by M C Beaton
“I wonder if she can tell about the living? I mean, if her spirits can tell about the living.”
“I doubt if she can any more than I can bring myself to believe she talks to the dead. Why the living?”
“Just someone I was keen on a long time ago.”
“A man?” asked Agatha, who often wondered whether Mary was in a relationship with Jennifer.
“Of course, a man. I often wonder where he is and what he is doing.”
“Didn’t it work out?” asked Agatha sympathetically, thinking of James Lacey.
“It all went wrong.” Mary’s large brown eyes filled with memories. “But for a while, we were so happy. I was on holiday with my parents here, in Wyckhadden, and it was at this very hotel that I met him.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-two,” said Mary on a sigh. “A long time ago. We got friendly, we walked on the beach, we went to dances.”
“Did you have an affair?”
Mary looked shocked. “Oh, nothing like that. I mean, one didn’t… then.”
“And so how did it end?”
“I gave him my address. I was living in Cirencester then with my parents. He lived in London. I waited but he didn’t write. He hadn’t given me a phone number, but I had his address. At last I couldn’t bear it any longer. I went up to London, to the address he had given me. It was a rooming-house. The people there had never heard of him.”
“Maybe he gave you a false name?”
“It was his real name, the one he gave me, because he had a car. He had just passed his driving test and was very proud of his new licence. It had his name on it, Joseph Brady. I described what he looked like and I even had a photo with me, but the people in the rooming-house said he had never lived there and one lady had been there for the past ten years! He had said he was an advertising copy-writer. When I got home, I phoned all the advertising agencies that were listed. I went off sick from work to do it. Nobody had heard of him. I couldn’t get over him. I went back to Wyckhadden year after year, always hoping to see him.
“Was he on his own here at the hotel?” asked Agatha.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t notice the address of the driving licence?”
She shook her head.
“What about the hotel register?”
“I didn’t like to ask.”
Agatha rose to her feet. “I’ll try to find out for you.”
“How?”
“I’m sure they have all the old books locked away somewhere. What year was this?”
“It was in the summer of 1955, in July, around the tenth. But don’t tell Jennifer.”
Agatha sat down again. “Why?”
“I met up with Jennifer ten years afterwards. My parents were poorly and I came here on my own. I told her all about Joseph. She told me I was wasting my life. We became friends. She had, has, such energy. I was working as a secretary. She told me to take a computer programming course. She said it would get me good money.”
“What did Jennifer do?”
“She was a maths teacher at a London school.”
“Teachers aren’t well paid,” Agatha pointed out. “Why didn’t she take a course herself?”
“Jennifer has a vocation for teaching.”
“I see,” commented Agatha drily.
“So I did very well but then my parents died, one after the other, and I had a bit of a breakdown. Jennifer moved in with me in the long summer vac and looked after me. Then she suggested I should sell my parents’ house and take a flat with her in London. It seemed such an adventure. I got a programming job with a City firm.”
“But you must have met other people, other men,” said Agatha.
“At first, Jennifer gave a lot of parties but the people that came were mostly schoolteachers. I invited people from the office but they didn’t seem to enjoy the parties and they stopped coming.”
“Didn’t you make friends with any of the women in the office?”
“Sometimes one of them would suggest we had a drink after work, but Jennifer usually waited for me after work and so…”
Jennifer’s a leech, thought Agatha.
She stood up again. “I’ll see what I can do with the records.”
Agatha went into Mr. Martin’s office and asked him if it would be possible to look up old records. He said all the old books were down in the cellars and she was welcome to try but he could not spare any of the staff to help her. He handed Agatha a large key and led her downstairs to the basement and then indicated a low door. “Down there,” he said. “You’ll find them all stacked on bookshelves at the back of all the junk.”
Agatha unlocked the door and made her way down stone steps. The basement was full of old bits of furniture, dusty curtains, even oil lamps. She picked her way through the clutter to the piles of bound hotel registers, which were piled up on shelves in a far corner. To her relief, the date of each year was stamped on the outside.
