by M C Beaton
“Now, that’s possible,” said Patrick. “He appears to have had a history of violence.”
“I don’t see it,” said Harry. “If she had sold the jewels or still had them and had no intention of giving them to him, she wouldn’t meet him on a deserted beach at dead of night. Come to think of it, the body must have been found pretty quickly. There’s only a strip of shingle at low tide.”
“I found out,” said Patrick. “She was spotted by a man walking his dog at one in the morning, and eleven-thirty in the evening was low tide. The shingle is only exposed for two hours, and when the police got to her, the sea had nearly reached the body. So they think she was murdered sometime between, say, eleven-thirty and one in the morning. They won’t be completely sure until the full results of the autopsy are in.”
“Did you get the name of the man who saw her?”
“Chap called George Bonford. Lives along the promenade. Said his dog’s getting old and, like old people, wants to pee the whole time, so he took him out. Dog stopped to pee. Bonford stopped and looked over the wall and saw her lying on the beach. He could see her body quite clearly in the street lights on the promenade.”
“So Harry’s going to try to get to know Wayne and wife, and you, Patrick, are going to see the dog walker. I wonder what I should do. I know, I think I’ll get to know Cyril Hammond better. So that’s all for tonight.”
Agatha lay in bed that night visualizing James speeding towards the Channel Ferry. “I’ve done the right thing,” she cried to the uncaring ceiling, “so why do I hurt so much?”
James drove through the night, his mouth set in a firm line. He remembered he had friends who ran a bed and breakfast at their villa outside Marseilles. Suddenly his mouth relaxed in a smile. As soon as he could the next day, he would send Agatha a postcard with their address. He knew his Agatha. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—hold out.
She’d probably fly down to Marseilles and rent a car. She might even be there before him!
Ah, he knew his Agatha so well.
Back in Carsely the following morning, Sir Charles Fraith stood irresolute outside Agatha’s cottage. He was a friend of hers who dropped in and out of her life when it suited him to do so. He had a key to the cottage, but as he stood there he knew there was no one inside. The house had that feel about it, even though Agatha’s car was parked outside.
He decided to visit Mrs. Bloxby at the vicarage.
Mrs. Bloxby welcomed him with pleasure. She liked Charles, always so well tailored and neat, from his expensively barbered fair hair to his handmade shoes.
“Coffee in the garden?” she asked. “Such a fine day.”
“Lovely.”
Charles went through the French windows into the garden and sat down, enjoying the smell of flowers and the domestic sounds of clattering cups in the kitchen.
Mrs. Bloxby reappeared carrying a laden tray. “I’ve just made a batch of scones,” she said. “Help yourself. I suppose you are wondering where Mrs. Raisin is.”
“Yes, I phoned the office and Mrs. Freedman only said she wasn’t in today.”
“I am very worried about her. You see, James took her off on some mystery holiday.”
“Poor Agatha. The never-ending dream.”
“Well, Mrs. Raisin, I am sure, was hoping for somewhere romantic, but I saw an item in the newspapers which worried me.”
“What’s she been up to? I haven’t been reading the papers.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
Mrs. Bloxby went into the house and came back with a cutting. It showed a photograph of Agatha and James arriving at the Snoth-on-Sea police station. The story underneath said that a Mrs. Geraldine Jankers had been found dead on the beach and Mrs. Agatha Raisin and Mr. James Lacey were helping police with their enquiries.
“Snoth-on-Sea doesn’t sound a romantic place,” said Charles.
“I am sure Mr. Lacey had a romantic reason known only to himself for going there.”
“Murder does seem to follow Aggie around. I might go down there.”
“I do not think that is wise,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Mr. Lacey certainly would not welcome your presence.”
After he had left her, Charles went home. He went on the Internet and looked up hotels in Snoth-on-Sea. There appeared to be only one main hotel. The Palace. He rang up the hotel and asked to speak to Agatha. He was told she was out. Charles had a sudden idea. He asked to speak to James Lacey. He was told Mr. Lacey had checked out.
