by M C Beaton
A fly buzzed against the window. The room was hot and stuffy. Agatha was beginning to feel as trapped as the fly.
Then she realized he was asking, “Would you like to see my medals?”
“Very much,” said Agatha.
Archie staggered slightly as he rose to his feet and Agatha thought, he’s been drinking a lot before we arrived.
“Now, where did I put them?” Roy stifled a yawn as Archie jerked open drawers on his desk. Agatha stared numbly at a picture over the fireplace. Then, as Archie jerked open another drawer, Agatha saw reflected in the glass of the picture a flash of brilliance. Archie slammed a door of the desk shut violently, muttering, “Not that drawer.”
“Maybe you keep them in the bedside table,” said Agatha. “I often keep mementos there.”
“I’ll go and look. It’s my memory these days. I can remember things a long time ago but I can hardly remember what happened yesterday.”
When he had left the room, Agatha moved quickly and quietly to that desk. He had been bending over. Must be one of the bottom drawers. She opened the one on the left. Nothing but papers. She opened the one on the right and stifled a gasp as she looked down at a blaze of jewels—necklaces, bracelets and watches; all glittering like the treasure trove in an illustration to a child’s detective story. She heard Archie’s slow step on the stairs, shut the drawer quietly and regained her seat just in time.
“I can’t figure it out,” said Archie, coming into the room. “Blessed if I can remember where I put them. What about another drink?”
“Nothing for us,” said Agatha. “We really must be going. I only called to see if you were all right.”
She and Roy stood up. “Can’t I persuade you to stay?” he pleaded, loneliness shining in his old eyes.
“No, honestly. Thanks for the drink. Come along, Roy.”
Outside, Agatha said urgently, “I’ve got to phone Barret at Snoth.”
“Who’s he?”
“The detective inspector who was in charge of the case.”
“Why?”
Agatha turned and then waved. “He’s watching us from the window. Wait until we get into the car.”
“You’ve got a ticket,” said Roy, removing it from under the wiper. “This is a residents’ parking area.”
“I’ll pay it gladly. Get in.”
Once they were in the car, Agatha drove off. “I want to phone when we’re out of sight Roy, in that bottom drawer were piles of jewels. Don’t you see? Geraldine probably gave them to him for safekeeping, keeping back a few bits and pieces for herself under the mattress. So there’s a prearrangement to meet her on the beach and hand over the jewels. But he strangles her instead. Let’s stop in the car park of this pub and I’ll phone Barret.”
James Lacey had seen Agatha drive off with Roy. He wondered what she was up to. He still could not quite believe that the formerly adoring Agatha was avoiding him so completely. He had been reluctant to go off on holiday on his own and so had returned to Carsely. Immediately after his return, every time his doorbell rang he answered it, sure he would find Agatha on his doorstep. But it was always either the postman with a parcel or one of the village women with a cake for him.
He went along to the village stores and saw Mrs. Bloxby just leaving. He hailed her.
“What’s Agatha up to these days?” he asked.
“My dear Mr. Lacey, why don’t you ask her yourself? She lives right next door to you.”
James burst out, “She’s not talking to me!”
“Then perhaps you should talk to her,” said Mrs. Bloxby mildly. “Now, if you will excuse me …”
And I hope you never do climb down off your high horse and speak to her, thought Mrs. Bloxby. Mrs. Raisin has suffered enough.
Agatha had made her phone call. How long would it get Barret to get a search warrant, and on a Saturday, too?
Roy and Agatha occasionally walked back to the square and watched Archie’s house from a safe distance.
The sky was darkening and they had not eaten anything. Roy was starting to complain loudly.
Agatha capitulated. They went back to the pub for beer and sandwiches, but then Agatha insisted they go back to the square one more time.
This time, there were a police car and an unmarked car outside Archie’s house. They watched and waited.
Suddenly the door opened and Archie was led out and put into the police car. Barret and Wilkins followed, got into the unmarked car and drove off.
“Good, now back to Carsely,” said Roy.
