by M C Beaton
Then she went out, locking the door and letting herself into the extra room she had booked.
Agatha lay down on the bed and prepared to wait. But she was exhausted and jet-lagged and soon fell asleep, not waking until four in the morning.
She went out and walked slowly along to her old room. There wasn't any sign of forced entry. She unlocked the door and switched on the light. All seemed to be as she had left it but for one thing. The briefcase was gone. Gripped by panic, she packed up her few belongings, emptied out the wine in case one of the maids should drink it, went downstairs, paid her bills and phoned her taxi driver.
He grumbled a bit at being called out in the middle of the night but agreed to come.
When the cab arrived, she told the driver to take her to any large five-star hotel in the centre of the city.
He dropped her outside the Hilton Garden Inn. As Agatha stumbled wearily out of the cab, her handbag opened and the contents spilled onto the pavement. The driver helped her gather up the contents, including a packet of cigarettes. "You won't be needing those," he said.
"Why not?"
"Hotel's proud of the fact you can't do no smoking anywhere inside."
"Oh, snakes and bastards," howled Agatha. "Take me somewhere where I can smoke."
He drove her a few blocks to a boutique hotel called the The Cloche. "Wait there," ordered Agatha. "I want a look at this place first."
The entrance hall was all mahogany and brass. Yes, said the night porter, he had a smoking room available. Agatha went out and paid off the taxi and then followed the porter, who was carrying her bag inside. The price was steep but the room she was ushered into was large and comfortable and boasted a small sitting room.
With a sigh of pleasure, she lit a cigarette, realising she had not had one since leaving England. It tasted foul. Agatha studied the packet with narrowed eyes in case the cigarettes should turn out to be the contraband sweepings off some Chinese factory floor, but everything seemed correct. "Rats!" she said to uncaring walls and went to bed instead, not waking until noon.
After showering and dressing, she ordered coffee and sandwiches and sat down to inspect the photograph album. She stared, puzzled, at various photographs. Someone appeared to have been cut out of quite a lot of them. There was Tom with his arm around someone who had been snipped out of the photograph; the same thing had been done to several of the others. There were a few of Miriam with her husbands on her wedding days.
"None of Amy," said Agatha to the coffee pot. "I wonder why."
When she had finished her light lunch, she phoned her taxi driver. When she gave him the address of Camden Court, he looked puzzled. "Don't you know it?" she asked impatiently.
"Sure, but you now being in this classy hotel and wanting to go to a place like Camden Court set me back a bit for a moment."
"Why?"
"Bit out of town in the projects."
"I've got to get there."
"Okay, lady. You're the boss."
Curious, very curious, thought Agatha. What is a frigid, rich queen like Amy doing with a pal in the projects? You'd think the very sight of a cockroach would make that sterile bitch faint.
The projects were not as insalubrious as Agatha had feared. She found number five and knocked at the door. The door was opened by a tall, tired-looking motherly woman with a bad perm and swollen ankles showing above scuffed slippers.
"Harriet Temple?" asked Agatha.
"I ain't buying."
"And I'm not selling. I am a private enquiry agent working for Mr. Tom Courtney."
"Mr. Courtney? You'd best come in."
Agatha walked through to a cluttered living room. The furniture was shabby but there was an expensive flat-screen TV on one wall.
"I gather Mrs. Bairns stayed with you at the time of her mother's murder?"
"That's right."
"Are you an old friend of Mrs. Bairns?"
"Used to be. My husband was a doctor but he lost his license and was sent to prison for supplying drugs. Still Amy would visit from time to time. She bought me that TV there. Right generous."
"This may seem odd, but do you have any photographs of Mrs. Bairns?"
Harriet laughed. "Amy asked me that, too. I only had the few and I gave them to her. Mind you, I kept the one of my wedding 'cause she was my maid of honour. I didn't want to let go of that one."
"May I see it?"
"I'll get it.
She came back with a framed photo and handed it to Agatha. "Where is Amy?" asked Agatha.
