Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Okay, so why does it have to be you? I’m off.’

  ‘Wait,’ cried Agatha as he was walking away, following the two policemen.

  ‘What is it now?’

  ‘Who inherits Geraldine Jankers’s money now that her son is dead?’

  ‘Don’t see any harm in you knowing. That friend of hers, Cyril Hammond.’

  ‘Was it much?’

  ‘A lot, believe you me. Now, if you want any more details, you’d better contact her solicitor.’

  He turned away again.

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘Mrs Raisin, I’m tired. You drag me out on a silly errand and –’

  ‘Does Cyril Hammond have a criminal record?’

  He smiled. ‘Now, that’s the benefit of being in the force and not an amateur like you. Goodnight.’

  ‘Pillock,’ muttered Agatha. ‘Sorry, James, I’d better get off to bed. But it was worth it to find out that Cyril inherits. He’s a sleazy creep. I can imagine him luring her down to the beach. I wonder if he has the rest of the jewels. I’d like a look at his room.’

  ‘Agatha, he wouldn’t carry them around with him.’

  ‘But he might have given Dawn one piece. Wayne gave Chelsea that necklace.’

  ‘Can we talk about this in the morning? I’m tired.’

  ‘Okay. Goodnight.’

  Agatha went along to her room. The door was still open. She went in and fumbled her way over to the bedside lamps and switched them on. She hurriedly undressed, washed and crawled into bed, but she left the lights burning.

  Charles called at the hospital early the next morning to collect Deborah.

  ‘Can you carry my bag, darling?’ asked Deborah. ‘It’s just a few things of mine I got that nurse to collect for me from the hotel.’

  ‘Right,’ said Charles, although that ‘darling’ made him feel uneasy. But Deborah looked very attractive. She must be very strong and healthy, he thought, to come through that ordeal and look as though nothing had happened.

  ‘Is that your car?’ asked Deborah, as Charles led the way to a rather old and battered BMW.

  ‘Yes, good old thing. Had it for years.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Need to make him get something more fitting when we’re married, thought Deborah.

  When they arrived at the hotel, it was to find the reception crammed with reporters, photographers and television crews.

  ‘Good heavens!’ said Deborah. ‘This all must be for me.’ She raised her voice. ‘Here I am!’

  ‘Here she is!’ cried a reporter. But no one was turning in Deborah’s direction. They were all focusing on Agatha Raisin, who was descending the stairs.

  Agatha faced a barrage of questions. Why had she hinted that laundered money might be used in the building of the casino? Did she know Regan Enterprises had withdrawn their offer? There was to be no casino in Snoth.

  Back in Mircester, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, Agatha’s very first friend, watched the press conference with amusement. It was his day off. He knew of old that Agatha blundered around cases and then sometimes had brilliant flashes of intuition. That remark of hers about laundered money must have sent Regan Enterprises running for cover. If there was nothing in it, he was sure they would have gone ahead with their plans for the casino whatever the townspeople thought. A local television cameraman who had been at the town hall the night before had filmed Agatha making her speech. There were clips of it interposed throughout the press conference.

  Then the smile left his face. Did Agatha know that if Regan Enterprises was a dicey operation and she had ruined their plans, they would be out for blood? Her blood.

  Harry and Phil watched the same conference on a small television set in their office.

  ‘You have to hand it to her,’ said Phil. ‘She’s quite a lady.’

  ‘She’s a lady who is now in serious danger, if she wasn’t before,’ said Harry. ‘Look, Phil, could we put a few of the minor cases on hold? I’m going down there. She’ll need all the help she can get.’

  Mrs Bloxby was enjoying a quiet cup of tea when the vicarage doorbell went. She sighed and got to her feet. That was the trouble with being a vicar’s wife. The villagers felt free to call any time they felt like it.

  She opened the door and looked at the neatly dressed businessman standing outside.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘My name is John Belling,’ he said, a smile crinkling his tanned face. ‘I am thinking of buying somewhere in the village. Do you know if there’s anything for sale?’

