Down the Hatch

by M C Beaton

  “We’d all known each other since our schooldays. Miss Palmer always had a soft spot for Harry Nelson, but he was three or four years older and never paid her any attention. When he came home from the sea, he would go crazy, drinking and chasing after girls. He was a good-looking lad too, back in those days. Then he got that girl pregnant—”

  “His first wife, Constance?” Agatha interrupted, looking for clarification.

  “Yes, Connie, but they weren’t married then.” Mrs. Swinburn was quite positive. “He got her pregnant, then ran off back to the navy. Well, she was still in her teens, and in those days it was unthinkable for a young girl to be an unmarried mother. There was a real stigma. The family would be disgraced. Before she started to get too big to hide the fact that she was pregnant, her parents sent her off to live with her aunt in Worcester. When the baby was born, it was given away for adoption. Connie came home, and it was never spoken about.”

  “That seems so cruel.” Agatha was aghast.

  “That’s the way things were done back then, Mrs. Raisin,” Mrs. Swinburn insisted, “and Harry Nelson would never have made any kind of a father. He always hated children. That didn’t put Connie off him, though. When he was next home, they took up again and they eventually married. Miss Palmer was heartbroken.”

  “And I believe the marriage ended in tragedy,” said Agatha.

  “A terrible tragedy. Harry was home on leave when he found out she was pregnant again. Soon after that, she fell out of the window, although there were plenty who didn’t believe she just fell. He never wanted children, and some say he made her life such a living hell that she jumped. There were others said he flung her out. Whatever the truth was, he was never prosecuted and went back to the navy. No one saw hide nor hair of him for years after that. We built up our business and Miss Palmer worked with us until we all retired. She never married.”

  “Was she involved with the bowling club?” Agatha asked.

  “She was. Then Harry Nelson turned up in Mircester again and he joined the club too. He used to make a real nuisance of himself, but Miss Palmer was always the one to calm him down when he was having one of his drunken rants. Even after all those years, she still thought she could see something good in him.

  “That Cathy woman suddenly appeared about eight years ago, and they were married within months. Miss Palmer couldn’t stand the sight of her. She refused to accept that they were wed. She said it was all wrong, and she couldn’t stand the sight of them together. She resigned from the club and never set foot in the place again.”

  “And the Admiral became club president?” Agatha was engrossed in the story.

  “He did. Four years ago. The members vote for a new president every three years and you can only be president once. He nearly ruined the club when he was in charge. He banned children, he had the bar open all hours, he wanted a separate area for women…”

  “I heard he wanted to dig up the rose garden,” Agatha added.

  “Yes indeed. Stan was furious with him about that. Fortunately, I took over as president before he could do away with the roses.” She stroked the gold president’s badge on her lapel. “We’ve spent most of my first year in the post putting right the things that he did. He hated me being president. He didn’t think a woman should be in charge of anything, let alone Mircester Crown Green Bowling Club. When Charlie told people that he would run for president in two years when I stand down, Harry went wild. He said we were trying to take over the place and started trying to have the rule overturned so that he could have another go.

  “Then he died, and now Miss Palmer’s dead, and some people are blaming us!” Mrs. Swinburn was wringing her hands. “They’re talking about banning Charlie from being president and even throwing us out of the club.” Tears were welling in her eyes and she reached into her handbag for a tissue.

  “That’s why we wanted to talk to you, Mrs. Raisin.” Mr. Swinburn took over. “We want to engage you to investigate this business and find out who killed the Admiral. If that means finding Dorothy Palmer’s murderer too, then that’s all to the good.”

  “You know, of course, that I’m already looking into the Admiral’s murder,” Agatha pointed out.

  “But we will pay you, Mrs. Raisin.” Mrs. Swinburn was almost pleading. “Please set aside everything else and concentrate on this. We need you to make sure that no one can call our reputations into question—and that means catching the killer!”

  The afternoon was growing late when Agatha got back to her office. Toni and Patrick were out on enquiries. Helen offered her a cup of tea, which she refused, then a gin and tonic, which she accepted. She then spent an eternity trying to get through to someone at the hospital who could update her on Simon, eventually reaching the ward sister by claiming she was Simon’s mother.

