Down the Hatch

by M C Beaton

  So where did Charles fit in? Did he fit in at all, or was he now, like Pascal, a thing of the past? At one time, he had meant far more to her than Pascal, so did Pascal really understand her enough to make pronouncements like “She may like me, but she loves you”? And even in his smooth, chocolatey double bass of a voice, was he right? Did she really love James? Well of course she did, but … SNAKES AND BASTARDS! These people were driving her mad! She grabbed another handful of chocolate raisins and stuffed them into her mouth.

  She had just gulped down the last of the raisins when there was a knock at the door.

  “I thought I told you lot to bug—” Agatha stopped herself as Toni popped her head round the door.

  “Hello, Agatha,” she smiled. “How are you? I came earlier, but you were sleeping.” She produced a small but very pretty bunch of flowers.

  “Thank you, Toni,” Agatha said, greatly relieved to see that it was her and not part two of the Pascal and James show. “I’m feeling much better, but just like they said about Simon, they’re keeping me in overnight. In the morning, I’ll be right as rain.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of that at the moment,” said Toni. “Rain, I mean. It’s been hammering down for hours. Anyway, I thought I’d let you know that I spoke to Paul Hastings, and he says the car that ran you off the road was registered to none other than Harold Nelson.”

  “It was Nelson’s car?” said Agatha. “So Cathy Nelson was driving it?”

  “That was what Bill Wong and Alice first thought too, but she couldn’t have been driving. Patrick and I were at her block of flats questioning the neighbours when you were run off the road, and I saw her standing on her balcony when we arrived, smoking. She was nowhere near Willow Way, and what’s more, she doesn’t even drive. She’s never sat a test.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Agatha pondered. “Somebody tried to kill me earlier today, but who? Could somebody think we’re getting close to finding out who killed the Admiral and Miss Palmer?”

  “But we’re not really, are we? What could we have done to make anyone think we were about to expose the murderer?”

  “I don’t know. Then there’s Blackbeard’s lot. Bill Wong said I should be on my guard because they’d be after me. Did they try to bump me off using Cathy’s car to make it look like it was all mixed up with the Admiral’s death?”

  “Could be. On the other hand, they’d probably want to advertise that it was them. You know, as a fear thing, to show everyone that they’re not to be crossed.”

  “Maybe…” Agatha was feeling tired. “Too many maybes. Let’s go over it all in the morning, Toni. I’ll go home when I get out of here and freshen up, but I’ll be in the office a bit later.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take some time off and rest?”

  “I’ll get some rest now. See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay … and Agatha?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve got chocolate all round your mouth.”

  * * *

  The following morning, James drove Agatha home to Carsely, their conversation during the journey ranging from the bowling green murder and the incessant rain to a return visit to Marco’s bistro in Evesham and how much the lump on her head had shrunk. Pascal was not mentioned.

  “So your car is a complete write-off,” James said, pulling in to Lilac Lane.

  “Yes, I suppose I’ll have to get a new one.” Agatha sighed. “It was leased through Raisin Investigations. I’ll need to get in touch with the leasing company.”

  “Let Helen handle that,” James advised. “You should take it easy for a while. I’ve got this French road trip coming up. Why don’t you come with me? Get away from it all for a while?”

  “There’s no chance of that at the moment, not with a double murder to solve.”

  Agatha hurried indoors out of the rain, telling James they could talk more later, but without specifying how much later. Later that day, later that week, later that year—all were almost certain. When it came to the scene in the hospital the previous evening, later probably meant never.

  Roy Silver was waiting for her indoors, bustling around the kitchen in a flour-dusted apron.

  “It’s so good to have you home, darling!” he gushed. “I’m baking you a home-coming cake, and we must talk before you rush off again.”

  Once Agatha had showered, washed the smell of the hospital out of her hair and made herself look presentable, she rejoined Roy in the kitchen.

  “I would have come to see you,” he said, “but I simply can’t stand hospitals.”

  “Mircester Hospital’s not top of my favourite places to revisit either,” Agatha agreed. “So what do you have to tell me?”

  “Well, I spent a lot of time at the club yesterday, and I picked up a few things of interest. Stanley Partridge was president before the Admiral—he beat him in the election—and they were sworn enemies. He stopped Nelson getting the presidency that time, but when old Stan’s term ended, the Admiral was voted in, and when he started threatening to do away with the rose garden, Stan said he would do away with the Admiral. He said he’d kill him, can you believe that? He’s properly passionate about his roses. Then, just a few weeks ago, when the Admiral started trying to round up support to change the rules so that he could be president again, Stan told people he’d ‘see the old fraud in his grave’ rather than let him do it. That’s two death threats!”

  “Yes, but people say things like that without really meaning them literally,” Agatha pointed out, “and I don’t see Stanley Partridge as a murderer, killing for his roses, do you?”

  “He loves his roses and he hated the Admiral. Love and hate are things that can drive almost anyone to murder.”

  “Love and hate,” Agatha repeated. “Can’t argue with that. Stanley Partridge remains a suspect. I’ll ask Patrick to dig into his background. Do you have anything else for me?”