  ‘There isn’t anything at the moment,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Or not that I know of. But sometimes people don’t like estate agents’ boards being put up. You could try some estate agents in Moreton-in-Marsh or Chipping Campden.’

  ‘I heard an old friend of mine, Agatha Raisin, lives here.’

  ‘You are unlucky. She is away at the moment.’

  ‘What a pity. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to make a bid for her cottage.’

  ‘Mrs Raisin has no intention of selling.’

  ‘I am sure her cottage will be vacant very soon.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I’m psychic.’ Again that smile.

  Mrs Bloxby was suddenly afraid. ‘You must excuse me,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’ve left something on the stove.’

  She shut the door and went quickly to the phone and telephoned Bill Wong. She breathlessly repeated the conversation she’d had with her visitor. ‘Right,’ said Bill when she’d finished. ‘I’ll be over with some men right away. I don’t like the sound of this.’

  Mrs Bloxby then phoned Agatha. Alarmed, Agatha asked for a description, and when Mrs Bloxby finished, she said, ‘I think you’ve just had a visit from that drug baron, Brian McNally. Have you told the police?’

  ‘Yes, Bill Wong is on his way over. Oh, do be careful, Agatha. Can’t you and James go away for that holiday? Get out of the country?’

  Agatha had taken the phone call at the reception desk. She went back to join James, who looked at her anxiously. She was trembling and her face was white. In a faltering voice she told him about Mrs Bloxby’s call. ‘I’m running out of courage, James,’ said Agatha and burst into tears.

  She wanted him to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he handed her a large clean handkerchief and said, ‘Let’s go into the bar and talk about this. You need a stiff drink.’

  Agatha gulped and blew her nose and went with him into the bar. ‘This has become too dangerous,’ said James. ‘I think we should get away.’

  Agatha dried her eyes and looked miserably at the smears of make-up on what had once been James’s clean handkerchief.

  ‘We can see Barret,’ urged James. ‘He’ll be glad to see the back of us. We’ll get in my car tomorrow and go over to France and tour around.’

  ‘I feel such a wimp,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m terrified. Yes, we’ll go.’

  ‘Good girl. Let’s see Barret.’

  Barret looked relieved. He had received a call from the Mircester police, who were combing the area looking for Mrs Bloxby’s mysterious caller.

  ‘I forgot to phone Harry,’ said Agatha. ‘I meant to tell him to go to Lewisham and check on Fred’s businesses. Then you’ve got to find out if your stockbroker friend can discover anything.’

  Agatha,’ said James gently. ‘None of that matters now. We’re leaving.’

  ‘So we are,’ said Agatha dully. ‘I forgot.’

  It was not just the mysterious caller that had broken Agatha, it was the memory of that abduction. She felt she could not face any more adventures.

  Said James, ‘I’ll get my car and we’ll stay away from the hotel for the rest of the day. Then we’ll come back this evening and pack. There’s nothing here to keep us any longer.’

  ‘We’ll probably never know who killed Geraldine,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Does it matter? She was a pretty dreadful woman.’

  Agatha walked silently beside him, but she felt it did matter
. She had never run away from a case before.

  Charles Fraith was feeling hunted. He, too, was out walking, but with Deborah, a Deborah who seemed to become more pushing and more pressing with every minute. The fact was that Deborah was still not quite recovered from her ordeal. She had bouts of shivering and a headache over her right temple. So she had thrown subtlety to the winds. She wanted to be Lady Fraith.

  She had her arm through Charles’s and was holding it in a strong grip. ‘You know, darling,’ she said, ‘I think we’d make a great pair.’

  Panicking slightly, Charles said, ‘I don’t know what Agatha would say to that.’

  ‘What’s she got to do with anything?’

  ‘I more or less promised to marry her,’ said Charles.

  ‘What! She’s running around with her ex!’

  ‘That’s nothing more than friendship. Agatha’s quite capable of suing me for breach of promise.’

  When they reached the hotel, Charles excused himself and said he had urgent phone calls to make and fled up to his room.

