Agatha Raisin: There Goes The Bride

by Beaton, M. C.

  Toni’s voice came on the phone. ‘Get out of there, Agatha. It’s a trick. It could be Sylvan.’

  Agatha stumbled to her feet, staggered and almost fell. A smooth French voice said, ‘I’m afraid the lady has had too much to drink. I’ll help her outside.’

  Agatha opened her mouth to scream but the restaurant swirled around her and something seemed to have happened to her voice. It was like one of those nightmares where you tried to scream and only whimpering little squeaks came out.

  She had only taken a sip of the Campari and soda, thinking it a sophisticated drink, although it was one she did not like very much.

  The air outside revived her and she began to struggle weakly. ‘There is a gun in your ribs,’ said Sylvan. ‘One squawk out of you and you’re dead.’

  Bill, followed by Toni, rushed into the restaurant. The first thing Toni’s eyes spotted was Agatha’s handbag resting on a chair. ‘Where is the lady who belongs to this?’ she shouted. The manager came forward. ‘The lady had a dizzy turn and one of our waiters took her outside for some fresh air.’

  ‘Was he French?’

  ‘Yes, he was filling in for one of our waiters who was taken ill suddenly.’

  Bill took out his phone and called Scotland Yard while Toni rushed out to the dock. Saint Katharine’s Dock is punnily named The Berth of London. Cruisers and yachts bobbed at anchor. Toni went up to an old man who was watching the boats.

  ‘Did a boat just leave here?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She was a big powerful motor cruiser.’

  ‘Name.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The name of the boat?’ shouted Toni.

  ‘Versales.’

  ‘Versailles?’

  ‘Could be. Never could get my tongue round them French names.’

  Bill came to join her. ‘The River Police will be with us in a minute. We’ve got to catch him before he throws her overboard.’

  Agatha stared bleakly at Sylvan, who was sitting across from her in the boat’s cabin. ‘I see your old friend, Jerry Carton, is driving us. What are you going to do with me?’

  ‘Get you out to sea and chuck you overboard. The water’s nice and cold this time of year.’

  ‘But they’ll know it was you.’

  He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘They haven’t caught me yet.’

  ‘Why? Why do you want to kill me?’

  ‘Revenge, pure and simple. To think I even encouraged Olivia to hire you! I thought that would make me look innocent, but then I realized your poking about was becoming a threat. You fouled up my nice lucrative business.’

  ‘But why shoot Felicity?’

  ‘Ah, I did not do that. That was George.’

  ‘Her own father!’

  ‘Remember, he wasn’t her father. He’d been having sex with her since she was fourteen. She promised him that they could carry on after she was married. She was, after all, sex-obsessed. But the wedding went to her head. She told him she wouldn’t have anything to do with him after the wedding. He tried to force her. She said she was going to tell Olivia, her mother, everything. So he put on – how you call it? – a boiler suit, gloves, plastic boots, the lot, and shot her through the window to make it look as if some outsider had done it. He shoved the boiler suit and everything in the furnace.’

  ‘And the gun?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Ah, the local police of course never thought to search any of us. George simply pushed it into the waistband of his trousers under his morning coat, called the police, followed them to the church and slipped it to me.’

  ‘And what did you do with it?’

  ‘Threw it in the river at the first opportunity.’

  ‘Where in the river?’

  ‘There is no point in telling you because you are not going to escape me this time.’

  Desperate to keep him talking, Agatha asked, ‘Why did you kill George?’

  ‘He’d become dangerously sentimental, mourning Felicity, and he was beginning to drink too much. Hélas, he had to go.’

  ‘How did you get my details from the agency?’

  ‘Easy. The joke is I hired a detective agency to follow you. I found out about the bankrupt agency and saw the fair Amanda and said I would put in a bid if I could take over her client list. She jumped at it. She expects me to be at her lawyer’s tomorrow. She will be disappointed.’

  ‘Why did you kill Sean?’

  ‘The idiot had the nerve to blackmail me. He said I wasn’t paying him enough for helping smuggle those Chinese into the country.’