“No,” said Agatha. “We’re going to Snoth.”
“Correction, sweetie. You’re going to Snoth. I’m going back to Carsely to get my stuff. Drop me at the station.”
“Roy, you may as well come with me. It’ll take you ages to get to Carsely. Train to Victoria, tube to Paddington, train to Moreton-in-Marsh and then taxi to Carsely.”
“Oh, all right,” said Roy sulkily. “But don’t be all night over it.”
A police car stopped them on the road out of Brighton. “You are to follow us to Snoth police station,” she was instructed.
“I was going there anyway,” said Agatha cheerfully.
At the police station Agatha was told to wait. They wanted a statement from her.
So she and Roy waited and waited while the muffled sound of the rising tide reached their ears.
“What’s happening about the sea wall?” Agatha asked the desk sergeant.
“They’re building a new high one, and about time, too. The hotel’s finished. Pity, that. I remember it as a boy. Grand place, it was.”
“Mrs. Raisin?” A policewoman appeared. “Will you and your companion follow me?”
Agatha and Roy were buzzed through and followed the policewoman to an interview room.
Barret and Wilkins were there. A feeling of familiar fatigue assailed Agatha as the tape was switched on and the questioning began.
At one point Barret asked, “How could you possibly believe that there were the jewels in that drawer because of a single flash of light you saw reflected in the glass of a painting?”
“The sun was shining brightly into the room,” said Agatha, “and that reflected glitter got me thinking it might be the missing jewels.” She waved one arm expansively. “The way I see it is that Swale was given the jewels by Geraldine for safekeeping. But he doesn’t want to give them back. So he lures her onto the beach. Probably arranged it beforehand. That is one good solid reason why she would leave her hotel room in the middle of the night.”
Said Barret, “Mr. Swale insists that Mrs. Jankers did give him the jewels to look after. He did not know anything about the theft. He meant to deliver them to her solicitor, but forgot about them.”
“You can’t forget about a drawerful of gems!”
“Nonetheless, he is sticking to his story. We will probably charge him with harbouring stolen property, although even that’s doubtful because he’s sticking to his story that he did not know the stuff had been stolen, but apart from that we have no evidence whatsoever that he committed the murder. You should really leave detecting to the police.”
“Oh really? Would you have found the jewels?”
“Sooner or later,” said Barret.
“That’s a load of rubbish. Are the jewels from that robbery?”
“Swale tried to say at first that they were from an aunt of his, but we had the record of the stolen stuff faxed over and, yes, they’re from the robbery. When we asked him why he had invented the aunt, he said Geraldine had sworn him to secrecy and he was honouring her memory.”
“And you believe that?” raged Agatha.
“Interview ended,” said Barret, switching off the tape. “You are free to go, Mrs. Raisin. Just stay out of it.”
“And that’s all the thanks I get!” complained Agatha on the road home.
Roy stifled a yawn. “So you keep saying over and over again. Let it go.”
Agatha drove on for several miles. Then she said, “Of
course I could be wrong. Swale might not be the murderer. I would like to go and see Cyril Hammond.”
“If you want me to go with you to Lewisham tomorrow, the answer’s still no.”
“I tell you what,” said Agatha, “I’ll run you up to London tomorrow and then I’ll go to Lewisham.”
“On your own?”
“No, I’ll see if Harry will come with me.”
Harry was delighted at the prospect when she phoned him the next morning. Agatha was relieved. She had been sure that a young man like Harry would have a busy social life. She did not know Harry had cheerfully cancelled a date with his latest girlfriend and was glad of an excuse to do so, as his interest in her had been wearing thin.
They dropped Roy at his home in Fulham and then made their way to Lewisham.
“Where does Cyril live?” asked Agatha.
“Perry Way. I’ll direct you. Haven’t been there, but I looked up directions before in case we needed them.”
Cyril’s home was in a row of terraced houses. Two children were playing in the weedy front garden.
“Must have visitors,” said Agatha, ringing the bell.