She had to lift down piles of books to get at the one marked “1955.” She sat down on a battered old sofa and opened it, searching until she found July.
She ran her fingers down the entries, glad it was such a small hotel so she did not have a multitude of names to look through. And then she found it, Joseph Brady. Agatha frowned. He had given his address as 92 Sheep Street, Hadderton. What on earth was someone with a car who lived in Hadderton and who could easily have motored over every day doing spending a holiday in an expensive place like the Garden Hotel?
She took a small notebook from her handbag and wrote down the address, put the book back, went upstairs and returned the key to the office and went into the lounge where Mary was still knitting.
“I’ve found it,” said Agatha.
“You have? Just like that? And after all these years …”
“The funny thing is he’s given an address in Hadderton, and Hadderton’s so close.”
She held out the piece of paper. “I can’t believe it,” whispered Mary.
“We may as well lay your ghost. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“It might be a good idea if we didn’t tell Jennifer,” said Mary.
“Will that be difficult?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll say I’m going with you to look at a dress.”
“Right you are. I’ll ask the others what they think about the seance when we all meet up tonight.”
Jennifer was scornful of the idea of a seance and said so, loudly. Daisy said she had decided that things like that were best left alone. But the colonel showed unexpected enthusiasm and said it “sounded like a bit of a lark.” Harry said it would be interesting to see what fraudulent tricks Janine got up to. Daisy capitulated to please the colonel. And so it was decided that Agatha should arrange it for an evening in two days’ time. She phoned Janine, who said she would expect them all at nine in the evening.
After dinner, they set out to walk to the dance. They were all unusually silent and Jennifer was openly sulking. She obviously did not like the idea of the seance, but did not want to be left out.
Although they all danced amiably enough that evening, there was an odd sort of constraint which Agatha could not understand. She kept looking towards the doorway of the ballroom, always hoping to see Jimmy arrive, but the evening wore on and there was no sign of him. At last, Daisy said she had a bit of a headache and would like to return to the hotel and the others agreed.
And what was all that about? wondered Agatha as she got ready for bed. Could it be that the idea of the seance frightened one of them and that inner fright had subconsciously communicated itself to the others? Could it be remotely possible that one of them had committed the murder?
And why hadn’t Jimmy come? Maybe the love potion wore off after a while.
In the morning, Agatha and a guilty-looking Mary took a cab to Hadderton. “No trouble getting away?” asked Agatha.
“No, not this time, but she did somehow make me feel guilty.”
“Worse than having a bullyi
ng husband.”
“Oh, you mustn’t say that, Agatha. Jennifer’s the only true friend I’ve ever had.”
They fell silent as the old cab rattled into Hadderton.
“Sheep Street,” called the taxi driver.
“Ninety-two,” called back Agatha as the cab slowed to a crawl. Sheep Street was lined with red brick houses. Some were smartened up with window-boxes and with the doors and window-sashes painted bright colours. But the others were distinctly seedy. And ninety-two was one of the seedy ones.
“Shouldn’t we just leave it alone?” pleaded Mary as Agatha paid off the cab.
“May as well go through with it now we’re here.” Agatha marched determinedly up to the front door and knocked on it.
“He probably left here years ago,” said Mary.
The door opened and a very old woman stood there, peering up at them. “We’re looking for Joseph Brady,” said Agatha.
“Come in.” She shuffled off into the interior and they followed her. The living-room into which she led them was dark and furnished with battered old chairs and a sagging sofa.
“This is Mary Dulsey and I am Agatha Raisin,” began Agatha. “Mary knew Joseph when he was much younger. She always wondered what became of him. Do you know him?”
“He’s my son.”
They both looked at the old woman. She eased herself into an armchair. Her hands were knobbly with arthritis and her face was seamed and wrinkled.
Mary seemed to have been struck dumb. “Where is he?” asked Agatha.