  “I need to know how he’s doing,” she said.

  “And you’re his mother?” the sister asked.

  “Um … yes,” Agatha lied.

  “That’s strange, because his mother is sitting by his bedside right now.”

  “Ah … I’m … his other mother.”

  “Simon!” Agatha heard the sister calling. “Your other mother’s on the phone.”

  “Ha! It’s the boss!” She heard Simon’s unmistakable guffaw in the background, then, “Ow! It hurts when I laugh!”

  “As you can probably hear,” the sister came back on the line, “he’s awake again and in reasonably good spirits. He’ll be with us overnight so we can monitor the concussion, and probably a couple of days longer while the damage to his cheek is assessed, although it’s not expected that he will need any major reconstruction.”

  Agatha asked her to pass on her best wishes, and just as she hung up, the ever-efficient Helen appeared in her office with a get-well card for her to sign. She made notes about the conversation with the Swinburns, then decided to head for home.

  * * *

  Driving along the main A44, Agatha was looking forward to seeing James. She wanted to tell him about Simon and how the animal traffickers had also turned out to be drug smugglers. She wanted to tell him about the Swinburns and what she’d learned about the Admiral. She wanted to discuss all of that with him. She decided against telling him about Pascal. That was something best left to drift off into the past. That was something … A car came racing up behind her, dodging from side to side in her rear-view mirror. What the hell was the maniac playing at? Why didn’t he just overtake if he wanted to? There was plenty of space. The car surged forward, then there was an impact that sounded almost as loud as a cannon blast and Agatha’s car slewed sideways. She wrestled with the steering wheel to keep heading in a straight line as the car behind hit her again with another resounding thump and the sound of one of her rear lights smashing.

  She pressed her right foot to the floor, accelerating to try outrunning her attacker, but the other car kept pace, hitting her again and again. She saw the turning for Carsely coming up and yanked the wheel over, taking the corner much too fast, her tyres squealing and fighting for grip. It was as if the other driver had predicted her move and the car stayed within inches of Agatha’s, almost like it was chained to her bumper. She began to panic. What could she do? The lunatic was trying to kill her. She couldn’t drive home and get out. She wouldn’t stand a chance of making it into her house and locking the door before whoever it was got hold of her. She risked a glance in the mirror but couldn’t see the other driver and quickly concentrated ahead, the roadside trees flashing past faster than she had ever known.

  She saw Willow Way coming up to the left. Of course—Miss Palmer’s place! It might still be a crime scene. There might be an officer stationed there! She stamped on her brakes to take the turn and the car behind slammed into her, almost pushing her past the entrance to the lane. She accelerated hard, sounding her horn to attract the attention of any officer on duty further down the road. As she hurtled past Miss Palmer’s cottage, horn blaring, she screamed with relief when she saw a police car parked there. Th
e car in pursuit, however, was right on her tail, and a moment later, the bridge, fringed by willows, was in sight.

  The road here widened slightly, and to her horror, the other car drew level and side-swiped her, the bodywork of both vehicles crunching and buckling. The second swipe was even more violent, and Agatha’s car lurched off the road, bumping and crashing down an embankment onto a sloping stretch of grass, on a collision course with a very solid-looking willow trunk. She yanked the steering wheel to the left, her effort and the slope combining to roll the car onto its side, onto its roof, then onto its other side. There were multiple detonations as the airbags deployed, filling the car with a powdery dust, and Agatha felt her seat belt bite into her shoulder and her hips as the car rolled. The airbags deflated in a heartbeat and she realised the car was still moving, crunching and scraping along on its side, heading straight for the river.

  She screamed as it ploughed into the water, sending up a fountain of spray and steam before rolling violently onto its roof again. She had time to see water fill the windscreen and start to gush into the car, then she was jerked sideways and her head smacked into the door pillar. A tunnel of darkness closed in on her, the blow to her head rendering her unconscious.

  Chapter Nine

  It was a kiss, and a kiss should be something to savour, something that gave great pleasure, something that was exciting, maybe even a bit naughty—but this kiss was rubbish. Agatha had smooched with some really good kissers in her time, but this guy was the pits. What was he doing, trying to eat her alive? And now he was blowing! What the hell was that all about?

