Agatha drove off in the direction of Bourton-on-the Water, feeling numb. Why was she considered such a danger? She didn’t know much, and what she knew was surely considerably less than what the police knew. In the hotel room, she unpacked her few belongings, undressed and climbed into bed. She lay shivering despite the central heating. She felt they, whoever they were, were not going to give up. The only solution, surely, was to leave the country for an extended holiday and let everyone know she had left so that the murderer or murderers would no longer think her a threat.
She fell into an uneasy sleep and woke up in the morning remembering her dreams and feeling she had spent the night in some sort of Shakespearian play, with first murderer and second murderer waiting in the wings.
Agatha craved the soothing presence of Mrs. Bloxby, but first she drove to her cottage. A forensic team was working outside like so many figures from science fiction in their white hooded suits, gloves and white bags tied over their boots.
One of Agatha’s favourite programmes on television was CSI—Crime Investigators. Now she wondered if that was really how American forensic teams went on, treading all over crime sites in their normal clothes and shaking their own hair and DNA all over the place.
She left her car and walked up to the vicarage.
Mrs. Bloxby let her in and said that as the day was fine, they could sit in the garden where Agatha could have a cigarette, mindful of her husband’s complaint, “Keep that bloody woman and her cigarettes out of the house.”
“I hear a forensic team are back at your cottage. What happened?”
So Agatha told her, and when she had finished, Mrs. Bloxby said, “I would have thought Bill Wong might have noticed the burglar alarm wasn’t on.”
“No reason to,” sighed Agatha. “I never think about other people’s alarm systems, so why should he?”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. 1 can’t think. But I’ve a feeling that whoever is behind this won’t stop now. I keep going over and over it. Maybe I do know something that’s frightened whoever. If only I could think what. My neck’s rigid with tension and I feel like shit. Sorry. I know you don’t like bad language.”
“Because I’m a vicar’s wife? Nonsense. I hear much worse every day. Besides, have you noticed it’s a must in every American action film—two men, one black, one white, leap in front of an exploding building, shouting, ’Oh, sh-i-t!’ I think you should go for a massage. There’s marvellous man in Stow called Richard Rasdall. He could give you a relaxing massage. I’ll phone him if you like.”
“Might be a good idea. I’m not doing anything else and I’ve a pain in the neck, which is exactly what the police think I am. Oh, Lord, they’re probably phoning the hotel asking me to go to police headquarters and make a statement.”
“Go to Richard first and then you’ll feel more up to it.”
Mrs. Bloxby went into the vicarage to phone. Agatha suddenly wished she could stay in this pleasant garden among the late roses forever. The world outside was an ugly, threatening place.
The vicar’s wife returned and said, “He can take you in half an hour. If you leave now, you’ll make it easily provided you can find a parking place.”
“Where do I go?”
“If you get a place in the parking spot at the market cross,you walk up past Lloyd’s bank as if you’re going to the church. There’s sweetie shop called The Honey Pot. It’s in there.”
“In a sweetie shop!”
“He works upstairs. You’ll meet his wife, Lyn. Such a nice pretty woman. Lovely family.”
As Agatha drove to Stow-on-the Wold, she noticed the sun had gone in and the day was becoming as dark as her mood. At the back car-park by the market cross, cars were circling around like so many prowling metal animals searching for places. Agatha saw that a woman was about to reverse into a place and quickly drove straight into it.
She sat there with the windows up and switched on the radio for a few moments to drown out the yells of frustration from the woman driver. Then she got out, feeling suddenly stiff and old and beaten.
Agatha trudged up to The Honey Pot and went inside.
ELEVEN
AGATHA stood just inside the door and looked around. The little shop was bathed in a golden light. There were glass shelves of delicious-looking chocolates, other shelves with little bags of Cotswold fudge, boxes of biscuits, and toys. But there were also little “fairy” dresses for small girls: magical creations which looked as if they had been made out of gossamer. And the shoes! Tiny sparkling sequinned shoes, shoes such as Dorothy wore in The Wizard of Oz.