“Thought that pair would quarrel sooner rather than later,” he said. “Oh, well, may as well pay Aggie a visit.”
FOUR
IN the dining room the following morning, Harry spotted his quarry. Wayne and his wife, Chelsea, were dining alone. Neither the Hammonds nor Fred Jankers had put in an appearance.
Harry also noticed an elderly couple and a thirtyish couple seated at tables. Had they been in the hotel at the time of the murder? Agatha had not mentioned being suspicious of other hotel guests.
He looked gloomily down at his greasy breakfast, wondering how to strike up a conversation with Wayne and Chelsea. Then he noticed they had a ketchup bottle on their table, whereas he had none.
He got to his feet and strolled over to them. “Mind if I borrow your ketchup?” he asked. Wayne was even more unsavoury close up. His eyes were close together and his nose looked as if someone had squashed it. Chelsea had brown hair highlighted with streaks of blonde. Her head was an odd shape, as if it had been crushed in a press. It was very narrow. She was wearing false eyelashes and false nails. Her skin was sallow and there was a rash of little pimples on her chin. Her eyes were as green as contact lenses could make them. She was wearing a blouse with fringes and a layered skirt. Harry recognized it as a now out-of-date fashion, which had been, at the time, dubbed Pocahontas Gone Bad.
Wayne studied Harry from his shaven head to his expensive sneakers, and suddenly smiled. “Help yourself, mate.”
“Ta.” Harry lifted the bottle. Then he said, “I’m Harry. What are a trendy pair like you doing in a dump like this?”
“ ‘Sawful, ain’t it?” drawled Chelsea. “Wayne’s mum was here on her honeymoon but she got murdered.”
“Go on!” said Harry.
“Look, bring your breakfast over here,” said Wayne, “and we’ll tell you about it.”
That was easy, thought Harry. He picked up his plate of food and his coffee cup and sauntered over to join them.
“You must be feeling wrecked,” he said sympathetically.
“I’m feeling furious,” said Wayne, “cos I knows who done it.”
“Who?”
“Some cow who calls herself a detective. Agatha Raisin.”
“Have the police arrested her?” asked Harry.
“No, the old bat’s still here, snooping around. Cyril, that’s a friend of mum’s, he says that mum stole that scarf when that Agatha female dropped it.”
“What’s this about a scarf?”
“Mum was strangled with it. On the beach. Middle of the night.”
“Blimey!”
“So we’re all stuck here in this crap hotel while the police piss about.”
“Have you spoken to this Raisin woman?”
“What’s the point? She has this fellow with her. He socked me, just like that.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. Spite. Posh chap.”
“Say it wasn’t this Agatha woman,” said Harry. “Did your mum have any enemies?”
“Not a one. Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Sorry. But I mean, a murder… Tell you what, you two need cheering up and the food here’s awful. What say I take you to an Indian for lunch?”
“Could do with a pint and a vindaloo,” said Wayne.
“That would be great.” Chelsea batted her eyelashes at Harry.
“I’ll pick you up in the reception at twelve-thirty,” said Harry. “See ya.”
He strolled off, leaving his greasy breakfast on their table.
Later that morning, Patrick tracked down the dog walker, George Bonford. George invited Patrick into his house on the waterfront and offered him coffee. Spray rattled against the front windows of his living room.
“Aren’t you worried about getting washed away?” asked Patrick.
“Yes. We’ve had residents’ meetings at the town hall to complain, but they won’t do anything.” George was an elderly man with a good shock of white hair above his wrinkled face. “Fact is, this used to be such a lovely place. Quiet, genteel. Then they began building more and more houses and moving the welfare cases in. There used to be a pretty café on the front. Now it’s an amusement arcade. The good old pubs have gone and now they’re full of lap dancers and drugs. Lots of drugs and not enough police to cope with them. Have you seen the youth of this place? They go around like zombies.”
“Tell me how you spotted the dead woman?” asked Patrick.
