by M C Beaton
“We’ll just borrow this map,” said Simon, “and I’ll return it to you later.”
Outside, they tried to phone Agatha, but she was being interviewed and had her phone switched off.
“We’ll go and recce anyway,” said Simon. “We’ll take your car. My motorbike makes too much noise.”
_______
Thirley Grange was buried in a fold of the Cotswold hills a good fifteen miles from the village. There were no signposts to it.
They finally located a weedy lane beside the ruin of a cottage. “Look!” exclaimed Toni. “I think someone’s been through here already. You can just make out car tracks. Oh, Simon, we really should phone the police.”
“And they’ll arrive with sirens blaring and helicopters overhead and we may never catch them,” said Simon. “We’d look like real amateurs. See how far along you can drive.”
Toni set off again. Trees and bushes began to press against the car on either side. Toni finally stopped again. “I’m not going to sacrifice my paintwork on a hunch,” she said. “Let’s get out and walk.”
“It can’t be that far,” said Simon as they trudged along. “I mean, May said it was a Georgian gem. Gems surely don’t have that much land.”
They walked forward under the green shade of the overarching trees. Simon suddenly stopped. A patch of mud on the road showed clear tyre tracks.
Toni took out her phone. “I’m trying Agatha again.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s the boss. You don’t keep things like this away from Agatha.”
This time Toni got Agatha and talked rapidly. “Don’t run into danger. You catch a glimpse of even one of them, call the police. I’m coming.”
Agatha phoned Charles. “Toni thinks they might be hiding out at a place called Thirley Grange. Know it? They’re on a back road to it.”
“Where are you?”
“Parked in front of police headquarters.”
“I’m in Mircester. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Agatha thought she ought to call Patrick and Phil off the jobs they were working on, but then decided against it. It was too much of a long shot that they would find the couples.
Charles joined her and they set off.
“There’s the back of the house,” whispered Toni as they emerged from the trees sheltering the road. “What should we do now?”
“I think we should hide back in the trees and bushes and watch,” said Simon.
They crouched down in the bushes and waited. The house seemed ruined, empty and deserted. “If they drove right up,” whispered Toni, “then their car must be badly scratched. I noticed an awful lot of broken twigs and branches as we walked along. They must be there. No one else would be crazy enough to force a car along that road.”
“Agatha won’t be long now,” whispered Simon. “You should have left it to us.”
Toni took her mobile out again. “I’m phoning the police.”
“You’re what?” Simon made a grab for her phone, but Toni darted away from him and into the trees. She had felt a sudden frisson of fear. It was almost as if her old friend Sharon were around, telling her not to be such a fool. Toni still had Bill Wong’s mobile phone number registered on her phone from the days when they used to date. She called it. “Bill, I’m at Thirley Grange. I think they’re here. I’m—”
A low voice in her ear said, “If you wants to see your boyfriend again, missy, drop that phone.”
Toni swung round. Fred Summer stood there holding a hunting knife. “Drop it!” he snarled. Toni dropped the phone and Fred ground it underfoot. “Now, march!”
Toni was urged forward, feeling the point of that knife at her back. Simon was where she had left him, but he was lying facedown on the ground and Charlie Beagle was standing over him, holding a shotgun.
“On yer feet,” said Charlie. “Both of you into the house.”
Bill Wong called for urgent reinforcements. Then he called Agatha. “What were you doing sending that young pair into danger? They’ve been caught. Don’t go any further if you’re on your way there. Two people are enough to rescue.”
“What was that about?” asked Charles, who was driving. Agatha told him. Charles pressed harder on the accelerator and the car leapt forward. “We’ll go in by the main gate,” he said. “We could waste valuable time looking for that side road.”
A man came hurrying out of the lodge house and held up a hand. Charles lowered the window and shouted to him that escaped murderers were hiding up at the Grange. The lodge keeper dashed to open the gates. “Have you any guns?” called Charles.
“Couple of shotguns and a rifle.”
“Bring them quick and get in the car.”
Agatha fretted with impatience. Was Toni alive? How could she ever forgive herself if something had happened to the girl?
Toni and Simon were forced down into a cellar. They heard the door above being locked and then they were alone. A faint light shone from a cobwebbed window up near the ceiling.
“They’re going to kill us,” said Toni. “They’re up there right now figuring out how to dispose of us.”
“What happened? Did Fred hear you calling the police?”
“Yes.”
“Then with any luck they’re going to make their escape and leave us locked up here. I wish we could find some way out. They are murderers, after all.”
“Turn your back,” said Toni, feeling her way off into a dark corner.
“Why?”
“I’ve got to pee. I nearly peed myself out there.”
When she rejoined him, she said, “That’s coal over there, isn’t it?”
“Yes. What are you planning? To throw lumps at them when they come back?”
“Coal means a coal hole, see? That’s how the coal got down here. It’s not a wine cellar. It’s where they kept the coal.”
“Right,” said Simon eagerly. “It must be up there somewhere.”
Charles drove up to the front door. The lodge keeper, who had introduced himself as Matt Fox, jumped out and unlocked the front door.
“Wait!” shouted Agatha. “I can hear a car.”
