Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body ar-21

by M C Beaton

"No, I like them." Hodge was draped around Bill's neck and Boswell had jumped up into his arms. "But maybe I'll put them in the garden if you've got anything very interesting."

  "Might be."

  Bill opened the garden door and detached the cats.

  "Now," he said, sitting down at the kitchen table. "What gives?"

  Agatha told him of Mrs. Bloxby's theories.

  "Unfortunately, she may be right. Can you imagine all that murder and mayhem over Christmas lights?"

  "I can in a way. Some of these people on reality TV have their moment of fame and never get over it. John Sunday was a thoroughly nasty man and must have enjoyed thwarting them. You know the bus drivers on that route past the Grange. How were they interviewed?"

  "Back at the depot."

  "Did you have photographs of the two women?"

  "Yes, we got a photo from Cotswold Life. There's really only the one driver that does that route."

  "I'd like to start at the beginning of their journey. In the meantime, do you think your boss would let you phone up watering holes around the south coast to see if any elderly women reported missing passports a few days after Mrs. Summers and Mrs. Beagle disappeared?"

  "I'll probably need to do it in my own time."

  "I'll get Patrick onto it as well. They would be gussied up for their photo in Cotswold Life. I think I might trot over to that hellish village and see if I can get a better one."

  Penelope Timson gave Agatha a cautious welcome. "I am so glad it is all over," she said. "I do hope you haven't come about some other murder."

  "No, no," said Agatha soothingly. "Nothing like that. Have you any photographs of Mrs. Summer and Mrs. Beagle?"

  "The police got a very good one from Cotswold Life."

  "Yes, but I need a more informal one."

  "Oh, I might have something. I found a box of photos taken at village fetes. But you should have something yourself, Mrs. Raisin. Wasn't someone taking photographs at that cream tea?"

  "Of course. Phil. Thanks."

  Agatha phoned Phil and said she would meet him at his cottage in Carsely, where she knew he had a dark room and kept neat files of photographs.

  She waited impatiently as he went searching for the photographs of the tea party. At last he came back and handed her a photo. "There you are."

  "Genius!" said Agatha. It was a clear shot of Mrs. Beagle and Mrs. Summer, sitting together. "What are their first names? I can never remember."

  "On the back of the photo. Gladys Summer and Dora Beagle."

  "Grand."

  "Starting again?"

  "You bet."

  Toni waited at the depot in Cheltenham for the bus to come in. When it arrived, she waited for the passengers to dismount and then climbed on board.

  "Don't leave for another half an hour, gorgeous," said the driver, eyeing her appreciatively. "Fancy a cup of tea?"

  "All right. I just want to ask you a few questions."

  "What?"

  "I'm a private detective."

  "Go on with you, lass. You're too young."

  Toni handed him her card. "Well, I never!" he exclaimed. "Come along then. Must have a cuppa."

  Installed in the canteen over milky cups of tea, Toni showed him the photograph. "I know the police have asked you before, but on the day of that crash between the car and the truck, just before it, did two women like this get on your bus? This is a better photograph of them."

  He studied it carefully. "Sorry, lass. I'd like to help you, but I'm sure they never got on."

  "Do you notice the passengers much?"

  "Only if they're as pretty as you. Of course, if they're in them Moslem get-ups, you wouldn't know what they'd look like anyway."

  "Burkas?"

  "Is that what they call 'em? Suppose so."

  Toni took a deep breath. "Think carefully. Did two women in burkas, you know, veiled and everything, get on your bus that day?"

  "As a matter of fact they did."

  "What height?"

  "Pretty small. Couldn't tell you much else."

  "Where did they get off?"

  "At the railway station."

  "Thanks," said Toni.

  When Toni told Agatha what she had found out, Agatha said, "Maybe they got straight onto Eurostar and over to Brussels or Paris before the passport control at St. Pancras got alerted. Nobody is going to hassle a couple of what look like Moslem women in case they're accused of racism. Snakes and bastards! They could be anywhere now."