"Oh, of course she had all that cosmetic surgery. That's her."
Agatha stared in amazement. Amy could almost have been her brother in drag. "Are she and Tom twins?"
"Yes, fraternal. Mind you, it wasn't only her appearance that got changed. She just wasn't the same old Amy. Fussed about bugs and infections the whole time. Of course, she and Tom were always a bit like that."
Agatha sat silently and then said slowly, "Do you have a passport?"
"You know, Amy asked me that. I said I hadn't. So she said maybe she'd take me on a trip somewhere to make up for my man being in prison. Gave me that TV. She said if I gave her my birth certificate and everything, she'd fix it up for me. But I never heard no more about it. I want to see her--it must have been after she got all that cosmetic work and, I swear to God, I've never seen such a change in anyone.
"Didn't even ask me to sit down. Said she had her position in local society to think of, and having a friend whose husband was a criminal wouldn't do her any good. She asked me not to come back. I was so hurt I went home and cried my eyes out."
Agatha took a small powerful camera out of her handbag. "If I could just photograph that picture?"
"Well, I promised Amy I'd got rid of all of them . . . but what the hell? She isn't a friend anymore. Go ahead."
"You gave her an alibi for the time of her mother's murder. Did she really stay with you?"
"Of course," said Harriet. "I'm not a liar. Now, do you mind just getting out?"
A day later, Inspector Wilkes walked into Mircester police headquarters to be told by the desk sergeant that Mrs. Raisin was waiting to speak to him. Wilkes swung round. Fast asleep on a hard plastic chair was Agatha Raisin. Her mouth was open and she was snoring gently.
"Tell her I'm still out," said Wilkes curtly.
"Sir, she said something about having solved the murder of Mrs. Courtney."
Wilkes scowled horribly. He hated to admit that Agatha had helped him in the past. But he decided he'd better wake her up and hear what she had to say. He shook her by the shoulder. As Agatha blinked up at him, he demanded, "What's all this about you having solved the murder?"
"Get me a strong black coffee and I'll tell you all about it," said Agatha.
Fortunately for Agatha, Sergeant Collins was out on a job, so it was Bill Wong who sat with Wilkes as Agatha began her story. She described how Amy Courtney had changed her appearance drastically but that before that she had been a mirror image of her twin, Tom. Agatha theorised that it was Amy dressed as Tom who had gone to the Cayman Islands, that Harriet had been heavily bribed to say that Amy was staying with her, and that Amy had given Tom Harriet's birth certificate and all necessary details. Tom had made himself up as a woman and secured a passport in Harriet's name, flown to London and murdered his mother for her money.
"This is all very far-fetched," said Wilkes.
"I bet you didn't check to see if someone called Harriet Temple had entered the country," said Agatha.
"But why would this Harriet Temple continue to lie?"
"Check the airport and then ask her. If she thinks she's in danger of being accused of murder, she'll soon tell you. And I think Amy got all that cosmetic surgery in time for any police questions just in case someone should notice the likeness to her brother. But why should they? The murder was in England in a village where there is still an unsolved murder. She was just covering all the bases."
"Well, keep away from Tom Courtney and t
hat village until we check this out."
Agatha called on Mrs. Bloxby that evening to tell her the latest news. "Do you really think they would go to such elaborate lengths?" asked the vicar's wife.
"Yes, I do. There's evidently a great deal of money involved. And what better place to commit a murder than in some small English village that already has had one?"
"You don't think that the murder of Sunday was to set the scene?" said Mrs. Bloxby.
"No, I have a feeling that the murder of Grudge Sunday had nothing to do with the Courtney murder. Where is Tom Courtney? Does anyone know?"
"Yes, he called this morning looking for you. Said he was off to the States for a few days."
"I'd better tell Wilkes. If he is guilty, he might make a run for it and Harriet Temple may need protection."
"Use our phone."
"I thought your phone was the sole property of your husband."
"Oh, Alf won't mind."