What would it be like, wondered Agatha, to be a little girl whose parents were so loving, so indulgent, so proud of their child’s looks that they would buy her one of those beautiful dresses?
“Are you Mrs. Raisin?”
Agatha focused on the woman standing behind the small counter. “I’m Lyn Rasdall,” she said. “You’ve come to see Richard, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Agatha. “This place looks like something out of Harry Potter.”
“Mrs. Raisin!”
A tall, handsome man with deep-set eyes had appeared at the back of the shop. “I’m Richard.”
“Hullo,” said Agatha. “Where do 1 go?”
“Up the stairs,” said Richard, “and get on board. First door on the left. Take all your clothes off except your knickers and cover yourself with the towel.”
Agatha went upstairs and found herself in a large bathroom with a massage table in the centre. Soft music was playing and scented candles were burning on a sideboard.
She took off her clothes down to her pair of plain white knickers. She climbed up onto the table and covered herself with a large bath sheet.
“On board?” called Richard from outside the door.
“Yes,” said Agatha.
The massage started with her feet. Agatha lay there and fretted while Richard told her about his work in Bosnia, treating unfortunate women who had been tortured and raped as part of his work for the Healing Hands Society.
“I’ve been so stressed out about a case I’ve been working on,” said Agatha. “I’m a private detective. Somehow it all started when I was in Paris during that heat wave.”
“So I hear. I had a Frenchwoman here after the summer. Recovering alcoholic. Said she could hardly get to her reunions or whatever they call AA meetings over there.”
Gradually Agatha began to relax. When she turned over and he began to work on her back, she could feel all her troubles melting away. Her brain felt calm and rested. Bits of the case floated in and out of her head. Paris. The visit and meeting Phyllis Hepper chattering on about some handsome drunkard who’d got sober. Reunion! Jeremy Laggat-Brown had said to the hotel reception that he was going to a reunion, not to see friends or anything like that, but to a reunion. Felicity Felliet. Jeremy had a la-di-da blonde secretary. Her mind suddenly seemed to take a great leap. Supposing, just supposing, that Jeremy had found some drunk or recovering alcoholic who looked enough like him to take his place. Perhaps even a hardened alcoholic would stay dry for the short time necessary for the impersonation if the money was enough. If not a drunk, then someone else who looked like him. And wait a bit. There was something else. Charles had spoken to Jeremy in French. Jeremy had said he didn’t understand him because Charles’s French was atrocious. But, thought Agatha, with another mental jolt, Charles’s French was surely excellent. The French police didn’t have the slightest trouble in understanding him.
“What’s up?” asked Richard. “You’ve gone all tense.”
Agatha turned over and sat up. “I’ve got to get out of here!”
“I haven’t finished.”
“No, got to go. Must go.”
Richard dived out of the room as a half-naked Agatha tumbled off the table and began scrabbling into her clothes.
When she ran down the stairs, he was standing with his wife in the shop. “How much?” asked Agatha.
The business woman in Agatha came to the fore. “Is that because you didn’t finish?”
“No, that’s my fee.”
“My dear man, it’s too little.” Agatha fished the exact money out of her wallet and fled out of the shop.
“What was up with her?” asked Lyn.
“Blessed if I know,” said Richard. “I think she’s a sandwich short of a picnic.”
Agatha drove to the hotel and checked out. The police had left several messages asking her to report to headquarters.
She then set off for Barfield House.
Gustav answered the door. “He’s ill,” he said, “and doesn’t want visitors.”
“Charles!” shouted Agatha at the top of her voice as the door began to close in her face.
“Who is it, Gustav?” came Charles’s voice.
Gustav cast a look of loathing at Agatha and said reluctantly, “Mrs. Raisin.”
“Show her in.”
“Push off, Gustav,” snarled Agatha, edging past him.