  “I do, I do. It seems that seven years ago, the last time Miss Palmer was seen at the club, she was in a real state. It was just after the Admiral announced he was going to marry Cathy. She was yelling about stopping the wedding and that it was unlawful and against God. The Swinburns calmed her down. They told her to be patient and that everything would work itself out.

  “When the Admiral became president, it was Mrs. Swinburn who lost to him. There were only a few votes in it, and some said the Admiral had somehow managed to rig the result. He got his three years in charge, but it wasn’t a happy time. Some members left because of his bullying and nastiness. He was livid when they rejoined shortly before the last election and helped to vote in Mrs. Swinburn. He had wanted to put one of his cronies in charge.”

  “I’d already heard that he wanted to change the rules so that he could become president again,” said Agatha.

  “Not just president again,” Roy corrected her. “President for life.”

  * * *

  “You can see how that might tip someone over the edge,” said Patrick, listening to Agatha report Roy’s findings. He was sitting with his back to his desk, sipping coffee and discussing the case with Agatha and Toni, both of whom had taken seats in Raisin Investigations’ main office. “I’d say that makes Stanley Partridge a suspect, along with the Swinburns.”

  “What about the neighbour Nelson had a fight with?” Agatha asked.

  “A retired gardener,” said Patrick. “He denied killing the Admiral, but said he was glad he was dead. No love lost there. He has no alibi for the time of the murder.”

  “He would have known about the weedkiller being a deadly poison, and he could have stolen the Admiral’s car,” Toni added. “Cathy Nelson says someone must have taken it and then put it back. She was out on the balcony for a smoke when she saw it in the car park looking all bashed up. She was furious because she had been intending to sell it, so she went down to take a look. That was the first time she had gone near the car in weeks.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Agatha. “Just because she ha
sn’t passed a driving test and doesn’t have a licence doesn’t mean she can’t drive. You saw her on the balcony when you arrived, Toni, but that doesn’t mean she was in her flat all the time you and Patrick were knocking on doors. She could have sneaked out and driven the car to run me off the road because she thought we were getting too close to her.”

  “Why would she then park the damaged car back in its space outside the flats?” Patrick asked. “Surely she’d want to ditch it somewhere.”

  “But she knew the car had been seen chasing Agatha,” said Toni, “and by a police officer, no less. Maybe bringing it back was a double bluff so that she could get home, claim to have been there all afternoon and say that someone stole the car and was trying to make it look like she ran Agatha into the river.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Agatha sighed, touching the bump on her head. “All this thinking’s making my head ache.” She jumped as the phone on the desk rang. “Good morning, Raisin Investigations.” She immediately covered the mouthpiece. “Speak of the devil,” she hissed to the others. “It’s Cathy Nelson!”

  Toni and Patrick listened in silence to the one-sided conversation.

  “Yes, I see,” said Agatha. “You’ve not been charged with anything and the police are investigating further. So you’re at home. Well, I’m a bit busy this afternoon and the funeral’s tomorrow, isn’t it? You want us to come and see you tomorrow afternoon? Very well, if you insist.”

  She ended the call and looked across at her assistant. “Dig out your best black dress tonight, Toni. We’re going to a funeral. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for us to drop in on a young lady in Herris.”

  * * *

  Philippa Miller lived in a semi-detached cottage similar to Miss Palmer’s but far less isolated, in the heart of Herris Cum Magna. Like Ancombe, Herris was the kind of chocolate-box-pretty Cotswold village that had helped to turn the region into an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty and a major tourist attraction.

  Toni pulled into the small parking space to the side of the front garden and Miss Miller opened the front door to greet them. She was a vivacious young woman with bright eyes and a ready smile. She introduced them to Sam, the cosily wrapped bundle of baby she was carrying, and invited them in. They sat in her front room, a comfortable space decorated in a more modern style than Agatha felt suited the house. The decor, however, made the child’s play mat, with its bridge of dangling toys, and all of the other colorful baby paraphernalia seem entirely at home.

  “Let me make us some coffee.” Miss Miller approached Agatha and, before she could utter a word of protest, nestled the baby in her lap. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s just that I don’t want to let him sleep yet and I want him to get used to meeting different people.”

  Agatha nodded and put an arm round the baby, who looked up at her expectantly, although neither of them had any inkling what he might be expecting. Not knowing what else to do, she smiled at him, he smiled back and they became instant friends, much to Toni’s amusement. By the time Miss Miller returned, the baby was in Toni’s arms, concentrating intently on gripping one of Toni’s thumbs in both his hands.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Miss Miller,” said Agatha.

  “Please, just call me Philippa.” Miss Miller retrieved her son and sat with him cradled in her arm. “So you want to talk to me about Rupert?”

  “Yes,” said Agatha, “and little Sam.”

  “Rupert’s saying Sam’s not his and wants you to prove it.” Miss Miller cut straight to the point.

  “Quite right,” Agatha agreed. “He seems to think you’re—”

  “A gold digger who’s after his money,” said Miss Miller.

  “That’s not exactly how I would have put it,” Agatha said.

