by M C Beaton
Charlotte Clark reached Agatha’s side before the stewards could close in on her. She had a small digital recorder in her hand.
“So you believe that Harold Nelson was murdered, Mrs. Raisin?”
“I most certainly do,” Agatha confirmed, eyeing the stewards. “Let’s talk outside, Charlotte.”
They sat together in the square, Charlotte holding her recorder in one hand and balancing a notepad on her lap. She used the blunt end of her pencil to stop her glasses slipping down her nose. The glasses were large, with a bright orange and blue design on the frames. Agatha marvelled at the way young people regarded spectacles as a fashion accessory. The journalist was, she guessed, around thirty years younger than her, and when Agatha had been that age, wearing glasses was decidedly unfashionable. She was thankful she had never needed to do so, and even now, when she occasionally used reading glasses to see the tiny print on a bottle of nail varnish, she made sure it was only in the privacy of her own bedroom. Not using the glasses in public had led to the purchase of a few suspect colours, but she regarded that as being a gamble worth taking.
“What makes you think this was murder, Mrs. Raisin?” the younger woman asked.
“I received an anonymous tip-off,” Agatha explained, adopting a tone she considered suitable for a press interview, “and my initial enquiries have led me to believe there are grounds for further investigation.”
“It doesn’t sound like you have very much to go on.” Charlotte sounded disappointed. “My editor’s not going to see much of a story in this.”
“Then pep it up a bit, Charlotte,” Agatha suggested. “Use a bit of background from previous cases. If you can get me into the paper, it will encourage people to come forward. Help me out here, and in return…”
“An exclusive?”
“You’ll get the full story when it’s all over—every juicy detail.”
Agatha made her way back to her office, her chat with the young reporter bringing back memories of her time as a PR consultant in London. Then, she had played reporters, editors and feature writers off against one another with Machiavellian skill over expense-account lunches that drifted late into the afternoon on a tide of champagne and fine wine. That thought, in turn, gave her a gem of an idea. She wanted someone on the inside at Mircester Crown Green Bowling Club to find out what the members were saying about the Admiral’s death. She was known to the people at the club, as was Toni and, in all likelihood, Patrick, so they couldn’t go undercover. Simon was busy on the bins, but there was one person she knew who loved sniffing around a murder investigation, who loved listening to gossip, and who loved dressing up. Yes, she knew just the man for the job.
Settling at her desk, she dropped her handbag into its usual drawer, gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Helen offered her, pushed the latest tranche of paperwork aside and picked up her phone.
“It’s me,” she announced when her call was answered after four rings. “Are you in this neck of the woods again this weekend?”
“Aggie, darling!” She imagined Roy Silver rocking back in his office chair and swinging his Italian leather loafers onto his desk. Once an employee at Agatha’s London PR agency, Roy was now a highly successful PR guru in his own right, thanks in no small part to his old boss. “How sweet of you to call. I was thinking about you only this morning when I was having a coffee at Gino’s—you remember Gino? He does simply the most gorgeous buttery croissants. Anyway, I was sitting there minding my own business—you know me, never one to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation—when who do you think sat down at the table next to mine? Go on—you’ll never guess!”
“Then I’m not even going to try, Roy. Listen, are you up in Blockley riding at Tamara’s stables this weekend? I need your help.”
“I’m up there most weekends, sweetie,” Roy admitted. “Sadly, I don’t always have time to drop in for a glass of bubbly with you. What is it that you need help with? It’s … it’s not another lovely murder, is it?”
“That’s exactly what it is, Roy. I’ve got an undercover assignment for you.”
“Undercover…?” Agatha heard Roy take a sharp breath and could sense him fanning himself with a flat hand. “You can rely on me. I’m cancelling everything. I’ll be at your place later this evening. Fill me in then. Must dash.”
With that, he hung up, and Agatha knew he would be rushing home to pack an array of outfits to cover every conceivable eventuality, although she was reasonably confident that Roy’s famously extensive wardrobe would not include bowling whites. Those he would be able to pick up in Mircester, and the shopping trip would only add to his excitement.