Mrs. Brady gave a wheezy little sigh. “Doing time.”
“Why, what for?” asked Agatha, ignoring Mary’s yelp of distress.
“Same old business. Stealing cars.” She peered at Mary. “How did you know him?”
Mary found her voice, albeit a trembling voice. “It was years ago, in 1955. At Wyckhadden. At the Garden Hotel.”
Mrs. Brady nodded. “That would be about the first time he got into trouble.”
“With the police?” asked Agatha.
“Yes,” she said wearily. “He was working as a car salesman for a firm in Hadderton. He’d just got his driving licence. He stole a car and he stole the money from the firm’s office. He said afterwards that he had planned to go to a posh hotel and look for a rich girl.” The old eyes looked sympathetically at Mary. “Was that you, dear?”
“I suppose so,” said Mary miserably. “We weren’t rich. My father was only a lawyer.”
“That would be rich to Joseph. We never had much, see. Well, the police got him a couple of days after he came back. How he thought he’d get away with it, I don’t know. He’d left the stolen car in a side street, as if someone else had pinched it. But he’d left his fingerprints all over the office at the car firm and the police found the rest of the money hidden in his room. He swore he’d never do anything like that again. He got a light sentence, but it was hard to get work with a criminal record. He left home one day shortly after that. Said he was going to Australia. Then, four years later, he wrote to me from prison. Cars again and a longer sentence. Then it was burglary. The latest was stealing cars and driving them over to some crooked dealer in Bulgaria.”
“Have you a recent photograph?” asked Agatha.
Mrs. Brady rose painfully from her chair and lifted a cardboard box down from a shelf beside the fireplace. She rested it on a small table, and putting on a pair of spectacles, began to look through the photographs. She lifted one out and handed it to Mary. “That you, miss?”
Mary looked down at a picture of herself and Joseph on the prom at Wyckhadden. “Yes,” she said in a choked voice. “One of those beach photographers took that picture. One for me, one for Joseph.”
“Here’s one taken before his last sentence.” Mrs. Brady handed Mary a photograph. Agatha joined Mary and looked down at it. The Joseph in this picture was baring a set of false teeth at the camera. He was nearly bald and his weasely face bore little resemblance to the young man on the prom.
Agatha looked at Mary’s shocked face. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Brady. We are really sorry to have troubled you.”
“I’ll see you to the door,” she said. “Funny, there was always some girl or another over the years that he’d said he was going to marry, but the law always caught up with him first.”
Out in the street, Mary walked a little way with Agatha and then broke down and cried and cried, saying over and over again in between sobs, “How could you have done this to me, Agatha?”
“But you wanted to find him,” protested Agatha, but feeling guilty all the same. It would have been better to have left poor Mary with her dream intact. A cold wind whistled down Sheep Street. Wind chimes hung over a door tinkled their foreign exotic sound.
“Let’s find a pub,” said Agatha.
They turned the corner of Sheep Street and found a small pub. Agatha ordered brandies. Mary drank and sobbed and sobbed and drank. Agatha waited patiently. At last Mary dried her eyes and blew her nose.
“All these years,” she said, “I’ve carried this bright dream of Joseph. One day he would come back if only I kept going to Wyckhadden. I put up with Jennifer because I had this dream. Now I have nothing.”
“I wish I had left things alone,” said Agatha. “But how were we to know he’d turn out to be a criminal?”
“It’s not really your fault. I had to know,” said Mary. “I’ll have to tell Jennifer.”
“Why?”
“She’ll know something is up with me.”
“Oh, well, tell her if you must,” said Agatha, suddenly weary of the whole business. There was a cigarette machine in the corner of the pub. She looked at it longingly. But it was years and years since she had gone so long without a cigarette. Stick it out, Agatha!
Back at the hotel, Agatha found Jimmy waiting for her. He looked curiously at red-eyed Mary, who darted past him and up the stairs. “What’s up with her?”
“Let’s go for a walk and I’ll tell you about it.”