Mrs. Bloxby went off to her husband's study. Agatha grinned as she could hear the vicar's voice raised in anger. "This is not a detective agency and yet you involve yourself in that woman and her folly."
Agatha took out her own phone and dialled Wilkes. She was told curtly that he was too busy to speak to her.
"Sod them all," said Agatha. "I'm taking my jet lag home to bed."
The first thing she saw when she drove up outside her cottage was the crumpled figure of Toni sitting on her doorstep.
Agatha hurried out of her car. "Toni, my dear. What is the matter?"
"It's Sharon. She's disappeared."
"Oh, no. Come in."
"Where have you been?" wailed Toni.
"I've been in the States. Come through to the kitchen and tell me about Sharon."
"She came round to my flat a few days ago and said you'd fired her and she wanted a place to say. Honestly, I couldn't bear the thought of her mess again so I said she'd best go. She burst into tears. Why did you fire her?"
"I accused her of being on drugs. She told me to sod the job and a few choice insults and stormed off."
"I've gone looking for her round the clubs," said Toni. "She's been hanging around with a lot of bikers. They're bad news. There's one in particular, Jazz Belter, and he's ancient!"
"How ancient?"
"In his forties."
Agatha winced.
"With a balding head and a ponytail. Real stereotype. I think he's the one who's been supplying her with drugs. They hang out at the Shamrock pub out on the bypass."
"Toni, I'll give Sharon her job back again but she's got to get herself cleaned up."
"But I can't find her!"
"Have you told the police?"
"Not yet."
"Make some coffee, will you? I'll phone them right away. Wait a minute! Surely her parents have reported her missing?"
"No, she told them she was living with me."
"I'll call Bill."
Bill was at the station and listened to Agatha's story about the missing Sharon.
"She's been found," said Bill in a quiet voice.
"Oh, that's great. Poor Toni's been going out of her mind with--"
"Agatha! Listen! Sharon's dead."
"How? When?"
"She was found a few hours ago. She had been stabbed and strung up on a lamp post on a back street. Her mouth was stuffed with grass. I know some of the bikers, went to school with a few. Said Sharon had been drinking and drugging and bragging how she was really working undercover. Her boyfriend, Jazz Belter, had just dumped her and it's thought she was trying to scare him."
"Who did it?"
"We're looking for Jazz at the moment."
"I'll be with you as soon as I can."
"You can't do anything. Get a good night's sleep."
Toni looked at Agatha white-faced as Agatha slowly replaced the receiver.
Agatha told her the story. Toni began to cry, dismal, wracking sobs shaking her whole body.
Agatha flapped hopelessly around her, wondering what to do. I should hug her or something, she thought. Then she went through to the sitting room and called Mrs. Bloxby, who said she would be around immediately.
Agatha walked up and down the garden fifteen minutes later, smoking furiously, while Mrs. Bloxby, the expert comforter, got to work. Agatha could hear the vicar's wife's soothing voice through the open kitchen door.
"Of course her death has nothing to do with you, Toni. It wasn't your fault that she started taking drugs and got into bad company. Everyone feels guilty when someone close to them dies, wondering this way and that if they could have done anything. Now, dry your eyes. No, don't drink coffee. Drink this hot sweet tea. So much better for shock. You gather up your things. You're coming home with me for the night."
Agatha would have gone with them, but Mrs. Bloxby stopped her with a little warning shake of the head.
Doris Simpson was still looking after Agatha's cats. "I wish I had someone to look after me," said Agatha.
"My shoulders aren't very broad," said a familiar voice. "But you could try and lean."
"Charles!" Agatha burst into tears.
"Good heavens! What's happened to old iron-knickers Raisin? Come on, girl. Up on your feet. We'll move into the sitting room, get ourselves a drink and you can tell me all about it."
Charles listened while Agatha talked on and on about Sharon's death and then about her trip to Philadelphia. "You did well," he said when she had finished talking. "I thought Courtney was weird. As for Sharon? Well, that was always going to be a disaster, but you couldn't seem to see it."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Would you have listened?"