“It’s coming from the back,” said Charles. Matt jumped back in the car and Charles drove round to the back of the building.
“That’s Dan Palmer’s car,” shouted Agatha. “They’re not taking the side road. They’re circling round to go down the main drive.” Matt was hurriedly loading a rifle in the backseat. They sped after them at a frantic pace. Matt lowered the window, leaned out and took careful aim. He shot out one back tyre and then the other. Then just as the Volvo reached the lodge gates, Matt shot out its back window with one of the shotguns.
The Volvo screeched and swayed across the road, straight into the path of a huge articulated lorry. There was a sickening crump—and then silence.
“Agatha, go and see if that lorry driver is all right. Matt, give me a shotgun. Is it loaded?”
“Yes.”
Charles shot in the window of his own car. “Self-defence, see?” he said.
Agatha was helping the lorry driver out of his cab as two police cars came racing up. Bill came out of the first one. “I’ve got to get back to the Grange,” Agatha howled. “They’ve taken Toni and Simon.”
“Just wait there. We’ll handle it.”
Police were taping off the road. A van full of scenes of crimes operatives stopped, climbed out and began to put on their white suits and masks. Inspector Wilkes arrived. “Now, what happened?” he asked grimly.
“Are they dead?” asked Agatha.
Wilkes looked at the crumpled wreck of the Volvo. “Yes. Now, begin at the beginning. You first, Mrs. Raisin.”
Agatha was about to speak when a car drove out past the lodge and stopped. Toni and Simon, black with coal dust, got out and stood staring at the scene of carnage.
Agatha Raisin ran straight to Toni and flung her arms around her. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re alive.”
It was a long day. Statem
ents, statements and more statements. Then Agatha, Charles, Simon and Toni, along with the lodge keeper, were taken back to police headquarters for further grilling.
They learned that the Grange had been searched and there was no sign of either Mrs. Summer or Mrs. Beagle. Matt backed the story of self-defence and Agatha insisted it got down in her statement that the lodge keeper was a hero.
By early evening, Wilkes went out to face the press and make a brief statement.
At last Agatha and the rest were told they were free to go home.
In the weeks that followed, it transpired that Charlie and Fred had sold their cottages to a builder two months before their deaths. Their bank accounts had been cleared out a week before their flight. Fred’s fingerprints had been found on the knife that Agatha had found at the vicarage along with DNA evidence that the blood on the knife belonged to the late, unlamented John Sunday.
A massive search for the missing wives was put into operation, but they seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
“How can two such frail, elderly ladies escape the police just like that?” Agatha exclaimed one evening to her friend, Mrs. Bloxby.
“Perhaps easier than you think,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “No one notices the elderly. Buses run along that road going to Cheltenham.”
“But surely the police have queried all the bus drivers?”
“I’m sure one elderly lady looks much like another to these men. Did they have passports?”
“Yes, fairly new ones, too. And it’s not as if they would know anyone who could get them fake ones.”
“Perhaps I might be able to do it,” said Mrs. Bloxby dreamily. “I’d head for some seaside resort where there are a lot of elderly people and set about stealing a few from handbags. It wouldn’t be handbag snatching. Maybe a seat in a shelter looking at the sea. Friendly talk. Visit to the public toilets. More talk while hands are washed. Handbags are often left at the basin while women go to dry their hands. Quick dip and out comes a passport. Now, if you’re an elderly lady and you have still got your money and keys, you might not notice your passport is missing for some time. Even if you go to the police, to them you’re just another forgetful old woman.”
“Really, Mrs. Bloxby. You would make a very good criminal. Toni and Simon have searched and searched.”
“They make a nice pair. Do you think they’ll get engaged?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha stiffened. “They’re too young! They’re just colleagues.”
“Ah, propinquity!”
“It won’t do,” said Agatha. “They are two very good detectives and I don’t want Toni off having babies when she’s little more than a baby herself.”
“But, Mrs. Raisin,” said the vicar’s wife with a steely note in her voice, “you would not possibly do anything to spoil a budding romance?”
“Me? Perish the thought,” said Agatha, and crossed her fingers behind her back.
Bill Wong was waiting for Agatha after she left the vicarage and returned to her home. “Social call?” asked Agatha.
“Sort of. Been visiting Mrs. Bloxby?”
“Yes, she came up with some interesting ideas. Do you want me to get rid of the cats? They’re crawling all over you.”
“No, I like them.” Hodge was draped around Bill’s neck and Boswell had jumped up into his arms. “But maybe I’ll put them in the garden if you’ve got anything very interesting.”
“Might be.”
Bill opened the garden door and detached the cats.
“Now,” he said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “What gives?”
Agatha told him of Mrs. Bloxby’s theories.
“Unfortunately, she may be right. Can you imagine all that murder and mayhem over Christmas lights?”
“I can in a way. Some of these people on reality TV have their moment of fame and never get over it. John Sunday was a thoroughly nasty man and must have enjoyed thwarting them. You know the bus drivers on that route past the Grange. How were they interviewed?”
“Back at the depot.”
“Did you have photographs of the two women?”
