Down the Hatch

by M C Beaton

  “I see what you’re getting at.” James nodded. “The lion and the quokkas may have escaped from someone illegally buying and selling exotic species.”

  “What about the small wizards with beards and orange hats?” Eric asked.

  “If we’re thinking of animals for the illegal pet trade, these might fit the bill.” James produced an image on his phone of a creature with a dark coat, a long white beard and a flash of orange fur on its forehead topped by a flat brush of black hair that looked like an elaborate ceremonial hat.

  “What on earth is that?” asked Agatha, peering at the screen.

  “That’s one of my wizards!” Eric was overjoyed.

  “It’s a De Brazza’s monkey,” James explained. “They come from central Africa. I was reading about them the other day. Apparently, they are highly prized as pets.”

  “Why can’t people just stick to cats, dogs and canaries?” Agatha sighed.

  “Look!” Eric pointed out of the kitchen window to the rear garden. “They’re back!”

  Hopping out onto the lawn were half a dozen quokkas, nibbling the grass, investigating the plants in the borders and looking up towards the window with smiles on their faces.

  “Why have they suddenly appeared now?” Agatha asked.

  “My guess would be that they’ve been sheltering somewhere safe during the day.” James moved closer to the window to get a better look. “Dusk is a favourite time for them to go foraging.”

  “Let’s go outside,” Agatha suggested. “We might be able to see how they got into the garden.”

  Eric opened the kitchen door and they made their way slowly and quietly out onto the lawn, taking care not to alarm the quokkas. The little animals watched them approach, allowed them to come within a few yards, then turned tail and hopped up the garden, disappearing into a barrier of azalea and rhododendron bushes.

  “What’s beyond those bushes?” Agatha asked.

  “There’s a tumbledown fence,” said Eric. “Keep meaning to fix it up, but out of sight is out of mind and all that…”

  “And on the other side of the fence?” James was looking for a way through the bushes.

  “Not much—the edge of a forest leads off towards fields and a farmyard.”

  “We need to take a look,” said Agatha, and stepped towards the bushes, only for James to catch her arm.

  “Not in those things you don’t,” he said, pointing at her black patent-leather high heels.

  “You’re right—they’ll be ruined if it’s muddy,” she agreed.

  “No.” James shook his head. “I meant that you’re likely to break your ankle trudging through the woods in those.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Eric said, dodging into a garden shed. “Try these.” He reappeared holding a pair of bright red wellington boots with large yellow flowers painted on them. He saw Agatha eyeing the boots with a look that was somewhere between contempt and revulsion. “My daughter keeps them here for when she’s playing in the garden with her kids,” he explained. “The kids all like to paint their wellies…”

  “They’ll be perfect.” Agatha sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than thank the old man. She reminded herself that she had to get her priorities straight when embarking on a new case, and now, as so often before, that meant putting the needs of the investigation above her personal dignity. She slipped into the rubber boots and followed James through a gap in the bushes.

  Once beyond the old fence and in amongst the trees, the light began to fade. They made their way through the gloom, heading for a more open area that appeared to be some kind of access track. Suddenly James stopped, raised his right hand above his shoulder and dropped to one knee, crouching behind a fallen tree trunk.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Agatha stood over him. “This isn’t one of your old army exercises, you know.”

  James reached for her arm and guided her down beside him, fixing her with his eyes and holding a finger to his lips.

  “Quiet,” he whispered. “Listen.”

  Agatha squatted gingerly, listening with great care as much for the dreaded rip of a splitting seam as for anything else. Then she heard heavy footsteps tromping through the undergrowth up ahead, and the sound of angry guttural voices. James pointed, and, squinting through the gathering dusk, Agatha could see half a dozen shadowy figures—men, judging by their size and the way they moved—making their way through the trees, some poking at the vegetation with sticks, some bent almost double. As they drew closer, they were loud enough for her to hear plainly, although she couldn’t understand what was being said.