  Chapter Twelve

  Christmas was fast approaching. The piles of paperwork associated with the murders of John Sunday and Dan Palmer had at last been completed.

  Bill Wong called on Agatha one evening to say that he thought the work would never be finished. The lodge keeper had had to be cleared of carrying loaded weapons and causing the crash by shooting out the wheels of the escaping car. The fact that Agatha had brought all her old public relations skills to bear on making the lodge keeper a hero had helped considerably.

  "What are you doing for Christmas this year?" Bill asked.

  "Nothing," said Agatha firmly. "Except I might invite Roy. Thank goodness he made a full recovery. So the case is over? What about the loose ends of Mrs. Beagle and Mrs. Summer?"

  "Interpol are still looking for them. But no news. You know, Agatha, I don't think we'll ever find them now."

  James Lacey drove along the Mediterranean coast from Marseilles. He stopped off in the village of St. Charles-Sur-Clore near Agde for the night. There seemed to be a small English expatriate community in residence. He was tired of travelling, so he booked into a small hotel called the St. Charles for the night. The receptionist told him that the English residents were finding life hard because of the weak pound. Some of them were thinking of selling up and going back home. "They used to hold their annual Christmas party here at the hotel," she said, "but this year they say they can't afford it."

  He went up to his room and unpacked a few essentials for the night and then went down to the bar. There were a few English couples propping up the bar, drinking glasses of the house wine and complaining about the price of everything. He ordered a whisky and took it over to a quiet corner and began to read a book on Roman military fortifications.

  After a few moments, he realised the voices at the bar were becoming enraged over something other than the weak pound. "It's not only a shameful waste of electricity," said a thin blonde with a fake-bake face, "it's vulgar. Lets the side down. I mean, whatever one thinks of the French, they do have taste."

  "Fairy lights everywhere," said her companion, a florid man in blazer and flannels, "even in the bushes in their garden. And they got Duval, the handyman, to put that Santa on the chimney. And they're old. It's not as if they have any grandchildren."

  James slowly put down his book. He had followed the murder of John Sunday in the newspapers and television. He got up and went to the bar. "May I buy a round?" he asked.

  Faces beamed at him. Drinks were rapidly changed from wine to spirits. "I couldn't help overhearing what you were saying," said James. "Someone going a bit over the top?"

  "It's an elderly couple of ladies just outside the village," said the florid man. "They've got lights all over the place like one of those awful Americans."

  "Sounds fun. I'd like to have a look," said James. "How do I get there? Should I drive?"

  "Don't really need to. Turn left as you go out of the hotel door and keep on going about half a mile. You can't miss it. Their stupid cottage lights up the sky."

  James went out into the evening. It was quite mild and clear with a small high moon riding high above the twisted chimneys of the old houses in the village. As he passed the last house in the village, he saw a glow in the sky ahead of him and quickened his step. At last he came to the cottage. There were so many Christmas decorations, it was an exercise in vulgarity. A spotlight had even been placed in the garden to highlight a leering Santa clinging to the chimney.

  He marched up the path and knocke
d on the door. "Who are you?" shouted a voice from an upstairs window.

  James stood back and looked up. He could just make out an elderly woman half hidden behind a curtain.

  "I've just been admiring your lights," he said.

  "Go away," croaked the woman. "Shove off."

  James walked thoughtfully back to his hotel.

  The wives of the murderers were missing. They had been famous for their display of Christmas lights. Their pride in that display had led to the murders. Could he, by some mad coincidence, have found them?

  He joined the English at the bar and, to their delight, paid for another round. "When did the two old ladies arrive here?" he asked.

  The florid man introduced himself as Archie Frank and his wife as Fiona. The others supplied names but James immediately forgot all of them, he was concentrating so hard on finding out about the occupants of the cottage. "Came about two months ago," said Archie. "We don't see them. They get a local girl to do their shopping. Keep themselves to themselves."