“You look very pleased with yourself.” Toni stood in the doorway, smiling at Agatha’s self-satisfied expression.
“I am. I’ve just recruited Roy to do some digging for us at the bowls club.”
“He’ll love that.” Toni laughed. “White trousers, white shoes, a nice blazer—he’ll be in seventh heaven.”
“No doubt,” Agatha agreed. “He’ll have to sign up as a novice, though. I doubt he’s ever been bowling before.”
“He’ll pick it up,” said Toni, then tapped her watch. “We need to leave shortly.”
“Ah, yes.” Agatha reached down to retrieve her handbag. “Miss Higginbotham’s early-afternoon appearance at Shirley’s Girlies. We wouldn’t want to miss that, would we?”
* * *
Shirley’s Girlies was tucked away amongst a dingy tangle of shops and warehouse premises beyond Mircester’s railway station. It was a part of town Agatha knew existed but had seldom had any reason to visit. Even when she took the train into London, she preferred to use the station at Moreton-in-Marsh, which was easier for her to reach from Carsely. The street had a corner pub called The Sportsman offering “Live TV Sport All Day,” shops that boasted they were “House Clearance Specialists” with second-hand fridges and washing machines sitting outside on the pavement, and places where only plumbers or electricians could possibly understand what was for sale.
In the brick arches supporting the railway line, there were gloomy auto repair workshops run by the sort of mechanics who would fix the problem with your car then suck air through their teeth while pointing out two or three other things that also needed urgent attention, and which doubled the bill. They all appeared to know a place where they could buy pre-stained overalls with casual rips, and they had an inexhaustible supply of rags that they seemed to use for wiping oily grease onto their hands.
Shirley’s Girlies had, without doubt, the brightest frontage of any of the premises in the street. Neon lights were bent into the shape of dancing girls who kicked and twisted as the light flicked from red to blue and back again. Agatha parked her car a discreet distance from the club, and Toni, aiming her camera’s powerful telephoto lens, tried in vain to capture an image of Deirdre Higginbotham disappearing down the shadowy alleyway to the left of the main entrance.
“With her hood up and her head down, we’ll never get a decent shot of her,” Agatha said, reaching over to retrieve a neat black briefcase from the back seat of the car. “We need to get inside. Okay, our story is that we’re from a talent agency and we want to see the owner. With any luck, we can talk Shirley—if that’s her real name—into thinking we might have clients she would be interested in and push her into discussing who she employs as dancers. At the very least, we’ll get a look at the place without arousing suspicion.”
They approached the main entrance, where a large man in a dark coat stood guard, nodding to regular patrons as they slipped inside.
“Good afternoon,” said Agatha brightly. “We’re from the Starry Eyes talent agency and we’d like to talk to the owner.”
The man grunted, produced a small walkie-talkie from his pocket and mumbled into it. The response came via an earpiece and was inaudible to Agatha and Toni. The man nodded, said, “No, just two women,” then nodded again.
“You can go in,” he told them, pushing open the door. “Shirley will se
e you. Wait in reception.”
The reception area was softly lit, with a dark red carpet and walls painted in a matching tone. The dull, muted thump of music indicated that a performance was under way somewhere deep inside the club. The reception desk doubled as a cloakroom counter; behind it sat a well-endowed young woman with a mane of black and purple hair and make-up that would not have looked out of place in a horror movie. Clearly one of the artistes when not front of house, she was chewing gum and tapping out a text message on her phone.
“Shirley sez wait,” she said, looking up slowly, the boredom in her expression deepened by the languor in her eyes.
Agatha and Toni stood primly to one side while a steady trickle of customers filed in, some hurrying silently past and some rolling in merrily, fuelled by a lunchtime session in The Sportsman. Two men then approached from the corridor that led into the main area of the club. One was large and overweight, with the build of a boxer gone to seed, a fuzz of close-cropped grey hair and a nose that might once have been straight many fights ago. The other was just tall enough to reach the bigger man’s shoulder and had a rodent-like face. Both wore white shirts, dark sports jackets and jeans.