  “Sounds eastern European,” James said softly.

  “Romanian, I’d say,” Agatha breathed. She’d once spent the first part of a warm summer in London with Romanian builders working on an apartment block just a stone’s throw from her office window. The younger ones had looked quite decorative with their shirts off in the sunshine, but none of them had seemed capable of conversing at anything less than foghorn level. Bawling at them, threatening them and even squirting them with a water pistol rarely quietened them for more than a few minutes, so she had walked into her local travel agent’s office and told her she wanted to book a holiday, leaving immediately. When asked where she would like to go, she’d said, “Anywhere but Romania,” and the travel agent had looked out of her window at the building site, nodding with complete understanding. A trip to a quiet, peaceful Greek island had ensued.

  “They’re searching for something,” said James.

  “Our quokkas, no doubt,” Agatha agreed.

  Then came a command in English, and the figures stopped.

  “Get back here, you useless pillocks!” a furious male voice yelled. “We’ve got four of them. We’ll leave traps for the rest tomorrow.”

  There was the sound of a diesel engine clattering to life, car doors slamming and a vehicle moving off. Agatha leant an arm on the fallen tree to steady herself, craning her neck to see a Land Rover bumping off down the track. Its headlights flicked on, illuminating the route ahead of it, and she watched the red taillights bouncing and swaying down the rough track until they disappeared out of sight round a bend.

  “We have to find out where they went,” she said.

  “Not too far is my guess.” James brushed a dry leaf off his jacket. “The quokkas are unlikely to have roamed any great distance … Agatha, your arm…”

  Agatha looked down and saw, to her horror, a riot of many-legged scaly creatures scuttling around on the sleeve of her jacket. She squealed in disgust, holding her arm rigid and pleading with James to deal with them.

  “They’re only wood lice,” he said calmly, sweeping them off with an open hand. “They’re harmless. Nothing to worry about. There—they’re gone.”

  Agatha regained her composure, checking her sleeve, then froze, her eyes widening.

  “They’re not gone, James,” she hissed with growing alarm. “You’ve brushed them into my welly! I can feel them. They’re round my ankle! They’re between my toes!”

  Hopping on one leg, she held the insect-infested boot out towards him.

  “Get them out!” she demanded. “Get them out!”

  “Hold still,” said James, grabbing hold of the heel and toe of the boot. “I’ll pull it off and empty them all out.” He gave the boot a tug; it shot off Agatha’s foot, and she flew backwards to land in a heap on the forest floor.

  “I’m so sorry.” He rushed to her side, gently helping her to sit up and casually plucking a twig from her hair. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  “I’ll survive,” Agatha grumbled. James helped her to her feet and she ran her hands over her clothes, brushing away moss and leaves. “Are they all gone? There’s nothing else crawling on me, is there?”

  “You’re fine,” he assured her, kneeling in front of her while she balanced on one leg, her hands on his shoulders as he fitted the boot back on her foot. “That’s better,” he said, rising to stand directly in front of her.
“Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.”

  “Oh James,” she sighed, plucking various unidentifiable items of woodland detritus from her skirt and jacket. “Do I look absolutely frightful?”

  “Not a bit of it,” he said gently, brushing flakes of wood bark from her shoulder. “You never look anything less than absolutely beautiful.”

  Then, perhaps overcome by the way they were standing so close, perhaps overwhelmed by the romance of being alone together in the forest with the sun setting, he took her face in his hands, leaned forward and kissed her.

  After a moment, they pulled apart, each a little surprised. Agatha was surprised because such a moment of unbridled affection was not like the old James. He had never been given to impetuous displays of emotion. This was something new. She was also surprised because she had been caught off guard and hadn’t seen the kiss coming. Normally she could read the signs, predict what was about to happen and be thoroughly prepared when a man made his move. Being unprepared was not like the old Agatha. Yet most of all she was surprised because … she had liked it. She had felt a tingle, a spark of passion that she had never imagined could ever again play a part in the cosy, convenient relationship she shared with James.