"Perhaps not."
"Did you tell her to go undercover and find out about these bikers?"
"No."
"Well, there you are. It's a damned shame. There's nothing we can do tonight. Let's get some sleep. I'll just get my bag out of the car."
But when Charles returned, Agatha was fast asleep. He lifted her legs up and stretched her out on the sofa, went upstairs and came back with a duvet to cover her, and then took himself off to bed in the spare room.
Agatha was awakened early the next morning by the shrilling of the doorbell. She struggled up from the sofa and went to answer it.
A policewoman stood there. "Mrs. Raisin, I'm to take you to headquarters to go over your statement."
"Give me a few minutes to wash and change," groaned Agatha. "Don't you want to come in?"
"I'll wait in the car."
Agatha had a quick shower and change of clothes. Then she went into the spare room, where Charles lay peacefully sleeping. She shook him awake. "I've got to go to headquarters. Are you coming?"
He yawned and turned on his side. "You'll do fine all by yourself."
"Story of my life," muttered Agatha, stomping down the stairs.
Chapter Six
Agatha learned that the American police were currently hunting for both Tom Courtney and his sister. Tom had left the United Kingdom the day after Agatha had taken her flight to the States. Harriet Temple had cracked and said that Amy had initially told her she needed an excuse because she was having an affair. After the murder, when Harriet read about it and phoned her, Amy had threatened to kill her if she ever breathed a word. Dr. Bairns was crying and bewildered, saying he did not know where his wife was. The Courtneys had cleared out their bank accounts and disappeared.
Agatha thought they must have moved very fast indeed. It seemed likely that Tom had fled just after Amy had telephoned him to report Agatha's visit.
"So when we get them and have them extradited, Courtney will be charged with the murder of his mother and also of John Sunday."
"But why on earth would he kill John Sunday?"
"He knew where his mother lived. The killing of Sunday was just setting the scene."
"But is there any record of him entering the country at that time?"
"No, but we're working on it. He may have played the same trick on someone that
his sister played on Harriet and got another passport. He was setting the stage. It turns out that both he and his sister have at various times been hospitalised for drugs and depression. There are psychiatric reports claiming they both suffered from a form of narcissistic psychopathy. They were the children of Mrs. Courtney's first marriage. He thought with one murder already in that village, we wouldn't look at him."
"Why employ me?"
"Because he felt perfectly sure you wouldn't find anything. He told Bill Wong that perhaps he had made a mistake employing what he called 'a mere village sleuth' but that he was willing to try anything."
"I don't think the murder of John Sunday had anything to do with it," said Agatha. "It's just one elaborate step too far."
"So you say. But as far as we're concerned, that murder is solved. The American police will get a confession out of him."
"If they ever catch him," said Agatha cynically. "At the moment, I'm going all out to get the bastard who killed Sharon."
"You needn't bother. It was Jazz Belter. Real name Fred Belter. We've got him in the cells."
"How did you get him so quickly?"
"Detective Wong interviewed an old lady who lived in the flats overlooking where the dead girl was found. She doesn't sleep much. She saw Belter drag Sharon out of the boot of a car, stuff her mouth with grass, sling a rope over the lamp post--it's one of those old-fashioned kind--and string her up. He was so high on drugs when we picked him up, it took four officers to hold him down and handcuff him."
Agatha left police headquarters feeling very low. Somehow, if finding out the murderer of poor Sharon had turned out to be a complicated affair, it might have made the girl's death seem less useless, less of such a complete waste of a young life.
She had a sudden vivid memory of looking down from the office window and watching Sharon and Toni going off for the evening, laughing and with their arms around each other.
She went round to the office. Patrick and Toni were out on jobs. Mrs. Freedman had gone off to do some shopping and Phil Marshall was manning the phones. Phil was in his seventies, a quiet man with a shock of white hair. He had retained a good figure. He was an expert cameraman.