“My dog, Queenie, began to bark like she wanted to go out. She’s old now, like me, and I know what it is to have a weak bladder. Anyway, I don’t sleep that much these days. I put Queenie on her leash and took her out to do her business. I remember thinking I was lucky the tide was out. One of these days I’m going to be washed away. Queen stopped to pee and I don’t know why, but I looked over the wall and down to the beach. That’s when I saw her.”
“Did you see or hear anyone else?”
“I was too shocked to take much notice of anything else. I mean, I could see her lying there, not moving, but I couldn’t make out that she’d been strangled. For all I knew, she could have collapsed with a heart attack. I went straight home and called an ambulance. I went out again when I saw the ambulance arriving. Then men went down to her. One took out his phone. The next thing I knew, the police had arrived as well.”
“What time was this?”
“Around about one in the morning. If anyone else had been down on the beach, I’d have heard them. It was quiet and anyone walking on that shingle would have made a noise.”
Agatha longed for the days when American filter coffee had been served in cafés. Now it was all espresso. She was seated with Cyril in the Friendly Nook, a café that seemed anything but friendly. Two pasty-faced youths were openly smoking pot, ignoring the glares from a table of three middle-aged women.
Cyril had jumped at the idea of accompanying Agatha for a coffee. His wife had been nowhere in sight. Agatha wished he would take off his ridiculous yachting cap. Cyril was having to ignore jeers from the pot-smoking youths of “Where did you park yer boat?”
Agatha sighed and took out her phone and called the police station. “There are two young men openly smoking pot in the Friendly Nook café,” she said. “Yes, I know it’s not a major crime, but they are upsetting the customers.”
The youths saw her phoning, muttered something, and got up and left hurriedly.
“I’ll bet you the police don’t even bother to come,” said Agatha. “But at least that’s got rid of them.”
To Agatha’s relief, Cyril took off his ridiculous hat and placed it on a chair next to him.
“Where’s your friend, Mr. Lacey?” asked Cyril.
“He had business to attend to,” said Agatha curtly.
“I’m glad I’ve got you all to myself,” said Cyril. He stroked his little moustache. “Fact is, Dawn hasn’t much time for me these days.”
“Perhaps the murder has upset her.”
“No, she hated poor Geraldine and made no bones about it. ‘I’ll kill you one day.’ That’s what she used to shout.”
Agatha’s eyes widened. “You don’t think your wife …?”
“No, Dawn’s all mouth and no action.”
“Did you know that Mrs. Jankers’s second husband is now out of prison?”
Cyril looked alarmed. “I hope he doesn’t come near here. That man frightened me to death. He even accused me of having an affair with Geraldine.”
“How awful,” said Agatha, wondering whether it might have been true. “The police never recovered the jewels that Charlie Black stole. Do you think Mrs. Jankers knew where they were hidden?”
“No, definitely not. She would have told me. You know something? I don’t think you should worry any more about this murder. Now that Fred has told the police that Geraldine stole your scarf, you’re free to go. I mean, what can you do that the police can’t?”
“There is a very small police force here and they don’t seem to have turned it over to some larger force. It is my job, after all.”
“Such an awful job for such a pretty woman,” said Cyril almost automatically, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
Harry was glad he had had the foresight to draw out plenty of cash, not wanting to flash his credit cards.
Having firmly established that he was paying for the meal, Wayne and Chelsea ordered a great deal of food and pints of beer to wash it down.
They were so intent on eating that he couldn’t get much conversation out of them, but when Wayne finally burped and leaned back in his chair, Harry said, “Nice to get away from that awful hotel.”
Wayne’s eyes narrowed as if suspecting Harry might be ‘posh.’ “Used to better, are you?” he jeered.
“We’re all used to better,” said Harry quickly. He noticed Chelsea was wearing a sparkling necklace. “That’s a pretty necklace,” he said.
“Not real diamonds.” Chelsea fingered the necklace. “Wayne gave to it me for our first wedding anniversary.”