“Yes, we got a photo from Cotswold Life. There’s really only the one driver that does that route.”
“I’d like to start at the beginning of their journey. In the meantime, do you think your boss would let you phone up watering holes around the south coast to see if any elderly women reported missing passports a few days after Mrs. Summers and Mrs. Beagle disappeared?”
“I’ll probably need to do it in my own time.”
“I’ll get Patrick onto it as well. They would be gussied up for their photo in Cotswold Life. I think I might trot over to that hellish village and see if I can get a better one.”
Penelope Timson gave Agatha a cautious welcome. “I am so glad it is all over,” she said. “I do hope you haven’t come about some other murder.”
“No, no,” said Agatha soothingly. “Nothing like that. Have you any photographs of Mrs. Summer and Mrs. Beagle?”
“The police got a very good one from Cotswold Life.”
“Yes, but I need a more informal one.”
“Oh, I might have something. I found a box of photos taken at village fetes. But you should have something yourself, Mrs. Raisin. Wasn’t someone taking photographs at that cream tea?”
“Of course. Phil. Thanks.”
Agatha phoned Phil and said she would meet him at his cottage in Carsely, where she knew he had a dark room and kept neat files of photographs.
She waited impatiently as he went searching for the photographs of the tea party. At last he came back and handed her a photo. “There you are.”
“Genius!” said Agatha. It was a clear shot of Mrs. Beagle and Mrs. Summer, sitting together. “What are their first names? I can never remember.”
“On the back of the photo. Gladys Summer and Dora Beagle.”
“Grand.”
“Starting again?”
“You bet.”
Toni waited at the depot in Cheltenham for the bus to come in. When it arrived, she waited for the passengers to dismount and then climbed on board.
“Don’t leave for another half an hour, gorgeous,” said the driver, eyeing her appreciatively. “Fancy a cup of tea?”
“All right. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“What?”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Go on with you, lass. You’re too young.”
Toni handed him her card. “Well, I never!” he exclaimed. “Come along then. Must have a cuppa.”
Installed in the canteen over milky cups of tea, Toni showed him the photograph. “I know the police have asked you before, but on the day of that crash between the car and the truck, just before it, did two women like this get on your bus? This is a better photograph of them.”
He studied it carefully. “Sorry, lass. I’d like to help you, but I’m sure they never got on.”
“Do you notice the passengers much?”
“Only if they’re as pretty as you. Of course, if they’re in them Moslem get-ups, you wouldn’t know what they’d look like anyway.”
“Burkas?”
“Is that what they call ’em? Suppose so.”
Toni took a deep breath. “Think carefully. Did two women in burkas, you know, veiled and everything, get on your bus that day?”
“As a matter of fact they did.”
“What height?”
“Pretty small. Couldn’t tell you much else.”
“Where did they get off?”
“At the railway station.”
“Thanks,” said Toni.
When Toni told Agatha what she had found out, Agatha said, “Maybe they got straight onto Eurostar and over to Brussels or Paris before the passport control at St. Pancras got alerted. Nobody is going to hassle a couple of what look like Moslem women in case they’re accused of racism. Snakes and bastards! They could be anywhere now.”
Chapter Twelve
Christmas was fa
st approaching. The piles of paperwork associated with the murders of John Sunday and Dan Palmer had at last been completed.
Bill Wong called on Agatha one evening to say that he thought the work would never be finished. The lodge keeper had had to be cleared of carrying loaded weapons and causing the crash by shooting out the wheels of the escaping car. The fact that Agatha had brought all her old public relations skills to bear on making the lodge keeper a hero had helped considerably.
“What are you doing for Christmas this year?” Bill asked.
“Nothing,” said Agatha firmly. “Except I might invite Roy. Thank goodness he made a full recovery. So the case is over? What about the loose ends of Mrs. Beagle and Mrs. Summer?”
“Interpol are still looking for them. But no news. You know, Agatha, I don’t think we’ll ever find them now.”
James Lacey drove along the Mediterranean coast from Marseilles. He stopped off in the village of St. Charles-Sur-Clore near Agde for the night. There seemed to be a small English expatriate community in residence. He was tired of travelling, so he booked into a small hotel called the St. Charles for the night. The receptionist told him that the English residents were finding life hard because of the weak pound. Some of them were thinking of selling up and going back home. “They used to hold their annual Christmas party here at the hotel,” she said, “but this year they say they can’t afford it.”
He went up to his room and unpacked a few essentials for the night and then went down to the bar. There were a few English couples propping up the bar, drinking glasses of the house wine and complaining about the price of everything. He ordered a whisky and took it over to a quiet corner and began to read a book on Roman military fortifications.
After a few moments, he realised the voices at the bar were becoming enraged over something other than the weak pound. “It’s not only a shameful waste of electricity,” said a thin blonde with a fake-bake face, “it’s vulgar. Lets the side down. I mean, whatever one thinks of the French, they do have taste.”
“Fairy lights everywhere,” said her companion, a florid man in blazer and flannels, “even in the bushes in their garden. And they got Duval, the handyman, to put that Santa on the chimney. And they’re old. It’s not as if they have any grandchildren.”