“Who are you?” the larger man asked, eyeing them suspiciously.
“We’re here to see Shirley.” Agatha smiled politely.
“I’m Shirley,” the man replied with a snort. “Shirley Jenkins. This is my place.”
“You’re Shir…?” Agatha failed to hide her surprise. “I’m sorry. I was expecting…”
“A woman?” Jenkins shook his head with a resigned sigh. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Always have done. Usually I tell people I am a woman but the hormone treatment’s gone wrong, don’t I, Ferret?”
“You do, boss.” The man called Ferret laughed enthusiastically. “That’s what he usually says all right.”
“So who are you?” demanded Jenkins.
“We’re from the Starry Eyes talent agency.” Agatha switched on a professional smile and reached out to shake hands. Jenkins’s massive paw engulfed her hand, but his grip was mercifully gentle. “I’m Anita and this is Sylvia.”
“Come through this way, away from the door,” Jenkins said, turning to lumber back down the corridor, with Ferret scuttling in his wake. He led them to the performance area, dominated by a brightly lit raised platform that was part stage, part catwalk. In the relative darkness surrounding the stage, men sat at tables, scantily clad waitresses moving swiftly between the bar and their customers carrying trays laden with drinks. The music stopped as they entered the room, and Agatha caught enough of a glimpse of the dancer leaving the stage to discern, by the lack of the relevant tattoo, that she was not Cindy Snakehips. Jenkins ordered mineral water and Agatha and Toni followed suit.
“What’s your angle?” Jenkins asked above the hubbub of background conversation. “Some kind of mother-and-daughter act?”
“I’m sorry?” Agatha wasn’t quite sure what she had just heard.
“A twosome?” asked Jenkins. “You know, a novelty act. Young Sylvia looks like she should be able to shake it about, but you’re a bit long in the tooth.”
“A bit what?” Agatha’s professional smile was suddenly extinguished. Toni tried to rest a calming hand on her arm, recognising that the cold look settling on Agatha’s face in no way reflected the red-hot temperature of the anger that was about to erupt.
“Still, if you want to show me your act, I’m game.” Jenkins placed his drink on the bar. “I need to know you ain’t past it. You can get your kit off and show me the goods in my office.”
“We’ll do no such thing!” Agatha roared.
“No?” Jenkins shrugged. “Push off, then. I don’t want the punters being put off by having some old tart hanging around.”
“Some old…?” Agatha hurled the contents of her glass into Jenkins’s face. He spluttered, wiping his eyes with his knuckles, and Ferret took a step towards her. Toni flicked a foot forward to trip him, catching his ankle and sending him stumbling into a waitress, whose tray of drinks went crashing to the floor.
“What the hell is your problem?” howled Jenkins, mopping his face with a bar towel.
“Indeed,” came a familiar voice. “Just what is your problem, Mrs. Raisin?”
To Agatha’s horror, the face of DCI Wilkes loomed out of the darkness. With him was a man Agatha vaguely recognised as another detective. The second man held a small wallet open in front of Jenkins, identifying himself as a police officer.
“Wilkes.” She scowled at him. “Why am I not surprised to see you in a place like this?”
“While I am rather surprised to see you,” he said, before draining the whisky glass in his hand and placing it on the bar. “And appalled to witness you and your associate assaulting these two gentlemen.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Agatha pointed a finger at Wilkes’s face. He smiled and with one swift movement snapped a handcuff on her wrist. When she squealed and reached for the cuff with her free hand, he cuffed that one too.
“Agatha Raisin,” he sneered, “you’re under arrest.”
“You can’t do this!” Agatha shrieked.
“I just have,” Wilkes chuckled. “I can hardly believe we came in here to meet a couple of contacts and ended up hitting the jackpot. You’ll be formally detained and charged down at the station.”
Toni shot a look towards the entrance, seeking out an escape route, but saw the doorman closing on her from that direction, then glanced back to see Wilkes’s sidekick shaking his head at her. She had nowhere to run, so held her hands out in front of her and watched the detective cuff her wrists too.