  “Of course you wouldn’t, Mrs. Raisin,” Miss Miller agreed. “I wouldn’t expect you to, but I know who you are. Agatha Raisin, PR guru turned private eye. I knew when you called that we would be able to understand each other, so I know you’ll believe me when I tell you that I don’t want any money from that chinless prat Rupert Ferrington-Slade. I work in marketing. I own this house. I have a solid career and I will provide for my son out of my own pocket.”

  “So why does Mr. Ferrington-Slade think he’s being set up?”

  “You’d have to ask him that,” said Miss Miller, gently tickling her baby’s nose. “All I want is for my little Sammy to know who his daddy is. Rupert might not want to recognise Sam, but one day Sam will ask, and he has a right to know.”

  “Mr. Ferrington-Slade denies that Sam is his,” said Agatha.

  “Get him to submit to a DNA test.” Miss Miller handed Agatha an envelope. “This is the result of Sam’s. It might be useful to you.”

  “It might indeed,” Agatha agreed, accepting the envelope. “But tell me, if you don’t want money, is there something else you want? Marriage maybe?”

  “Marry him? Don’t make me laugh. He was fun at parties for a while, and he can be a real charmer when he wants to, but I wouldn’t want to marry him. That would be a disaster.”

  “So the baby was a mistake?” asked Toni.

  “Oh, don’t say that.” Miss Miller hugged her baby close and kissed his head. “Sam’s my little miracle, aren’t you, Sammy? Yes, you’re gorgeous, aren’t you? Such a handsome boy!”

  They said their goodbyes, leaving Philippa showering Sam with a mother’s love.

  “He was a beautiful baby, wasn’t he?” Toni said as they got into the car.

  “Oh dear, Toni,” Agatha smiled, teasing her. “You’re too young to be getting broody.”

  “It’s not that,” Toni laughed, pulling out onto the road. “It’s just that, well, Philippa obviously adores that little boy. It’s almost unfair the way some children are born to have loving, caring parents and some will never know that special bond.”

  “You mean like you and me, with our parents?”

  “Yes … and perhaps the baby that Constance was forced to give up all those years ago.”

  “That baby may have gone to a loving home for all we know. It almost certainly went to a better home than the Admiral would ever have given it. He absolutely hated children.”

  “How can you hate a baby like little Sam? I mean, he was just so cute.”

  “Don’t let that broody thing take hold, Toni. After all, there’s no prospect of your own little Sam at the moment, is there? You are footloose and fancy free, as you put it. No boyfriend on the horizon.”

  “That’s not entirely true any more,” Toni said coyly.

  “Really?” Agatha sat up and stared at her. “Do tell. Who is this mystery guy?”

  “You know him, actually.” Toni glanced at her warily. “Paul asked me out—Paul Hastings. I’m seeing him tomorrow night.”

  “PC Hastings?” Agatha sounded horrified. “The infamous Paul Easeman? How could you, Toni? That’s not how to play the game. We’re supposed to be thinking of ways to get our revenge on him, ways to win. Now, instead of him coming last, you’re offering him the star prize!”

  “But Agatha…” Toni looked across at her boss, and Agatha gave her a huge, beaming smile. Toni let out a sigh of relief. “You’re just winding me up.”

  “And you took the bait beautifully.” Agatha laughed. “I can’t really hold anything against that young man any more, can I? He saved my life, after all, and he seems very nice.”

  “He is. He’s really nice, and anyway…” Toni shifted her shoulders in a perky wiggle, “I think I quite like the idea of being a star prize!”

  “It’s just as well I didn’t get my own back on him then,” Agatha said. “Then you’d have been the booby prize!”

  * * *

  The Admiral’s funeral took place the following morning at Mircester Crematorium. The building was modern, functional and spartan, the formal flower beds outside laid in regimented rows and planted with respectful roses in a solemn dark red, the blooms nodding under the onslaught of yet another heavy rain shower. Agatha and Toni joined th
e mourners, mainly members of the Mircester Crown Green Bowling Club, filing in to pay their last respects. Many were dressed in dark blue blazers and bowling whites, but with black ties or armbands. Most of the ladies wore sombre black. Agatha generally preferred colours that suited the season, suited her character or suited her mood, but when trying on her black dress that morning, she had been pleasantly surprised to see how much slimmer it made her look. She sighed at the wasted effect. Looking good at a funeral probably wasn’t going to win her any admirers.

  The mourners filed past the open coffin where the Admiral lay dressed, like so many of the mourners, in his blue blazer and bowls attire. His grey hair was tidy and his beard had been trimmed. Make-up successfully disguised the ravages that a lifetime of booze had taken on his face, and Agatha mentally congratulated the undertakers on making him look so much better than he had done the last time she had seen him—so much better, she guessed, than the last time anyone had seen him alive.

  They listened to an overly flattering eulogy delivered by a religiously neutral funeral celebrant who clearly had no idea who the Admiral was, watched the now-closed coffin disappear silently on muffled electric rollers through a velvet curtain, then queued to nod and shake hands with Cathy Nelson on the way out.