  She opened her eyes to find a stranger leaning over her with his mouth clamped to hers. She squealed in protest, wriggling, thumping, slapping and scuttling away from him.

  “Snakes and bastards!” She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “Keep away from me, you weirdo!”

  “Thank God,” the man breathed. “Mrs. Raisin, it’s me, PC Hastings … Paul.”

  Agatha stared at him, aghast, then realised that he was soaking wet. Water was dripping off his hair, his black uniform T-shirt and his body armour vest.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Where am I?” She cast her eyes from left to right, taking in a riverbank without really registering what she was seeing. Then she realised that she was also soaked to the skin. Her dress had ridden up into an embarrassingly undignified thigh-high rumple, and one of her shoes was missing. She tugged at the hem of the dress but couldn’t grip it tightly and it slipped out of her hand. She was confused, and suddenly very angry. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Take it easy, Agatha.” The voice was calm and reassuring. Agatha looked up to see Alice Peters now crouching beside her. “Paul pulled you out of your car. You were underwater.” Alice pointed to the river near the bridge, where the unrecognisable underside and two rear wheels of Agatha’s car were all that was showing above the surface of the fast-flowing river.

  “Yes!” Agatha suddenly remembered. “A car kept smashing into me. Ran me off the road. I rolled over and … I feel so dizzy.”

  “You banged your head, Agatha,” Alice said gently. “Don’t worry, an ambulance is on its way. Paul, did you get the number of the other car?”

  “I did,” came the reply. “I’ll go and call it in.” He squelched off up the bank.

  “You’re lucky it was Paul sitting in the car outside Miss Palmer’s house,” said Alice. “He took off after you when you came past. I was inside the cottage. If it had been me in the car, I don’t know if I would have had the strength to wrench open your door and drag you out in time.”

  “Who did this, Alice?” Agatha gasped, breathing heavily.

  “We don’t know yet. Don’t worry about that now. Just try to stay calm.”

  “I’ll get them.” Agatha gave a weak, groaning growl. “I’ll get them for this, you see if I don’t…”

  An ambulance arrived in a blaze of lights and sirens, disgorging two green-uniformed paramedics, who rushed down the slope, one carrying a large medical bag.

  “She was underwater,” Alice explained while the paramedics checked Agatha over. “She doesn’t appear to have inhaled water into her lungs. She’s been talking and breathing fairly normally, but she’s a bit confused and she’s had a nasty bump on the head. No other apparent injuries.”

  “Thanks,” said one of the paramedics. “We’ll look after her now.”

  Rain started to fall in huge, summer-warm splashes. Agatha tutted as the paramedics fussed over her, then looked up to see Alice opening an umbrella to protect her.

  “Really?” she said, groggily. “I mean, how much wetter can I get?”

  * * *

  Agatha woke in a bed with crisp clean sheets, more pillows than she was accustomed to and no cats demanding to be fed. It was an alien environment, and she felt a sudden sharp longing for the angles of the sloping ceilings, the familiar furniture and the sunlight streaming through the window of her own bedroom at home. She smacked her lips. Her mouth was dry.

  “Water?” James was sitting by her bedside holding out a glass to her.

  “James…” She accepted the glass and took a sip. “Thank you. You’re an angel. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I’m just glad you got away with no more than a bump on the head.” He smiled. “You’ve been asleep for about three hours. They’re going to keep you in overnight. Concussion. They want to keep an eye on you.”

  “Hey, boss!” Simon stuck his head round the door. “Good to see you awake. Fancy us both being in here at the same time, both with concussion. What are the odds, eh? Hey, this is nice, isn’t it? You got your own room. Hello, Mr. Lacey.”

  Agatha was shocked at the sight of him. It sounded like Simon, but it looked nothing like him. His normally thin, angular face was just as puffy and swollen as before, but the bruising had now taken on a darker colour, forming purple-black rings below his eyes. He also had some kind of white plaster mould over his nose that made it look like a miniature ski jump.