  James made some small talk and then escaped to his room. He phoned Agatha and told her about the mysterious pair and their lights.

  "I'm coming over," said Agatha. "I'll bring a photo with me."

  "Don't come all this way for what might be nothing. Send me over the photo on my computer."

  "I'm coming," shouted Agatha. "I'll bring Toni. Book us rooms. What's the name of the place and directions?"

  Agatha collected Toni from Mircester and drove to Birmingham airport, where they got seats on a flight to Paris. Then they took a plane to Marseilles and hired a car. With Toni driving, they set off along the coast to the village of St. Charles-Sur-Clore.

  James was waiting for them outside. "You shouldn't have bothered," he said, looking at their exhausted faces.

  "I must be in at the kill," said Agatha. "I've got a good photograph of them."

  "The best way to go about it," said James, "is to find out the name of the village girl who does their shopping and show her the photograph. We'll check at the local store. Don't you want to dump your bags and freshen up?"

  "Just for a few minutes, then," said Agatha.

  In the local grocery store, James, in his fluent French, asked if they knew the identity of the girl who delivered groceries to the two old ladies in the cottage with the Christmas lights.

  "That's my niece," he said. "Michelle!" he shouted.

  A thin, small teenager with wispy hair came out of the back of the shop. James held out the photograph of Mrs. Beagle and Mrs. Summer. "Do you deliver groceries to either of these ladies?"

  "No," she said.

  "You have never seen them before?"

  "No."

  "You are very sure?"

  "Uncle, they are calling me a liar!"

  "Get out of here," said her uncle. "Dirty English."

  _______

  "What was that all about?" asked Agatha outside.

  "The girl says she has never seen them and told her uncle I was calling her a liar. He told me to get out. Sorry, it looks as if you've come all this way for nothing."

  "She looked shifty," said Toni. "I've studied that photograph for so long, I would recognise them anywhere. What if I go out there after dark on my own and watch? Look, if you didn't want anyone to know where you were and got a girl like that to shop for you, you'd probably pay her not to answer questions."

  "It's worth a try," said Agatha wearily. "I am so tired. I could do with a nap."

  That evening, they met up in the bar. James waved to the English propping up the bar but shook his head when they urged him to join them.

  "I'm off," said Toni. "I'll phone you if I get anything."

  She was wearing a black sweater and black jeans. She pulled a black wool hat over her hair and strode out along the road.

  She nearly missed the cottage because all the lights had been switched off. Only a bright moon was riding high above to show her the Santa clinging to the chimney.

  There was a garage at the side of the house. As she watched, an elderly figure opened the doors and climbed into a car. Toni took out a torch and shone it straight at the woman. It was Mrs. Beagle. The car shot forward, nearly knocking her over, and sped off down the road.

  Toni called Agatha and shouted, "It's them! They're in the car--they're escaping. Come and pick me up."

  In what seemed like no time at all, James came racing up in his car with Agatha beside him. "Which way?" he shouted as Toni jumped into the backseat.

  "Left."

  "That's the Agde road. Hang on."

  James put his foot down and began to drive at a hectic speed, screeching round bends, whizzing over the cobbles of silent villages, on towards Agde. "What kind of car, Toni?"

  "A red Peugeot. I didn't get the number plate."

  "There's one ahead in front of that truck." James passed the truck. The Peugeot in front of them accelerated into Agde and headed straight for the very long jetty which thrust its way out into the sea.

  The Peugeot went straight along at breakneck speed and in front of their horrified eyes, as James stamped on the brakes, the fleeing car went straight off the end of the jetty and into the sea.

  "They did a Thelma and Louise," said Toni in a horrified voice, "and all over a bunch of stupid Christmas lights."

  People came running out from the town headed by two gendarmes. "And now," said James, "the questioning begins."

  _______

  They were all locked up in the cells for the night and then the next day questioned over and over again, having been accused of reckless driving, terrifying two old ladies and causing their deaths. At last James persuaded a gendarme to get in touch with Interpol.