  ‘And what about poor Bert?’

  ‘That one was always crawling about in the dark. He saw me unloading a cargo. He tried to blackmail me. Silly boy must have hoped to get money out of you as well. Two blackmailers. Pouf! Both dead.’

  ‘You are one nasty bastard,’ said Agatha. ‘You are lower than whale shit.’

  ‘But you, chérie, are nearly dead, so why not shut up and say your prayers. You’re about to go to sleep anyway.’

  Keeping the gun on her, with his other hand he opened a box and took out a syringe. ‘Don’t want you swimming around getting help from any passing boat,’ said Sylvan.

  ‘Why don’t you just shoot me?’

  ‘In this tiny space, the bullet might either ricochet or make a hole in my nice new boat.’ The table was between them. Agatha made a lunge for the gun, but he snatched it before she could get to it. He struck her on the side of the head with the butt and Agatha slumped back.

  ‘Why didn’t I think of that before?’ he muttered. ‘Now you are nice and quiet.’

  Through a red haze, Agatha watched him fill the syringe. Then, with all her remaining strength, she dived across the table and seized the syringe and plunged it into his neck. He scrabbled for the gun and then fired just as Agatha fell under the table.

  There was a long silence. Agatha eased herself up. Jerry, she thought. I’ve got to deal with Jerry. Sylvan was out cold.

  Holding the gun, Agatha dragged herself upstairs. She rammed the muzzle into Jerry’s neck and said, ‘Turn the boat around.’

  He drove his elbow into her stomach and she went flying backwards and the gun flew out of her grasp and skittered across the cockpit.

  Jerry cut the engine and turned round with a gun in his hand. Just as the shot went off, Agatha forced herself backwards and fell down the companionway.

  She shut her eyes, bruised and battered, thinking that she could no longer escape death.

  A stentorian voice shouted, ‘Police!’ and floodlight shone in the cabin windows.

  Agatha hunched herself into the fetal position. She heard a splash and a voice shouting, ‘Get him. He’s in the water.’

  Then she heard feet above her landing on the deck. The first policeman came clattering down the steps. ‘Mrs Raisin? Are you Mrs Agatha Raisin?’

  Agatha croaked, ‘Yes.’

  More men came down and helped her up. ‘That’s Sylvan Dubois,’ said Agatha, swaying in their arms. ‘I stabbed him with his own hypodermic.’

  ‘Let’s get you to hospital. That’s a nasty bash on the head,’ said one.

  For the first time since Sylvan had struck her, Agatha became aware of blood running down the side of her head.

  She was helped tenderly on to the nearest police launch. There were three, and in one of them she could see Jerry being dragged out of the water and handcuffed.

  ‘It’s over at last,’ said Agatha, and burying her face in the chest of the nearest policeman, she burst into tears.

  Agatha was welcomed at Saint Katharine’s Dock by Toni, Bill, Charles, James and Roy. James hugged her and Toni demanded to know if they’d got Sylvan.

  An inspector with the River Police said sternly, ‘Mrs Raisin will need to be taken to hospital. Leave your questions until later.’ Agatha was helped into a waiting ambulance.

  ‘Here comes Sylvan,’ shouted Toni. ‘Is he dead?’

  Agatha turned round, one foot on the step of the ambulance. ‘Ju
st drugged. I stabbed him with his own syringe.’

  Chapter Ten

  AGATHA WAS SEDATED after her head had been examined. She was told she had received a nasty blow and was slightly concussed but otherwise she was all right.

  She awoke the next day to find two Special Branch detectives beside her bed. She was questioned for an hour until a doctor interrupted and said that she needed more rest.

  It was to be the beginning of days of questioning. Toni arrived with a present of a bottle of French perfume. Then there was James bearing chocolates and Charles with nothing, although he ate half the box of chocolates. Roy came in carrying a palm tree in a pot, deaf to the shouts of the nurses that no flowers were allowed. ‘It’s not flowers,’ complained Roy sulkily. ‘It’s a tree.’ But the palm was taken away from him and he was told he could collect it on his way out.