A tired-looking woman with a baby on her hip answered the door.
“Mr. Hammond?” asked Agatha.
“Don’t live here any more. We bought the house from him.”
“Do you know where he lives now?”
“Wait there. Got the address somewhere. Here, hold the baby.”
Agatha clutched hold of the baby, which began to cry. “Let me,” said Harry, taking the baby from her and starting to talk nonsense to it. The baby gurgled happily and sucked its thumb.
After a while the woman came back and handed them a piece of paper which had grease spots on it.
They thanked her, Harry handed back the baby, and they left.
“So where is he?” asked Harry.
“He’s moved to Swindon. I hate Swindon. I always get lost in the roundabouts.”
“Should we go there, or try to see Fred Jankers now we’re here?”
“Maybe. But I’d really like to see Cyril. My money’s on him.”
“I’ll drive if we go to Swindon.”
Agatha capitulated, and Harry drove off.
“It’ll be interesting to know what state of mind Cyril’s in,” said Harry. “It’s a hell of a way to Swindon. It’ll take us nearly three hours.”
On they went through Forest Hill, Dulwich, Streatham, Clapham, Wandsworth Common, East Putney, Kew Bridge, the traffic hell of the Chiswick Roundabout, and then, with a sigh of relief, Harry drove down onto the M4.
“I’d better drive in the centre of Swindon and ask for directions,” said Harry. “What’s that address again?”
Agatha fished the greasy piece of paper out of her handbag. “Tullis House, Maycombe Avenue.”
Harry lowered the window and asked various passers-by, but no one seemed to recognize the address.
He drove on a bit, seemingly happily oblivious to the angry hooting of horns from cars behind him every time he stopped. Then he cried, “Oh, look, there’s a copper on the beat. Haven’t seen one of those in years.” He stopped and asked the policeman for directions.
Agatha was glad she wasn’t driving. She could never have remembered all these turn-rights and turn-lefts.
She sat silently while Harry weaved his way competently through street after street out to the outskirts of Swindon.
“Here we are,” he said at last. “Gosh, they must have got then-hands on Geraldine’s money pretty fast.”
They had expected Tullis House would turn out to be a block of flats, but it was a large white villa in a street of equally large white villas. Harry drove up the short driveway at the front and then parked. “If he’s not at home,” said Harry, “I’ll scream.”
Agatha felt that awful pain in her hip and swung her right leg out of the car by putting one hand under her hip to support it.
Harry rang the doorbell and they waited. The Indian summer day bathed everything in a golden glow. Then they could hear light footsteps approaching the door. A pretty young Asian woman stood smiling at them. She had skin as golden as the day and she had long black hair down to her waist.
“Mr. Hammond?” asked Agatha.
“You are friends of his?”
“Just tell him Mrs. Raisin is here to see him.”
The girl giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. “Such a funny name.”
“What’s so funny about it?” asked Agatha as the girl pattered off into the house.
“I suppose it’s a bit like being called Mrs. Prune.”
“No, it is not!” said Agatha huffily. “And who is this, anyway? Has he got himself a maid?”
The girl came back. “Please to come in.”
She shut the door behind them and led the way to a sitting room on the ground floor. Cyril was waiting to meet them.
“Nice to see you again,” he said. “You’ve met Lin.”
The sitting room was furnished with Victorian chairs and a Victorian sofa. Dull landscapes in need of cleaning hung on the walls. A portrait of a severe-looking woman in a black gown and lace cap hung over the marble fireplace. Agatha guessed that Cyril had bought the contents along with the house.
“Sit down,” said Cyril. “Like a drink?”
“Just coffee,” said Agatha. Harry said he would have the same. Cyril nodded to Lin, who hurried off.
“Where’s Dawn?” asked Agatha.
“We broke up. We’re getting a divorce. I’ll be marrying Lin as soon as the divorce comes through.”
“Where did you meet Lin?”
“Chinese restaurant in Swindon. Love at first sight. What brings you?”