  Then detectives arrived from Marseilles and the questioning began again.

  Finally they were allowed to return to their hotel. Agatha took a pocket mirror out of her handbag and stared at the ruin of her face in dismay. Bags were sagging under tired, red-rimmed eyes and two little hairs had sprouted on her upper lip.

  She glanced sideways at James. He looked as handsome as ever with his blue eyes in his tanned face and his thick dark hair showing only a little grey at the sides.

  Why was it, she wondered bitterly, that a woman in her fifties had to start the long, long battle against loss of looks and a spreading waistline while men, provided they didn't develop a gut, could age graciously?

  Toni looked tired as well, but in a graceful, waiflike way.

  Agatha opened her handbag and applied lipstick just as the car began to bump over the cobbles of the street leading to the hotel, and put a red smudge up under her nose.

  The press were waiting outside the hotel, cameras at the ready. "Drive on," shouted Agatha.

  James obeyed her and said, "What's happened?"

  "I've smeared my face with lipstick. Find someplace where I can repair my make-up."

  "Agatha, don't be silly. We're all exhausted and--"

  "Do as she says!" Toni leapt to Agatha's defence.

  James drove up a farm track and waited in angry silence while Agatha cleansed her face with moist tissues and then carefully applied foundation cream, lipstick and eyeliner.

  Back at the hotel, they posed briefly for photographs before escaping indoors.

  In England, three people were having different reactions to Agatha's adventures in France. Simon was wistful. He would have loved to have been there with Toni. Roy Silver felt obscurely that Agatha might have let him in on the adventure. What publicity! Charles Fraith was thoughtful.

  He found himself thinking a lot about Agatha. He had taken a pretty girl out to dinner the evening before and had found himself bored with her conversation.

  Now, Agatha was never boring: infuriating, rude, pushy, but never boring.

  He ambled into the drawing room, where his faded aunt was knitting a sweater in a violent shade of purple.

  Charles sat down next to her. "Do you remember Agatha Raisin?"

  "Hard to forget her," said his aunt. "Never out of the newspape
rs."

  "What would you think about her coming to live here?"

  "Good gracious, Charles. Wasn't that last marriage enough for you? Besides, she's old and can't have children."

  "I was just thinking of asking her to live here to see how it goes," said Charles.

  "Just so long as she doesn't interfere with the running of things," said his aunt. "But will she fit? I mean with your friends? And what will Gustav say?"

  Gustav was Charles's gentleman's gentleman, a sort of truculent Swiss Jeeves.

  "Gustav will just have to find a way of getting on with it."

  Gustav, listening outside the door, was already thinking of several ways of ousting Agatha. He had always disliked her. Gustav was a snob. He thought the word "common" was too mild a word to describe someone such as Agatha Raisin.

  Had Agatha come straight back from France, Charles might have dropped the idea, but the French judiciary moves in a slow and ponderous way and all he could remember as the weeks passed was what fun and adventures they had enjoyed.

  He phoned Agatha from time to time, but her phone was always switched off and the hotel said that Mrs. Raisin and Mr. Lacey and Miss Gilmour were not taking calls. Agatha had driven into Marseilles and bought herself a new mobile phone with which she kept in communication with the office. Somehow the press had got hold of her old mobile phone number. Agatha had never thought the day would come when she would flee from publicity, until a series of photographs magnifying every wrinkle had made her feel she could not bear another interview. Then she had come down with swine flu, which meant the whole hotel was quarantined while Agatha lay in bed in her hotel room and wondered if she was going to die.

  At last interest in the case died away, Agatha recovered and they were told they could go home. To Agatha's dismay, James said he would carry on through France, writing up bits and pieces for his travel books.

  Just before she had been struck down with swine flu, Agatha had felt that she and James were getting on a close footing, and although she lectured herself about how useless it was to go back to the old obsession, she could almost feel it closing in on her. Then she fell ill and all she heard from James were occasional shouts from outside her bedroom door asking if she was feeling better.