  “Simon,” she said quietly. “You look awful.”

  “Thanks, boss.” He gave his best attempt at his trademark grin. “You don’t look so hot yourself.” He was wearing blue pyjamas, and a dark blue dressing gown with a football club badge on the breast pocket. He reached into one of the other pockets and produced a small white paper bag.

  “Chocolate raisins,” he said. “Best the hospital shop had, and it seemed appropriate.”

  “Thank you, Simon.” Agatha smiled. “I’ll try—”

  “Agatha! You poor thing! We came as soon as we could!” Claudette rushed into the room with tears on her cheeks and slipped past Simon to kneel at the opposite side of the bed to James, taking one of Agatha’s hands in hers.

  “Claudette, you really didn’t need to…”

  “How are you feeling, Agatha? Are you all right?” Pascal stepped into the room. James looked up as he entered, a forlorn expression on his face. He got up, his eyes never leaving the Frenchman.

  “I think I had best leave,” he said, standing tall and proud.

  “Please do not leave on my account,” said Pascal. “It is more important that you are here for her.”

  “Hardly,” said James. “You appear to be the important one.”

  Agatha scowled at them and Simon folded his arms, leaning back against the wall. He wasn’t entirely sure what was going on with this apparent stand-off—whether they were each trying to surrender to the other or whether there was about to be a punch-up—but whatever was happening, it was good entertainment.

  “Not I.” Pascal shook his head. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I saw you together outside The Feathers at lunchtime.”

  “You saw,” Pascal shrugged his shoulders, “but you did not see. She was saying farewell. She sees me only as—”

  “She?” Agatha interrupted. “I am still here, you know, still in the room, still alive, still conscious!”

  “But of course. Please fo
rgive me.” Pascal put his hand on his heart and gave a slight bow. “Agatha would like us to be friends, but there is no more than that for us. She…” he nodded again for Agatha’s approval, “does not feel for me as she does for you, James. She may like me, but she loves you. A Frenchman would know that,” he gave a short laugh, “but you English have not the same madness of romance that afflicts us. Agatha wants to be with you, James, because she loves you.”

  “So you’re saying that was nothing—when I saw the two of you together?”

  “Not nothing. It was an ending and a beginning. The end of my hopes and the beginning of what I believe will be a lasting friendship.”

  “Very well, old boy,” said James. His eyes never left the Frenchman as he extended his hand. “If Agatha wants to have you as a friend, then you and I should also be friends.”

  Pascal shook James’s hand. Fresh tears were now coursing down Claudette’s face, and Simon was agog.

  “Well,” said Agatha, folding her arms. “This is all very…” she looked towards Simon, “mushy. I need time to think, so why don’t you take this little soap opera elsewhere and give me some peace? Go on, off you go, the lot of you. I want some time to myself.”

  They all trooped out, and once the door closed, Agatha let out a long breath. The exchange between James and Pascal had been excruciating—squirmingly embarrassing. What was wrong with these people? Hospital visits were bad enough—horrible forced conversations where no one knew quite what to say and there were long, awkward silences. That performance, however, had been on a different level completely. It had been hideous. What was wrong with a quick word, a smile and a bunch of grapes? Why did they have to play out an entire drama like that?

  She reached for Simon’s chocolate raisins and popped a few in her mouth. This was not the sort of thing she normally allowed herself to eat. It wasn’t even the sort of thing that she normally enjoyed. Too sweet, too chocolatey, too raisiny—a dieter’s nightmare. They must be way off the top of the calorie scale. At this particular moment, however, they were exactly what she wanted—comforting and easy to eat while you were thinking about how everyone around you had gone bonkers. The calories didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t as if she was going to have to squeeze into a cocktail dress any time soon, was it? Or try to impress with a posh frock and a ridiculous hat at a high-society garden party—not that she’d be able to wear a hat over the lump on the side of her head, which felt about the size of an ostrich egg. That was the sort of party she might have gone to with Charles. Charles … he hadn’t even got a mention at the “Pascal and James: Who Does Agatha Love Most?” contest. If he knew how those two had behaved, he’d be laughing his socks off. Little neat socks, ironed by Gustav.