  Then the reassuring presence of Mrs Bloxby arrived. She had got Doris Simpson to search Agatha’s bedroom for the prettiest nightdress and the bathroom for a supply of make-up along with a suitcase of her clothes. Agatha listened as she heard for the first time how Mrs Bloxby had found out that her date was a fake by seeing Geoffrey Camden’s marriage in the pages of Country Life.

  ‘I’m surprised the press have not been to see me,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Oh, they’re all camped outside.’

  ‘Is Toni still around? She was here this morning.’

  ‘She is very fond of you. I believe she is staying in London and plans to run you home.’

  Agatha scowled. ‘Has she said anything to the press?’

  ‘She just says “No comment”, like the rest of us.’

  Agatha picked up the phone beside her bed and dialled Toni’s number. ‘Toni, dear,’ Mrs Bloxby heard Agatha say, ‘there’s no need to hang around for me. Could you get back to the office and make sure things are running smoothly? No, it’s all right. James will be running me back.’

  ‘And is he?’ asked Mrs Bloxby when Agatha had rung off.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Agatha.

  Mrs Bloxby repressed a smile. Agatha wanted her moment of glory with the press and without pretty Toni around to take away the limelight.

  ‘Actually, I drove up,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Did you come by car?’

  ‘No, I came by train. My car’s at the station in Moreton. I feel fighting fit. I wonder if they’d let me leave today.’

  ‘You could ask and I could drive you home.’

  ‘That would be great. I think the police have winkled every bit of information out of me they can.’

  The doctor was summoned and said that provided she was not going to drive herself, she was free to go.

  Agatha retreated to the bathroom with the suitcase of clothes and make-up bag and changed. She washed, dried her hair and brushed it until it shone. The perks of being a heroine were that she had a private hospital room and a bathroom all to herself.

  Mrs Bloxby tactfully hung back as Agatha emerged from the hospital to face a battery of press and television. Mindful of police warnings not to say anything that might jeopardize the trial, she made a short statement and then posed for pictures. Something was jabbing at her conscience and she suddenly realized what it was. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Bloxby, then she, Agatha, would surely be dead.

  But if she brought Mrs Bloxby forward to the press, they would learn that she had been trying to find a man through a dating agency.

  It would all come out in court, but Agatha meanly decided it could wait until then.

  Agatha was worried about her age. She felt she was becoming more fragile. It seemed to take a long time to get over the shock of her near death. Mrs Bloxby suggested counselling, Bill Wong suggested victim support, but Agatha did not want to talk to any therapist or psychiatrist about her inner thoughts, mostly because half the time she did not know what they were anyway, and found life easier if she just ploughed on.

  The weather was dismal. Heavy rain caused flooding and the river Avon in Evesham was rising dangerously again. But mostly there was plenty of work to keep her occupied. Quite often she worked late, not wanting to go back to her empty cottage, until she remembered her cats and dragged herself off home.

  She spent Christmas at Bill’s home, even though the dinner was foul and his parents seemed to dislike her as much as ever – although Agatha comforted herself with the thought that they didn’t really seem to like anyone apart from their adored son.

  January brought in some brisk, clear, sunny, frosty days and Agatha regained her spirits and self-confidence and began to feel like her old self again.

  By the end of January, she found a new friend. She had taken time off from work to look round the market in Mircester, buying up local produce and meat, determined to eat healthily, trying to shove to the back of her mind that she would end up as usual putting something in the microwave and giving what she had bought to Doris Simpson. She was standing at the fruit and vegetable stall when a woman next to her dropped her shopping bag and carrots and onions rolled out on to the street. Agatha helped her pick them up.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the woman. ‘I really am clumsy.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Agatha with a rare burst of honesty. ‘I’m pretty clumsy myself.’

  She studied Agatha’s face. ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’

  ‘My photo’s been in the newspapers,’ said Agatha proudly.

  ‘I know! You’re that famous detective! Agatha Raisin.’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Look. I’ve just moved into the area. Can I buy you lunch?’