“I’m in the study,” called Charles.
Agatha walked in. “I told Gustav to phone you and tell you I was ill,” grumbled Charles.
“Oh, it was Gustav, was it? The message I got from the temp was that you had called with the message you didn’t want to see me, nothing else.”
“She probably got it wrong. Most of these temps are hopeless.”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, listen!”
Agatha told him first about the latest attempt on her life. Then she said, “This is very important. You addressed Jeremy in French in the restaurant. What did you say?”
“I said he had better stop romancing you if he wanted to be reconciled with his ex-wife. He pretended not to understand me.”
“I don’t think he was pretending. Listen to this.”
Agatha outlined all her new ideas. “You’re forgetting one thing,” said Charles. “It was his own daughter who got the death threat. It was his own daughter who was shot at.”
“Wait a bit. Bill Wong told me he’d packed up his business. He says he hopes to remarry Catherine. She’s loaded. Now just suppose he wants her money without her. Perhaps the death threat to the daughter was a blind and he really meant to shoot his wife.”
“Aggie, it’s impossible to prove any of this.”
“Well, I’m going to Paris and I’m going to see Phyllis and get an introduction to the handsome drunk. If I can get him to say he impersonated Jeremy, then I’ve got him. In fact, I’m driving to Heathrow now.”
“I’m coming with you. What about Birmingham? It’s closer, easier to park, and they’ve got flights to Paris. Gustav? Pack a bag.”
Charles moaned the whole flight and clutched his head, complaining that his ears were bursting and saying they should have taken the train. “I should have known not to fly with a cold.”
Agatha largely ignored him because she was turning ideas over and over in her head. If they drew a blank, if Jeremy had not got someone to impersonate him, it would be a wasted trip. She edged Phyllis’s card out of her wallet. She should have phoned in advance.
Charles began to recover on the taxi ride to the hotel. They were going to stay at the same one as before. The sun was shining down on Paris, and as they neared the centre of the city, people were sitting out on the terraces in the sunlight.
At the hotel, Agatha was pleased to find that this time they could have a room each. She phoned Phyllis and was relieved to find her at home and asked if she would like to join them for lunch.
Phyllis said she was busy but could meet them for a coffee in the afternoon. Agatha suggested the Village Ronsard in Maubert where they had met before, and Phyllis said she would meet them at three o’clock.
“It’s only eleven,” said Agatha when she had hung up. “Let’s go and see if we can find Felicity.”
“You go,” groaned Charles. “I’m off to my room to lie down. Honestly, Aggie, I’m shattered.”
The old Agatha would have blasted him, called him a wimp, but the new Agatha was suddenly aware of the value of friends, so she said gruffly, “That’s all right. I’ll let you know how I get on.”
She unpacked her few belongings and then went out and took a cab to the Rue Saint-Honore. Once more she entered the salon.
The woman she had met before approached her, her dark eyes flicking up and down Agatha’s rather crumpled trouser suit. Agatha had two Armani trouser suits, but the one she was wearing was a cheap one she had bought in Evesham. She could almost feel the woman pricing it in her mind and then dismissing it and its owner.
“I am here to see Felicity Felliet,” said Agatha, suddenly wishing she had insisted that Charles come with her. Charles had a reasonable explanation for calling on Felicity, being a friend of her father, but Agatha had not.
But the woman said, “Mees Felicity is not with us. She left.”
“When?”
A little Gallic shrug and a spreading of the fingers. “Last week.”
“Have you an address for her in Paris?” “Wait. I look.”
Agatha waited and fretted. Her brilliant idea was beginning to seem more and more far-fetched.
The woman returned and handed Agatha a slip of paper. It gave an address in the Rue Madame.
Agatha again hailed a taxi and found herself once more being borne across the river, but this time to the Sixth Arrondisse-ment, near the impressive baroque church of Saint Sulpice.
She paid off the taxi and looked up at the tall building. It was one of those infuriating entry systems where you needed a code to get into the building.