“I don’t know if it’s in the papers yet,” said Agatha, easing herself down onto the sofa and trying not to wince. “Archie Swale was arrested yesterday.”
“Geraldine’s ex! Why?”
“He had a drawerful of jewellery. Turns out to be the jewellery from that theft.”
Lin came in with a laden tray. The cups rattled as Cyril shouted, “The old bitch! She told me Charlie had hidden the jewels after giving a few pieces to Wayne. She said she didn’t know where they were.” He suddenly calmed down, and taking out a gaudy silk handkerchief, mopped his brow.
Lin cast him nervous little looks as she poured cups of coffee.
“Go away and do something,” Cyril ordered her. Lin scurried from the room, her head bent.
“I thought I knew everything there was to know about Geraldine,” said Cyril, sinking down into an armchair. “We were childhood sweethearts.”
“Why didn’t you marry her?” asked Harry.
“Because at that time we had no money and Geraldine wanted money andwhat Geraldine wanted, Geraldine got. But Archie Swale! She despised him. She thought she’d married into money and then found out he had pretty much only his pension.”
“I can’t understand it either,” said Agatha. “I could swear Archie hated her. Why would she let him have the jewellery?”
“Perhaps because she hit another bum one with Fred Jankers. I remember her telling me he had this chain of dress shops. But the shops weren’t doing much business. She tried to get him to sell the lot, but he stuck his heels in and said his father had started the business and he was damned if he would sell even one shop. Wait a bit. Archie must have murdered her. That’s why she went out in the middle of the night. Of course she’d go, knowing he had the jewellery.”
“Trouble is,” said Harry, “the police don’t have a shred of evidence.”
“Why wouldn’t Geraldine sell the jewels if she liked money that much?” asked Agatha.
“The stuff was hot. She would guess if she held on to it for a long time, she could then get rid of it bit by bit. But Archie! I can’t get over it. I was her friend. She’d still be alive if she’d asked me to keep them.”
“You mean you would have kept stolen goods?” asked Agatha.
“What else could I have done? I wouldn’
t have turned her over to the police.”
Said Agatha, “I gather she left you comfortably off. How did she manage to amass so much money?”
“May as well tell you, now she’s dead. When she was only a teenager, she was gorgeous-looking. She went on the game. Got picked up by a rich businessman who kept her in a flat in Chelsea. When he got tired of her she threatened to tell his wife and so he paid her off. He’d put the flat in her name and she sold it. Then she decided she wanted marriage and kids. By that time I was married to Dawn, so she married Jimmy, who had a good bit of cash and left it all to her when he died. She went back on the game and got herself another rich man. He was the kind who thinks criminals glamorous. He took her to Marbella and she met Charlie Black there. Fell hook, line and sinker, she did, especially when he promised to bring up Jimmy’s boy, Wayne, as if he were his own. But she’d got to know a stockbroker and had invested her money and she was too canny to let Charlie get his hands on it. She went off him after a bit and kept complaining she’d left a rich man for him. So he planned the jewel theft. Silly bugger got caught.”
“Where’s Dawn living?” asked Harry.
“Why?”
“Just thought we might want to tell her the news as well.”
“Here.” Cyril took out a notebook and scribbled down an address. “Thanks for giving me the news, but if there isn’t anything else…”
“No, we’ll go now,” said Agatha, wishing she had not sunk so far down into the feathery cushions of the sofa. But when she rose, there was no pain. All I need is more exercise, she thought. I’m damned if I’m getting a hip replacement. No ageing.
Outside in the car she said to Harry, “Let’s look at this address. If it’s in Lewisham, I’ll give up for the day.”
She read the note. “No, it’s here in Swindon.”
“I saw a newsagent’s a few streets away,” said Harry. “I’ll nip in and buy an A to Z street directory. What’s the address?”
“Flat five, Wemley Court, Burford Street.”
At the newsagent’s Harry bought a street directory and studied it. “Other side of town, but we may as well go while we’re here. I’m starving.”