  Agatha studied her. She was possibly in her forties with expensively blonded hair, a smooth, lightly tanned face and wearing a mink coat. Wearing a mink coat in broad daylight took courage in these days of political correctness. There was a heavy gold necklace at her throat and a Rolex on her wrist.

  ‘All right,’ said Agatha. ‘But I can’t be away from the office too long.’

  Over lunch in The George hotel, the woman introduced herself as Charlotte Rother. She listened, fascinated, as Agatha recounted her adventures. By the time the coffee arrived, Agatha realized guiltily that she hadn’t asked her new companion about herself.

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m a divorcee. My husband was very, very rich and gave me a handsome settlement. Fortunately, we don’t have any children. I was living in London, but I’m tired of cities. I’ve bought a cottage in Ancombe. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s quite near me. I live in Carsely.’

  ‘Do you have one of those thatched cottages?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So pretty, but surely very expensive to maintain.’

  ‘Thatching does cost a lot. What type of place do you have?’

  ‘It’s a bungalow. Not very attractive. But the area is pretty and I have a good garden. Are you interested in gardening?’

  ‘I really don’t have the time. I get a man round to keep what’s there tidy.’

  Charlotte had a singularly warm and charming smile. ‘Why don’t you come and visit me this weekend and I’ll show you the place.’

  Agatha thought of the empty weekend looming up and said cheerfully, ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Come for lunch. About one. Do you know where the church is in Ancombe?’

  ‘Yes, right in the middle.’

  ‘As you drive past, coming from Carsely, count along six houses after the church and I am the seventh on the left. It’s got a short drive and it’s bordered by a high hedge, so don’t miss it.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Agatha smiled. ‘And as I am going to lunch at your place, I insist on paying for this lunch. No. No arguments.’

  They exchanged cards and when she went back to the office, Agatha felt pleased with her new friend. Of course, Mrs Bloxby was really her best friend, but the vicar’s wife was often busy and had too many parish commitments to go out for meals or to the theatre.

  She did not talk to anyone about Charlotte. Sh
e wanted to keep her to herself.

  So Agatha was really annoyed when her doorbell rang on Saturday morning to find Roy Silver on her doorstep, complete with overnight bag.

  ‘Roy! I’m usually glad to see you,’ said Agatha, ‘but I’ve got an important lunch date. You should have phoned.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m having a horrible time.’ Tears began to run down Roy’s face.

  ‘Oh, come in, do. Tell me what’s been happening.’

  Roy followed her into the kitchen. ‘I got an offer from another PR agency.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Atherton’s.’

  ‘They’re very big.’

  ‘I was so excited,’ said Roy, mopping his eyes. ‘I went round to see them as arranged. I was interviewed by Bertha Atherton.’

  ‘Snakes and bastards. She’s a complete cow.’

  ‘So it turns out. I had just got handed the Duluxe make-up launch. Bertha offered me a lot of money. I said I’d join them.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Agatha. ‘She then went straight to Duluxe and said she was hiring their PR so it would be better all round if they moved the account to her.’

  ‘That’s it. Duluxe told Pedman’s and Mr Pedman called me in and gave me such a bawling-out.’

  ‘Did he fire you?’

  ‘No, I swore blind that Atherton’s had called me round for an interview and had offered me a lot of money and all I said was that I would think about it. I mean, I didn’t sign anything. I don’t think she recorded anything. There was to be a further meeting next week.’

  ‘During which time,’ said Agatha, ‘Bertha would find out whether she could winkle the account away from Pedman’s, and if she couldn’t she’d simply have phoned you up and said she’d changed her mind.’

  ‘That’s it. Everyone in the office is treating me like a leper. And there’s a new PR snapping at my heels and trying to take the account away from me.’

  ‘Has Pedman shown any sign of doing that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then he won’t. Do a good job with Duluxe.’ Agatha bit her lip. She had been accused before of having a cavalier attitude towards her old friends.

  ‘Unpack your bag and leave me to phone,’ she said.