At that moment, a ray of sunshine shot through the dusty brown curtains at the windows of the restaurant and sparked fire from the necklace.
“It looks real,” said Harry. “Mind if I have a look?”
“Go ahead.” Chelsea raised her skinny arms to unclasp the necklace. Wayne seized one of her arms and growled, “Leave it.” Then to Harry, “Wot you so interested in necklaces and things for? You a poofter?”
Harry shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.” He began to talk about football and Wayne gradually began to relax, although he seemed to think the whole of the English team was made up of “wankers.”
Deciding that the way to get any information about the murder was to talk about anything else and let Wayne perhaps get slip a few interesting facts, Harry amiably discussed football players, so that by the time they left the restaurant, Wayne and Chelsea appeared to consider themselves his close friends.
Wayne and Chelsea went off for a walk and Harry headed back to the hotel. Agatha was just walking through reception on the way out. Seeing that the girl at the desk wasn’t paying any attention and that apart from himself and Agatha the reception area was deserted, he muttered quickly, “Got something interesting.”
“Car park in five minutes,” whispered Agatha. “Blue Ford Escort.”
Harry slumped down in a chair and picked up a copy of the local paper. When he was sure the five minutes were up, he strolled round to the car park. A couple were getting into their car near where Agatha was parked, so he went over to his motorbike and pretended to examine it until they had driven off.
“Into the backseat and keep your head down,” said Agatha. “I’ll drive us somewhere quiet.”
Agatha had rented the car after having parted from Cyril. She drove up into the downs until she saw a pub called the Feathers standing on its own at a crossroads.
Harry, who had been lying down on the backseat, eased himself out of the car. “I think this place is far enough away,” said Agatha.
They walked into the pub. No brewer’s renovation had modernized the Feathers. It consisted of one room with a long bar. There was a pool table at one end. It was surprisingly full with rough-looking men.
“Feels like a villains’ pub,” said Harry uneasily.
“It’ll do,” said Agatha. She ordered a bottle of beer for Harry and an orange juice for herself and they retreated to one of the few free tables.
“So what have you found out?” asked Agatha.
Harry told her about the necklace. “I’d swear they wer
e real diamonds,” he said. “What if Wayne has the jewels from the robbery?”
“Keep your voice down,” ordered Agatha. All the tables were very close together. A thickset man was at the next table on their left. There was something about his stillness that made Agatha afraid he was listening.
“I think we should tell the police,” said Harry, lowering his voice.
“They’d never get a search warrant just because you thought a necklace was real diamonds. Besides, I’d like to show them that the detective agency can find out what they can’t. Is there any hope you could take Wayne and Chelsea out this evening?”
“I’ll try. What do you plan to do?”
“Wait till they leave the hotel and search their room.”
“How? The door will be locked.”
“Let me think. I know. If you can’t get them to go out with you, we’ll watch and see if they leave. If they do, you chat up that ditzy receptionist and I’ll pinch their key.”
“Lot of ifs in your plans.”
“We’ve got to try. Can you really tell genuine diamonds from fake?”
“The sun shone on that necklace and it sparkled the way only real diamonds can sparkle.”
“Okay, but there are very good fakes. Still, we’ve got nothing else. Don’t bother to ask them out. I’d feel better if you were with me when I get a look at their room.”
When they returned separately to the hotel, the receptionist handed Agatha a postcard showing a view of Dover Castle. It was from James. “Come and join me,” she read. “I will be with friends outside Marseilles.” Name and address followed.
Agatha’s lips tightened. He had simply driven off in a huff and now he expected her to make her own way to the south of France. She ignored the inner Agatha, who was longing to go.
Before she had parted from Harry, she had arranged that she should lurk in reception that evening to see if Wayne and his wife went out. If they did, she would phone Harry in his room so that he could come down and distract the receptionist.
There was nothing else she could think to do that day, and the hours dragged on leaving her nothing else to think of but James.