Agatha Raisin: There Goes The Bride

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘But that was surely not enough,’ she protested. ‘He told me he wanted out of the marriage.’

  ‘Ah, but he is an honourable man. The date was set, the ring was on the finger. He is much older than Felicity and runs on a different set of ethics. Now, if Felicity had changed her mind, she would have cancelled the wedding even at the last minute.’

  ‘Did she love him?’

  ‘Felicity had so much self-love there was not room for anyone else.’

  ‘Bitch!’ said Agatha. Her eyes filled with tears.

  He leaned across the table and took her hand in a warm clasp. ‘You must care very deeply for your ex-husband.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Agatha furiously. ‘Whatever I felt for James is long gone.’

  She could not explain that the whole business was making her feel old and frumpy. Also, she reminded herself that James had divorced her. No honour there. No sticking to the marriage vows.

  ‘Eat your lunch,’ he said gently.

  ‘I think I’ve had enough,’ said Agatha, pushing her plate away. ‘I should get back to the house.’

  ‘Have a coffee and brandy. You need it. Je t’en prie.’

  Agatha pulled herself together. Good detectives surely didn’t emote all over the place. Patrick and Phil, for example, went doggedly on with their work. Bill Wong, even in the throes of a broken romance, never let emotion cloud his judgement. It was all to do with increasing age, she thought miserably. That awful feeling of losing powers of attraction, of growing wrinkles, nasty little face hairs, and a stomach that kept insisting on dropping slowly south were all very demoralizing. She must stop regarding Sylvan as a Frenchman she had thought attractive and stick rigorously to her job.

  Toni meanwhile had secured the names and addresses of Felicity’s ex-fiancés. The first one was Bertram Powell and he worked as a solicitor in Hewes.

  His secretary, a plump young woman with lacquered hair and a power suit, asked if she had an appointment and when Toni said she hadn’t one, the secretary gave a thin smile and said Mr Powell was busy all that day.

  Toni glanced at her watch. Lunchtime. No sound from the inner office. She thanked the secretary and left.

  She began to check the restaurants near the solicitor’s office, asking in each one for Mr Powell. She struck lucky at a steak house in one of Hewes’s cobbled lanes that led down to the river Frim. The maître d’, assuming that Toni was joining Bertram Powell for lunch, escorted her to his table.

  ‘Hello,’ said Toni, holding out her hand.

  He rose from his seat, looking puzzled. He shook her hand. The maître d’ held out a chair for Toni and she sank down into it.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded Bertram. He was much older than Toni had expected him to be. She thought he might be approaching fifty. His face was broad and pugnacious and his nose looked as if it had been broken at one time. His hair was black and sleek, as black as his small eyes.

  ‘I am a private detective investigating the murder of Felicity Bross-Tilkington.’

  Bertram looked suddenly amused. ‘Go on with you. You’re a child.’

  Toni handed over her card. ‘Don’t be put off by appearances. I am very good at my job.’

  A waiter hovered with a menu. ‘Have you something uncomplicated, like steak and chips?’ asked Toni.

  ‘Of course.’

  Toni ordered a well-done steak and chips and a bottle of mineral water. ‘I do not expect you to pay for my lunch, Mr Powell.’

  ‘I should hope not. I can’t tell you anything about Felicity. We were engaged some time ago.’

  ‘Why did you break off the engagement? You were the one to end it, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  The waiter brought Toni’s steak. The speed with which it arrived was a bad sign, she thought. It had probably been sitting up on a hot plate in the kitchen for ages. The waiter was an extremely good-looking young man with slim hips. Bertram eyed him appreciatively as he walked away.

  Toni’s eyes sharpened and she studied Bertram’s clothes. He was wearing a dark suit, striped shirt and silk tie, all suited to his job. The suit was exquisitely tailored.

  ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ demanded Bertram.

  ‘I was wondering whether you were gay,’ said Toni.

  ‘You cheeky little . . . Oh, for heaven’s sake, yes, if it does you any good.’