The only thing to mitigate the ignominy of being led out of an establishment like Shirley’s Girlies in handcuffs and being bundled into the back of a police car, albeit an unmarked one, was that no one known to either Agatha or Toni was likely to have seen them in that particular club, in that particular street, in that particular area of Mircester. With Wilkes at the wheel, laughing heartily, revelling in the fact that he had handcuffed the high-and-mighty Agatha Raisin, Agatha leant towards Toni and whispered, “Say nothing.”
Mircester Police Station was but a short drive away, and the custody sergeant looked up from his desk as Wilkes marched his prisoners in.
“Aha, DCI Wilkes,” he greeted them. “I’ve just had a Mr. Shirley Jenkins on the phone saying that he won’t be pressing charges against these ladies. He doesn’t want any fuss. I suspect he doesn’t want his punters to think there are police officers lurking in his club.”
“What a shame.” Wilkes pulled a mock-sad face. “Yet after what I witnessed earlier, I feel obliged to—”
“You’re not obliged to do anything further,” Agatha interrupted quickly. “You failed to caution or arrest us properly at the club and you have driven us here in an official police vehicle after you’ve been drinking alcohol. I saw you downing what looked like a double, and the car stank of cheap whisky. If you are convicted of driving under the influence in an official car, you’ll likely lose your job and your pension. How many did you have in the club, Wilkes? Should I insist that the sergeant breathalyses you, or would you rather…?” She held up her hands, indicating the cuffs.
Wilkes paused for a moment, started to object, then shrugged his shoulders, sighed and reached into his pocket for the handcuff keys.
* * *
Having taken a taxi back to her car with Toni, Agatha let out a long breath as she pulled out of their parking space and drove off past The Sportsman.
“Well,” she said, looking across at her assistant. “This afternoon didn’t go entirely according to plan. I feel I should apologise for landing you—”
“No need,” said Toni, and burst out laughing. “Where else could I get a job like this? After everything we’ve been through together, I don’t think I could cope with, say, being the receptionist at Shirley’s Girlies, do you?”
“No,” Agatha smiled, “and you’d look awful with purple hair!�
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“You know,” Toni said, sounding more serious, “that thing about mother and daughter … well, I’d be proud for anyone to think of me as your daughter and you as…” She saw the look of growing alarm on Agatha’s face and stumbled over her words. “But of course you don’t look nearly old enough, so no one would ever … I mean, it would be … I’ll stop talking now.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. When they arrived back at the office, Patrick was at his desk, his phone clamped to his ear and his free hand making notes on a pad. Helen swung into action to provide everyone with tea and chocolate digestives, although Agatha declined the latter, and by the time she was sitting in her office with Toni, taking their first sips, Patrick was eager to talk.
“I’ve been able to track down quite a bit on Harold Nelson. He was born in Mircester in 1936 and left school at the age of fifteen, although he doesn’t seem to have spent too much time there anyway. He joined the Royal Navy as a boy seaman and was posted to HMS Ganges—that’s a shore station near Ipswich, not a ship—for training. After a year there, he went to sea, but he seems to have been back in Mircester whenever he got the chance. He was arrested for drunk and disorderly a few times, and in 1956 he married a local girl, Constance Fairweather. No record of any children, and she died three years later when she fell out of a window. She was pregnant at the time.”
“That’s awful,” said Toni. “He must have been devastated.”
“Hard to tell,” said Patrick. “He went straight back to the navy. He was certainly no admiral, though. He spent years shovelling coal into boilers on the old steamships and never progressed much beyond the lower ranks. He had a problem with discipline—generally to do with being drunk.
“Despite that, he spent twenty-two years in the navy. When he came out, he was still a relatively young man, and he spent the next twenty-five years or so as a merchant seaman. He returned to Mircester when he eventually retired twenty years ago. Seven years ago, aged seventy-eight, he married his second wife, Catherine, known as Cathy, who is twenty years his junior.”
