouted, “Stop!”
“Stop what?” asked Agatha, lighting a cigarette.
Patrick ran for the door.
Deborah clutched her umbrella. The wind seemed to be buffeting from every direction. And then she saw James turning off into the shelter of a side street. He hadn’t even seen her! She ploughed on, water now swirling about her feet, deafened by the roar of the waves.
Patrick, shouting and yelling, watched in horror as a great gust of wind caught under the umbrella and dragged her to the edge of the sea wall. Ducking and weaving, he ran towards her.
One great grey wave curled over the sea wall and like some gigantic hand caught Deborah. One minute she was there and the next she had gone.
Patrick was no swimmer and he knew that even if he were, the waves would batter him against the wall. He retreated to shelter and called the emergency services. He felt sick.
Agatha looked up as Patrick, dripping wet, walked slowly into the dining room. “What’s up?” she asked.
“It’s Deborah. She’s gone.”
“Good riddance.”
“No, Agatha. I mean she’s really gone. A great wave dragged her over the wall and into the sea.”
“Have you phoned the lifeboat?”
“Called the emergency services. They’ll get everyone out.”
“This is terrible. I didn’t like the woman, but I certainly didn’t wish her dead.” Agatha had turned pale. She was beginning to feel this seaside resort had some sort of curse on it.
“I’d better go up to my room and dry myself,” said Patrick. “Here come the Hammonds.”
They came up to Agatha’s table. “Mind if we join you? It’s ages since we’ve had a chat.”
“Sit down,” said Agatha, “although I don’t feel much like chatting. Someone from our village, Deborah Fanshawe, has just been swept out to sea.”