  ‘And that was why you broke off the engagement?’

  ‘Yes, her father found out. I didn’t know he’d put a private detective on to me.’

  ‘So why did you break off the engagement and not her?’

  ‘She wanted to go through with it. She told her father that’s what she wanted. I had only just discovered I was gay.’

  ‘But what about sex?’

  ‘Felicity thought about little else. She pointed out that we had never had any trouble in that department and that the invitations to the wedding had all been sent out. But I insisted everything was off. George Bross-Tilkington was furious. The Bross-Tilkingtons, when you get to know them, are as common as muck. George’s father, old Harry Bross, was a scrap merchant down the East End of London. Tilkington was his wife’s maiden name. He relished the idea of being the sort of squire of Downboys with his daughter marrying a solicitor. He said a good psychiatrist would soon sort me out. I refused.

  ‘So he spread it around the town that I was homosexual. I thought that was me finished, but it backfired on him because I began to get all the gay law cases in town. And we’re near enough to Brighton, England’s San Francisco. Don’t mess with the Brosses, young lady. They’re a scary bunch.’

  ‘Anything criminal?’

  ‘Not that I know of. George seems to have made a legitimate pile of money out of the real estate business in Spain.’

  ‘Have you heard any rumours about why they have so much security at their home?’

  ‘No. It’s not unusual. Lots of crime around, and people with money get scared of burglars.’

  ‘When were you engaged to Felicity?’

  ‘Eight years ago.’

  And there was someone after you who called it off. Ernest Wheatsheaf Do you know where I can find him?’

  At the Southern Bank in the High Street. He’s the bank manager.’ Bertram called for the bill. He asked for a separate receipt, paid his bill, and hurried off. Toni finished as much of her steak as she could, remembered to switch off the powerful tape recorder in her open handbag under the table, paid her bill and went out in search of the Southern Bank.

  Sylvan watched Agatha from under his heavy-lidded eyes as she excused herself and went to the toilet to freshen up. She had a nice high bottom and very long legs, he thought appreciatively, and she exuded an air of very strong sensuality of which she seemed totally unaware. Perhaps a little fling might brighten up his visit. George had begged him to stay on.

  At the bank, Toni demanded to see the manager, and was told that he was too busy and someone else would need to deal with her.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said Toni. ‘I’ve just won the lottery and –’

  ‘Oh, wait here,’ said the woman at the desk by the door. ‘I think he’ll want to see you.’

  In three minutes’ time, Toni was ushered into Ernest Wheatsheaf’s imposing office. He was a tall thin man with greying hair. Like Bertram, Toni guessed he must be pushing fifty. Why had Felicity never gone for men her own age?

  Ernest seized Toni’s hand in a warm clasp. ‘It will be a pleasure to handle your affairs, Miss . . .?’

  ‘Gilmour.’ Toni handed over her card. He studied it, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. ‘I am actually a private detective hired by Mrs Bross-Tilkington to find out who murdered her daughter.’

  ‘Then leave my office immediately! You got in here under false pretences.’

  ‘Look, Mr Wheatsheaf,’ said Toni, ‘you may as well practise on me because I am sure you will soon
be interviewed by the police.’

  He had half-risen to his feet. He sank back into his chair.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You were engaged to Felicity. They’ll want to make sure it was you who called off the wedding.’

  ‘But what has that to do with murder?’

  ‘They’ll be checking out everyone who might have had a grudge against Felicity.’

  ‘You are very young to be a detective.’

  Toni opened her briefcase and took out a file with newspaper cuttings. ‘Have a look at those,’ she said.

  He flicked through the newspaper cuttings, reports of Toni’s successes. Although they had been due in the main to the detective work of Agatha Raisin, Toni was prominently featured because she was the most photogenic.

  ‘You seem to know your job, miss,’ said Ernest, ‘but I cannot see how this murder has anything to do with me.’

  ‘You seem to me an intelligent man and someone in an important position in this town,’ said Toni, giving him a charming smile. ‘It’s not that the murder has anything to do with you – of course not – it’s just that you knew Felicity and sometimes – quite often, in fact – the character of the person who has been murdered can give a clue as to the reason for the murder.’