  James was surprised at himself for having taken such a bold step, then surprised at Agatha as, without uttering a word, she reached up and kissed him again. There was a moment of silence when their lips parted.

  “So … um … where do we go from here?” he said.

  “Back to Eric’s place,” Agatha laughed. “I want my shoes back. Then we’d best head home. My suit must be covered in muddy marks, and the knees of your trousers are damp and green. We look like we’ve been—”

  “Sharing a romantic moment in the woods?”

  “That kind of crept up on us, didn’t it?”

  “A complete ambush, I’d say.” He put an arm round her shoulders and they began to make their way back through the trees. “I’ll call Marco and tell him we’ll visit his bistro another time.”

  “That would be best. I’m still hungry, though. How about we go home to Carsely, get changed and cleaned up, then head down to the Red Lion for dinner to celebrate?”

  “What exactly are we celebrating?”

  “A tingle.”

  “A tingle? I’m not sure I understand. Is that a good thing?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.” She stopped, put her arms around his neck and they kissed again.

  “I never used to like surprises,” he grinned, “but I think I may be changing my mind.”

  “So it’s dinner at the Red Lion,” Agatha said, leading the way back towards the fence, “to celebrate and lay plans for tomorrow. We need to come back and find out what’s going on with the Romanians.”

  “Absolutely,” said James. “We have to follow up on what we saw this evening, and the Red Lion sounds just the ticket. No more surprises tonight.”

  “Well, you never know…” Agatha looked back at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “Find anything in there?” Eric’s voice came from beyond the rhododendrons.

  “Yes,” James called back. “I think we did.”

  There would certainly have been one further surprise for James had he looked up, as unknown to either him or the Romanians, quokkas are perfectly capable of climbing trees. One was sitting on a low branch just above their heads, smiling down on them.

  Chapter Four

  Her sunglasses rested lightly on her face, and from where she lay on the lounger she could see, through half-closed eyes, a seemingly endless expanse of golden yellow sand stretching so far into the distance that it faded into a blue haze, merging softly with the cloudless sky. She felt the sun’s rays warming her skin and knew without looking, just by the feel of it, that she was wearing the blue bikini with the silver sparkles. She was glad that she’d managed to slim down enough to fit into it with confidence. It felt good. A gentle breeze drifted lazily up from the water’s edge, carrying a scent of lilac—unusual for the seaside—and taunting her occasionally with a whisper of spray from a wave that had collapsed a little too energetically onto the beach. She knew he was down there, cooling off in the sea, and that he’d be back momentarily, telling her how glorious the water was, and how wonderful she looked lying in the sun, and how—Her musings were dashed by the sound of a phone ringing. Who on earth brought a phone to an idyllic spot like this and let it ring that loud? It sounded just like the phone on her bedside table at home. Hang on … it was the phone on her bedside table.

  Agatha lifted her head from the pillow, filled with drowsy disappointment that the fantasy beach was merely a dream she’d probably never be able to revisit. She reached out and grabbed the phone, opening one eye to check the time on the radio alarm’s digital display. It was barely quarter to eight in the morning. Who on earth could be ringing her at this hour? Then she heard Alice Peters’s perky voice.

  “Good morning, Agatha. I’m so glad I caught you before you left for work. I know you’re an early riser.”

  “Yes, of course.” Agatha ran her tongue over her teeth and took a sip of water from the glass by her bed to help get her mouth working. “Never one to laze around in bed all morning.”

  “You said the other day that you’d be happy to meet up for a drink and a chat,” Alice went on, “but I’ve been working awful shifts. I don’t finish until eight in the evening.”

  “That’s not so bad,” said Agatha. “Why don’t we pop out for a spot of supper after that?”

  “I’d like that. Are you free this evening?”