There was a window at the side of the door. Hoping it was the concierge, Agatha rapped on it. The curtain twitched and a face looked out. After a few moments the door swung open. A small birdlike woman stood there with a pencil thrust through her frizzy hair.
“Miss Felliet?” asked Agatha.
“Numero dix-sept.”
Agatha looked at her in bewilderment. “I don’t understand French.”
The concierge retreated into her room off the hall and reappeared with a piece of paper of which she had written “17.” Then she pointed upwards.
Agatha went over to the lift, one of those old-fashioned French ones like a gilt cage. The concierge followed her and pressed the top button. The gate slowly closed and the lift creaked upwards. When it stopped on the top floor, she got out and looked around. The building was very quiet. No cries of children or smells of cooking. Must be expensive, thought Agatha. Only the rich apartment dweller could afford this sort of hush.
There was one door with a bell-push beside it. Agatha rang the bell. She heard sounds of movement inside. Then the door was opened and a tall bespectacled man stood there.
“Can I help you?” he asked. The accent was American.
“I’m looking for Felicity Felliet.”
“No one here of that name, but I’ve only just moved in. Come in.”
Agatha walked in and looked around. There were packing cases everywhere. French windows opened out onto a balcony and a view of the rooftops of Paris.
He went over to a desk. “I’ve got the name of the estate agent here. Maybe if you tried them you could find out where she has gone. I never saw her but I assume she must have been the previous tenant. I was lucky to get a place with an elevator. The higher you go, the cheaper it gets and even cheaper if there isn’t an elevator, but I didn’t fancy carrying everything up miles of stairs.”
“How far from here is this estate agent?”
“Turn left as you go out and walk straight down to Saint Germain and then turn right. It’s about one block along.”
Agatha thanked him and creaked down in the maddeningly slow lift. She spent some time figuring out how to open the street door. She knocked at the concierge’s door but there was no reply. Then she saw a button under the light switch and pressed it. The door gave a click and Agatha pulled it open. As it was one of those enormous carved wooden doors they ha
ve in buildings in Paris, she had to use both hands.
She turned left and walked, stopping occasionally to ask people for directions by simply saying, “Saint Germain?” and following where they pointed.
At the estate agent’s, there was a wait while the people in the front office went through to the back to find someone who spoke English.
A neat little Frenchman appeared and listened courteously, his head cocked to one side like a sparrow, while she asked if he knew the whereabouts of Felicity Felliet.
“Her lease was up last week,” he said, “and she said she did not want to renew it. She said she was returning to England.”
So that’s a dead end, thought Agatha. She’s probably back with her parents.
By the time Agatha and Charles met Phyllis, Agatha was beginning to feel her whole idea was ridiculous. But Phyllis listened eagerly, exclaiming that it all sounded very exciting. “What is this Jeremy Laggat-Brown like?” she asked.
“He is well-built with a tanned face, very bright blue eyes and thick curly white hair.”
“There’s someone like that who goes to meetings. Jean-Paul. He came off the streets and looked a mess, but after he sobered up, he didn’t look at all like the same person.”
“Could we meet him?”
“Actually I have his phone number.” Phyllis took out her mobile and dialled and then proceeded to speak in French. When she rang off, she said triumphantly, “He lives near here and is coming to join us. He won’t be long.”
Agatha began to feel excited. Oh, please let this Jean-Paul be the spitting image of Jeremy.
Ten minutes later, Phyllis exclaimed, “Here he is.”
Agatha swung round in her chair and her heart sank. Jean-Paul had white hair streaked with grey and his eyes were blue-grey. He was tall but had a stoop. But his main feature was a very large, very prominent nose.
He joined them and listened carefully while Charles and Phyllis, speaking in French, explained what they were looking for. Agatha sat in frustrated silence, privately vowing to take French lessons as soon as this wretched case was over. If ever.
(15/30) The Deadly Dance Page 16