Once out on the promenade, he took Agatha’s arm and said, “You smell of brandy. Starting early?”
“Consoling Mary.” As they walked along, Agatha told him about Joseph.
“Poor woman,” he said when Agatha had finished. “I could have found all that out for her.”
“I never thought of asking you. Mary didn’t think for a minute that he was a criminal.”
Agatha then told him about the seance. “We’ve still got our eye on Janine’s husband. You should be careful.”
“I thought he had a cast-iron alibi.”
“I’m always suspicious of people with cast-iron alibis.”
“Why did you call to see me, Jimmy?”
“I wanted to ask you out for dinner tonight. There’s this new Italian restaurant.”
“I would love to.”
“That’s fine. I’ll pick you up at eight. I’d better walk you back now. I’ve a lot of paperwork to do.”
* * *
Tired after all the morning’s emotion, Agatha planned to lie down that afternoon and then enjoy a leisurely time getting ready for her date. She was just about to pull her sweater over her head when there came a peremptory knocking at the door. She tugged down her sweater and went to open it. Jennifer stood there, her fists clenched and eyes blazing with anger. “I want a word with you, you interfering bitch!”
“Come in,” said Agatha wearily.
Jennifer strode into the room. “You have destroyed Mary’s happiness. She needed that dream.”
Agatha looked at her in sudden dislike. “You destroyed Mary’s dreams,” she said furiously. “You’ve hung on to her like a leech for years. What chance did she ever have to make other friends with you around?”
“How dare you? Who nursed her back to health after her parents’ death? Who steered her into a profitable occupation?”
“You did. So much easier than doing anything about your own life. You’re not angry, Jennifer. You’re frightened. As long as Mary had the dream of Joseph c
oming back, you were safe. Without her dream, she’s going to look back on a wasted life.”
Jennifer turned an ugly muddy colour. “Just keep out of her life or it’ll be the worse for you.”
She strode out and slammed the door. Agatha sat down, her legs shaking. Now there was surely someone who could have committed murder. She tried to have a nap that afternoon but could not sleep. She was torn between leaving Wyckhadden and escaping from what looked like an ugly situation with Jennifer and staying and finding out more about the murder. And then there was Jimmy. After Charles’s fickle unfaithfulness and James Lacey’s coldness, it was wonderful to have some man really keen on her. Perhaps they could get married.
Agatha phoned Mrs. Bloxby at the vicarage in Carsely. “How nice to hear from you,” cried Mrs. Bloxby. “We’re all wondering when you’re coming back. Not getting too much involved in this nasty murder?”
Agatha settled down to tell her all about the murder, the residents at the hotel, her growing friendship with Jimmy, and the row with Jennifer.
“I wouldn’t blame Jennifer too much,” said Mrs. Bloxby when Agatha had finished. “I have met many women like Mary. If it hadn’t been Jennifer, it would have been someone very like her. Or it could have been a bullying man. You will probably find that her parents were rather domineering. And this Jimmy of yours sounds hopeful.”
“How’s James?” asked Agatha abruptly.
“He seems very well.” Mrs. Bloxby was not going to tell Agatha that James had been asking about her. Let Agatha progress with Jimmy.
“And my cats?”
“Doris Simpson is looking after them very well. We’re all missing you.”
“Just a few more days and then I’ll probably be home.”
When Agatha rang off, she suddenly remembered Janine’s grim remark that she would never have sex again. “We’ll see about that,” thought Agatha as she shaved her legs, and then rubbed Lancôme’s Poème body lotion into her skin.
The evening began as a success. Jimmy told stories about his job in Wyckhadden and Agatha replied with tales of Carsely and the residents, although she did not mention James.
He drove her back to the hotel and then turned and gathered her in his arms. “Oh, Agatha,” he said huskily and kissed her. Agatha replied with a passion that surprised her. Damn that witch. She would prove her wrong. “Can’t we go to your place for a nightcap?” she whispered.