  The weather outside was clearing up. A shaft of sunlight shone through the office window and gilded the fair cap of Toni’s hair.

  Ernest suddenly smiled. ‘I can only give you ten minutes but I will do my best. Did you know Felicity?’

  ‘No, but her fiancé invited me to the wedding. She was very beautiful.’

  ‘She was quite plump and she had brown hair when I was engaged to her.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Let me see, about five years ago. She seemed fresh and innocent and eager to please. I thought she would make a very good wife.’

  ‘You weren’t in love with her?’

  ‘I found her very suitable,’ he said repressively. ‘A man in my position must be careful whom he weds.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I found her too . . . er . . . demanding.’

  ‘You mean sex?’

  He actually blushed.

  ‘Well, yes. It struck me as not being very ladylike. She was furious when I broke off the engagement. In fact, her mother and father threatened me with all sorts of lawsuits. Then she went off with her parents to somewhere on the Continent. When she returned a long time after, I forget how long, she had transformed herself into a beauty.’

  Wondering whether Ernest might be gay as well as Bertram, Toni asked, ‘Are you married now?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, and very happily.’

  ‘Can you think of anything to do with Felicity that might drive someone to murder her?’

  He said drily, ‘Perhaps her present fiancé found that murder was the only way of getting out of the marriage.’

  ‘What about the Bross-Tilkingtons? Anything there?’

  Ernest’s secretary put her head round the door. ‘Mr Barnstaple is complaining that you are keeping him waiting, sir.’

  ‘Show him in. Good day, Miss Gilmour. I really must get back to work.’

  An hour later, Toni and Agatha met up in their room at the pub. Toni had phoned Agatha, telling her it would be a good idea to come back and listen to the two taped interviews.

  ‘It’s all very odd,’ said Agatha, after she had heard the tapes. ‘I must talk to James.’

  ‘Are you going to phone him now?’

  ‘No. I talked to Mrs Bloxby this afternoon and she said he was back in Carsely. I want to talk to him face to face. I’ll leave now and come back tomorrow. See what you can find out about Sylvan Dubois. That’s an odd sort of friendship. Keep trying to get Olivia on her own. You shouldn’t be too much troubled by the press. There’s been a double murder over in Brighton, so most of them have hurried off there. You’d better rent a car.’

  Back to the Cotswolds drove Agatha, back down the leafy roads leading to Carsely. She was assailed with a sudden longing to forget about the whole thing. Her excellent cleaner, Doris Simpson, had been looking after her beloved cats in her absence. How wonderful it would be just to go to bed, have a long lie-in in the morning, and spend a lazy day reading books and playing with her cats.

  The old mellow stone houses of the village of Carsely glowed in the late-evening light. The weather was unusually warm and the little gardens were heavy with blossom.

  She parked in front of her cottage and went in to a sulky reception from her cats. She patted them but they oiled away from her and stood expectantly in front of the garden door. She let them out, went upstairs and refreshed her make-up, and then walked next door and rang the bell.

  James answered it. They stood looking at each other for a moment and then James said quietly, ‘Come in, Agatha.’

  Agatha walked into the familiar room and sank down on the sofa, biting back a yelp as her arthritic hip gave a nasty twinge.

  James slumped down in his favourite armchair by the fireplace. ‘What a mess,’ he said.

  ‘Why didn’t you stay on?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Because I had to get away from George and Olivia. At first they accused me of the murder and after I was cleared by the police, the atmosphere was still hellish.’

  ‘You could have booked in at The Jolly Farmer with us,’ said Agatha.

  He said in a low voice, ‘I had to get away. You have no idea what a fool I feel.’

  ‘Well, Olivia has hired me to find out who killed her daughter and I’m going to do it, so I need some clue as to why someone would want to bump her off. What was she like?’