  Deborah hesitated in reception. The whole thing was mad. She would confront Agatha Raisin and get it all sorted out. But she didn’t want to do it in public.

  She went up to the desk. ‘Is Mrs Raisin in her room?’

  ‘No. Out at the moment.’

  ‘I thought so. I’ve some stuff she wanted me to leave in her room. Could you give me the key?’

  Deborah was still regarded as a local heroine by the staff. Betty the receptionist, handed over the key.

  Deborah went upstairs and entered Agatha’s room. She sat in a chair by the window, biting her lip, planning what she would say. The room was half dark from the mass of clouds covering the sky outside.

  Downstairs, Betty looked up as a man in workman’s overalls walked in carrying a tool bag.

  ‘Got a call the carpet on the upstairs was coming loose,’ he said.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Betty indifferently, turning her eyes back to the magazine she had been reading.

  The wind was blowing strongly and she felt irritated by the crash and thunder of the waves. Added to the noise was the barman next door playing Annie Lennox CDs at full volume.

  The workman came back down.

  ‘That didn’t take long,’ said Betty.

  ‘Small job,’ he said. ‘See ya.’

  Betty returned to reading an article about Prince William.

  She became aware of someone standing in front of her and, with a sigh, looked up again.

  ‘Is Mrs Raisin in?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘No, she’s out,’ said Betty, tearing herself out of a fantasy of seeing Prince William walk into the hotel. ‘But Mrs Fanshawe is waiting for her in her room.’

  ‘Why? Why did you give her the key?’

  ‘Because she said she had some stuff of Mrs Raisin’s to leave in her room.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have given her key to anyone. I’ll go and get it back.’

  Patrick mounted the stairs and went along to Agatha’s room. The door was not locked. He opened it and went in.

  He let out an exclamation of horror. There was blood spattered on the walls and a figure slumped in a chair with half its head blown away.

  James and Agatha were driving towards Brighton. Agatha could feel a lifting of her spirits. They would escape tomorrow and she need never see Snoth-on-Sea or that terrible hotel again.

  Her mobile phone rang. ‘Don’t answer that,’ said James.

  ‘I must tell Patrick that I’m leaving,’ said Agatha. ‘It may be him.’

  It was Patrick, a Patrick unusually flustered and shaken.

  ‘Better get back here,’ he said. ‘Deborah Fanshawe has been shot. She was waiting in your room and some hitman must have thought it was you.’

  ‘We’ll be with you as soon as possible.’

  Agatha switched off her mobile. ‘Turn the car, James,’ she said wearily. ‘Something truly awful has happened.’

  Chaos in front of the hotel – police, photographers, reporters and television crew. For once in her life, ducking her head and avoiding the questions shouted at her, Agatha let James hurry her into the hotel.

  A policewoman approached them. ‘Mrs Raisin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are to go into the bar. You will be interviewed there.’

  They went into the bar. Charles was there looking white and strained. At another table sat Cyril and his wife, Dawn.

  James and Agatha sat down with Charles. ‘What really happened?’ asked James.

  Charles looked more shaken than Agatha had ever seen him look before.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ he said. ‘She was so pushy and she was practically on the verge of proposing to me, so I said I was promised to Aggie.’

  ‘You what?’ Agatha stared at him.

  ‘I just wanted to get her off my back. She must have got the key to your room and decided to confront you, and some villain thought it was you and blasted her head off with a shotgun.’

  ‘How do you know it was a shotgun?’ asked James.

  ‘Patrick said half her head was missing and there was blood and brains spattered all over the walls.’

  ‘Can’t we get a drink?’ demanded James, looking at Agatha’s white face. ‘Oh, here’s Patrick.’

  Patrick, looking more lugubrious than usual, slumped down in a chair opposite them.

  ‘What exactly happened?’ asked James.

  ‘It seems Mrs Fanshawe got the key from Betty saying she had some stuff of Agatha’s to leave in her room. After Mrs Fanshawe had gone upstairs, a man in worker’s overalls and carrying a tool bag came in and said he was to repair part of the stair carpet. She told him to go ahead. After a short time he came back down and walked out of the hotel.’