  They arranged to meet at a wine bar in Mircester, and Agatha placed the receiver back in its cradle. She looked round, admiring the way the morning sun cast pleasing shadows from the sloping ceiling of her cottage bedroom across the walls and floor. It was a comfortable, comforting room where she felt relaxed and safe. Yet she had had more than just the room to comfort her last night. James had been here with her, but now, as was his habit, he was gone—up at dawn and off back next door to his own house. She glanced down at the pillow where he had slept next to her and saw a sprig of pinkish-purple lilac. Picking it up, she twirled it in her fingers and savoured the fragrance. This was where the scent of lilac on her beach had come from. James Lacey, she thought, you old romantic. Most of the lilac in their little street—Lilac Lane—was now starting to turn brown, but this sprig was perfect. He must have sneaked out to find it so early not to have disturbed her, and—she glanced at the radio alarm again—he had turned that thing off to let her sleep in. Was it James frolicking in the sea during her beach dream? She couldn’t picture him there and the dream was now fading fast. She hoped it had been him.

  Swinging her legs out of bed, she sniffed the air, picking up the smell of fresh coffee. What an angel! He had left her coffee, too! She pulled on a dressing gown and made her way down to the kitchen, spotting her cats, Boswell and Hodge, sunning themselves in the back garden. They hadn’t been upstairs making a racket, jumping on the bed and pestering her, which meant that James must already have fed them. She could easily get used to being pampered like this. Now, however, she had to run through her morning routine on fast-forward to make up for lost time. She grabbed a cup of coffee and headed back upstairs.

  Half an hour later, having showered and done her hair and make-up with a breathtaking speed and efficiency that would leave lesser women in awe, she was on her way down her garden path, making for her car. She was dressed in a black sweater, black trousers, and black walking shoes she sometimes used at weekends, and was clutching two black handbags, one substantially bigger than the other, along with a zipped-up dress carrier. Pottering in his front garden, James waved and called a cheery good morning. Had he been expecting gracious thanks for his efforts earlier that morning, he would have been disappointed, but he understood that Agatha Raisin in a hurry would have no time for niceties.

  “I’m running behind time!” she yelled. “Meet me at the office at ten o’clock. I want to see where the Romanians are operati
ng from—discreet surveillance. Don’t be late!”

  He nodded and smiled as she flung her bags into her car. This was Agatha Raisin operating in top gear, a whirlwind of black cashmere and cotton. He knew there would now be a dozen problems dancing around in her mind, and that by the time she reached her office, she would have found solutions to most of them, ready to instruct her team. Until then, she would be all but oblivious to anything else. Then came a complete surprise that stopped him in his tracks. Just before she stepped into her car, Agatha paused, produced the sprig of lilac, threw him a dazzling smile and blew him a kiss.

  “Something’s put Mrs. Raisin in a good mood this morning.” The grinning postman handed James his gas bill as Agatha’s car disappeared down Lilac Lane.

  “Ah…” James realised that his mouth was open. “Something surely has.”

  * * *

  Later that morning, having parked at Eric Collins’s house and made their way past his rhododendrons, Agatha and James trudged through the forest, retracing their steps from the evening before. Agatha was carrying the larger of her handbags, while James was wearing a waxed jacket with bulging pockets and military-style cargo trousers with equally well-stuffed pockets. Slung over his shoulder was a brown leather binoculars case.

  “What have you got in all those pockets?” Agatha asked.

  “Maps, compass, GPS, torch, that sort of thing.”

  “A torch? In broad daylight?”

  “You should always be prepared,” James said seriously.

  “You’re such a Boy Scout sometimes.” Agatha shook her head, then stopped when she spotted the track where they had seen the Land Rover. “There’s the path, but what are those things near the bushes?”

  “They look like traps,” said James, peering this way and that. “There’s no one around. Let’s go take a look.”

  The traps were cages with an open door and various types of juicy leaves left inside as bait.