  ‘Very beautiful, as you know. She seemed to adore me. I was flattered by the way she hung on my every word. It was only on that Ukraine trip that I began to slowly realize that when I was talking, she was usually thinking of something else.’

  ‘Toni interviewed her two ex-fiancés. The first said he broke off the engagement because he was gay, the second because he found her too sexually demanding.’

  ‘Now that’s ridiculous. Felicity was in fact rather shy.’

  ‘But the gay chap said she was oversexed and Sylvan Dubois said she was hot stuff between the sheets.’

  There was a long silence while James stared at Agatha. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he said at last.

  ‘Three of them are surely right.’

  ‘Good heavens! She was old-fashioned maidenly towards me. Said we should wait until after we were married.’

  ‘James, in this day and age? Didn’t you find that a bit odd?’

  ‘I was dazzled by her appearance and she seemed so sweet and innocent. When she went for you at that party, I could hardly believe it. But I had already discovered that she was extremely stupid, on the cusp of being mentally retarded. I would guess she had received practically no education at all. I had already approached George and told him I did not think I would make a suitable husband and he threatened me with every lawsuit under the sun and said if I broke his daughter’s heart, he would kill me.’

  ‘Let me think,’ said Agatha. ‘I gathered from your engagement party that Sylvan was a friend of yours, and yet he seems to be pretty close to Olivia and George. How did you meet him?’

  ‘I met him by accident in a brasserie. He spilled beer over me. We began to chat and I found him very amusing. We became friends. Then the next time I was in Paris, he invited me to a party at his friend’s apartment and it was there that I met Felicity.’

  ‘Could you have been set up?’

  ‘Conspiracy theories, Agatha? I could simply have been polite to the girl and left. The whole mess was entirely my fault.’

  ‘When did you propose?’

  ‘Two days after I first met her. I’m a silly old fool, but it all seemed so romantic – Paris and the most beautiful girl in the world on my arm. Don’t glare at me like that, Agatha. You’ve made a fool of yourself in the past. What about the last one who turned out to be a murderer?’

  ‘Charles has been gossipin
g.’

  ‘No, Bill Wong. He worries about you.’

  ‘Did you get any hint of a rejected lover anywhere?’

  ‘Not even a whiff. I didn’t even know about her previous engagements.’

  ‘Why don’t you come back to Hewes with me,’ urged Agatha. ‘We could go detecting like we did before.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Agatha, I have a heavy writing schedule and I just want to forget about the whole thing.’

  Agatha got to her feet, her small eyes boring into him. ‘Well, I think you’re a wimp,’ she yelled and stormed out.

  Angry tears ran down her face as she let herself into her cottage. It had been humiliating to hear her ex-husband burbling on about how beautiful Felicity had been and romantic Paris.

  Then she sniffed the air. Cigarette smoke! And she hadn’t lit up a cigarette since she got back.

  She took out her mobile phone to call the police and backed towards the front door.

  ‘Is that you, Aggie?’ called a familiar voice from the kitchen.

  Charles!

  Agatha put away her phone and went into the kitchen, scrubbing at her eyes with a handkerchief as she went.

  Charles was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette from a packet of Bensons Agatha had left on the counter. He had the keys to Agatha’s cottage and dropped in and out as he pleased. Agatha had once tried to stop him, but then realized that often she was lonely and Charles’s company was better than none.

  Charles looked at Agatha’s red eyes. ‘Been calling on James?’

  ‘Yes, pass me one of my cigarettes.’

  ‘So what did he say about Felicity?’

  ‘She appears to have had the reputation, according to two previous fiancés, not to mention that Frenchman, of being a nymphomaniac. But surprise, surprise. No sex for James till after the wedding.’

  ‘She may have been a nymphomaniac, but I think she was a narcissist as well. She wanted to star on her wedding day. She probably pictured herself in white and pearls going up the aisle. Do you mean to say she was turned down before because of too much sex? Hard to believe.’

  ‘Trust you to think so. The first fiancé was gay, and the second, I gather from Toni, a stuffy bank manager who thought it was all not very naice.’