  ‘It wasn’t Brian McNally in person,’ said Agatha shakily, ‘because he was in Carsely putting the wind up Mrs Bloxby by saying he wanted to buy my cottage. I know it must have been him from her description.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Patrick. ‘My contact told me that Regan Enterprises is no more. Their offices in Dublin burned down last night and the directors have disappeared.’

  ‘So I was right,’ said Agatha. ‘It must have been dodgy money.’

  ‘I’m going to get us all some drinks,’ said James.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Charles. ‘Why don’t we just take a bottle of brandy and some glasses?’

  They had just come back from the bar with a bottle and glasses when Superintendent Willerby walked in with Wilkins and Barret and a policewoman.

  ‘We’ll take you one by one,’ said the superintendent. ‘Starting with you, Mrs Raisin. Where were you when Mrs Fanshawe was in your room? That would be, according to the receptionist, at three p.m.’

  ‘I was with James, Mr Lacey, driving to Brighton when I got a call from Patrick Mulligan telling me what happened.’

  ‘What was she doing in your room? She told the receptionist that you had asked her to leave some things in your room.’

  ‘I never told her any such thing.’ Agatha’s beady eyes turned on Charles. ‘I think Sir Charles Fraith might have an answer to your questions.’

  ‘Sir Charles?’

  Charles shifted awkwardly in his chair. Despite her shock and distress, Agatha could not help feeling pleased to see the usually unflappable Charles looking uneasy.

  ‘It was like this,’ he said. ‘Deborah, Mrs Fanshawe, was pursuing me. She was almost on the point, I felt, of proposing marriage. I panicked and told her I was promised to Aggie.’

  ‘Meaning Mrs Raisin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She was a very pushy woman and I feel she was waiting for Agatha to have it out with her.’

  ‘The light in that room is very dim. She was looking out of the window,’ said Willerby. ‘I am afraid we have to assume that the murderer mistook her for Mrs Raisin.’

  Patrick said, ‘Do you think Brian McNally sent a hit man after Agatha?
He wouldn’t know exactly what Agatha looked like.’

  ‘It’s a possibility. Now I will take each of you in turn . . .’

  ‘Thank goodness that’s over,’ said Agatha after what seemed like hours of questioning.

  ‘There’s one bad thing about it,’ said James. ‘We can’t leave.’

  Charles said, ‘Do you mean you two were thinking of leaving? That’s not like you, Aggie.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ said James furiously. ‘You should be worried about yourself. Willerby doesn’t quite buy the hitman suggestion, which leaves you number one suspect.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you. They’ve searched my room and haven’t found any weapon.’

  ‘It’s all your fault,’ said Agatha bitterly. ‘What were you doing chasing after Deborah anyway?’

  ‘She was, at first glance, a very attractive woman.’

  They were still sitting in the bar. Agatha looked across the room in surprise as Harry walked in.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘I thought you could do with some more protection,’ said Harry, joining them. ‘What’s going on? The hotel is crawling with police. Some ferocious-looking woman even demanded a DNA sample. I nearly gagged when she shoved that stick in my mouth. Then I had to produce identification and all that.’

  Agatha told him about Deborah’s murder. Harry listened carefully and then said, ‘You should change your room again.’

  ‘The police have done that for me,’ said Agatha. ‘Their forensic people are working on my old room. Patrick, I keep forgetting to ask you. Did you find out if the police discovered anything in that flask of coffee?’

  ‘Nothing in it, or the milk, sugar or biscuits. She may have had orders to kill you and took along that tray to look like room service. She says she was supposed to wait for you and give you a warning, but she chickened out.’

  ‘I’m getting out of this place as soon as I can,’ said Charles. ‘I know the chief constable. I mean, if I leave my address, it should be enough.’

  James’s blue eyes glinted. ‘You mean you’re not going to stay around to help us guard Agatha?’

  ‘Lots of you here,’ said Charles callously. ‘I’m starving. Hey, wait a bit! You know who was missing when we were all in the bar? Fred Jankers.’