(17/30 Love, Lies and Liquor

by M C Beaton

  Mrs. Bloxby had been packing a travelling bag. “The parish can do without me for a couple of days. When did we last have a holiday?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Just that Mrs. Raisin needs me and I need a change of scene. There is enough food in the deep freeze to keep you going. Stop looming over me, dear.”

  “But I need the car!”

  “There is a perfectly good bicycle in the shed. Stop fussing.”

  Deborah Fanshawe returned later that day with a pile of groceries. As she worked preparing an elaborate meal, she smiled as she thought of Agatha Raisin. From the village gossip she had regarded Agatha as competition. That was until the previous evening, when she had seen a group photo of the Carsely Ladies’ Society and Agatha had been pointed out to her. Really, the woman was no competition at all. She was short and stocky and had funny little eyes.

  Deborah suddenly noticed a red light on her phone was flashing, indicating she had a message.

  She picked up the phone and listened impatiently to the British Telecom voice saying she had one message and if she wanted to hear it, to press one. She pressed one and found herself listening to James Lacey’s voice. “Deborah, I am so sorry I must cancel this evening. My friend Agatha is in trouble and I must go and see if I can help. I’ll phone you when I get back.”

  Deborah slowly put down the phone. Then she ran out of her cottage and down through the village to Lilac Lane. Curtains at cottage windows twitched. Elderly voices marvelled she could run so fast in such high heels.

  She arrived breathless and panting at James’s cottage. She rang the bell and hammered on the door. No reply. Then she turned slowly around. His car had gone. She simply could not understand it. What had this Agatha Raisin got to offer that she hadn’t?

  Agatha, finally released by the police, slept most of the day in her bedroom with the door locked and a chair propped under the handle. If only the police had caught Terry or whatever his name was. She was terrified that he might come back looking for her. She had not thought she would be able to sleep, but when she woke, it was early evening and the phone was ringing.

  It was Patrick. “I’ve just come back from the police station. They got fingerprints from the cottage. Terry Armstrong is actually Brian McNally. He’s wanted by Interpol for drug dealing and for murder.”

  “There’s an extradition treaty with Spain,” said Agatha. “He said he had a place in Marbella.”

  “Interpol’s checking that. If he has, he won’t dare go near it. All ports and airports are being watched. There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Bloxby’s just arrived.”

  “Oh, that’s marvellous. Send her up.”

  Agatha got out of bed and scrambled into her clothes. But when there was a knock at the door, she asked cautiously, “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Bloxby.”

  Agatha removed the chair and unlocked the door. She felt she had never before been more delighted to look into the mild grey eyes of her friend.

  “Come in. You shouldn’t have come all this way, but it’s marvellous to see you!”

  Mrs. Bloxby came in carrying her bag. “I haven’t had time to check in yet,” she said.

  “You must let me pay for your room. Wasn’t your husband furious at you going?”

  “He will miss me because of the parish duties, but he can manage for a couple of days. Now tell me everything that has happened.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Agatha. “The food here’s turned out not bad and at the moment I don’t feel brave enough to risk leaving the hotel. If I eat something, I’ll get my courage back. After that, we’ll check you in.”

  Mrs. Bloxby was a good listener. She had years of practice from listening patiently to parish complaints.

  The evening grew dark outside as Agatha talked and spray from the rising waves hammered against the windows.

  “It’s interesting,” said Mrs. Bloxby when Agatha had finally finished and coffee was being served.

  “Which part?”

  “Well, the husbands.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Archie Swale and Fred Jankers.”

  “What about them?”

  “I was just wondering if either of them had a record.”

  “The police said nothing to me.”

  “They wouldn’t. You see, I think a noisy, coarse sort of woman like Geraldine Jankers would like criminals.”

  “But as far as I gather, she was after money. She pretended to be all meek and mild before her weddings.”

  “Still, I have found in the parish that battered wives who are finally persuaded to leave their husbands somehow manage to find another one the same. Mrs. Jankers may have thought she was simply after the money, but there might have been something villainous there which subconsciously attracted her. Take Mrs. Prissy Burford, for example.”

  “That odd little woman who lives up Back Lane?”

  “The same. Now, before you arrived in the village, she was married to Paul Burford, a raving alcoholic. She had a terrible time with him. Then he joined Alcoholics Anonymous and the change was miraculous and we were all so happy for her. But she divorced him and took up with a much younger man and he drank like a fish. If he hadn’t left her, she’d still be with him.”

  Agatha saw Patrick entering the dining room and waved to him. “I hope there’s some food left,” he said, sitting down with them.

  Agatha told him about Mrs. Bloxby’s idea and Patrick said he would walk along to the police station after he had eaten. “That is, when the tide goes down,” he said. “It’s getting dangerous out there. A chunk of masonry fell off one of the buildings on the front, they say, and still the council will do nothing about it.”

  Mrs. Bloxby and Agatha said goodnight to him. Agatha waited while Mrs. Bloxby was checked into a hotel room, and was delighted to find the room next to her own was available.

  “I thought the hotel would be full of press,” said Agatha to Nick Loncar, the receptionist.

  “It was, but some big story broke over in Brighton and they all rushed off.”

  Agatha sat up late into the night, going over her notes. She jumped nervously when her phone rang and looked at her watch. Two in the morning. She gingerly picked up the receiver.

  “It’s James here, Agatha,” said that once-loved voice. “I’ve arrived.”

  EIGHT

  “JAMES,” said Agatha faintly. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “I thought I’d better come,” he said awkwardly.

  Agatha pulled herself together. ‘Til see you tomorrow—if I have time.” She put down the receiver.

  James stared at the dead phone. He felt he should have apologized Maybe tomorrow.

  Agatha switched off her computer. She felt she should be feeling some sort of excitement over the fact that James had come back, but all she knew was that she was suddenly very tired.

  She undressed and crawled into bed. Her last waking thought was a hope that Charles was having a miserable time.

  James was taken aback when he entered the dining room next morning for breakfast to find Mrs. Bloxby placidly tucking into a plate of bacon and eggs. He was very surprised to see her and then surprised again by the fact that Mrs. Bloxby did not seem in the least surprised to see him.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, joining her.

  “For the same reason as you, Mr. Lacey. Agatha needs all the support she can get. I knocked on her door before I came down. She will be joining us shortly.”

  James felt guilty and uncomfortable. When Agatha walked into the dining room he jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair for her. Mrs. Bloxby had just finished her bacon and eggs and wondered for a moment whether to leave them, but Agatha looked fresh and brisk, and not at all flustered by the presence of her ex-husband.

  “I’m waiting to hear from Patrick,” said Agatha. “He’s checking out your theory, Mrs. Bloxby.”

  “What the
ory’s that?” asked James.

  Agatha’s bearlike eyes turned on him, cool and efficient. It’s as if I’m now a stranger, thought James. Agatha described how Mrs. Bloxby had thought that the two ex-husbands might have something criminal in their backgrounds.

  Under her apparent calm, Agatha was privately praying that the gunman, Brian McNally, had gone back to Spain, or anywhere out of the country for that matter, and would not come back to try to assault her again.

  Outside the long windows of the dining room the day was bright and sunny. James and Agatha ordered breakfast. Mrs. Bloxby decided to withdraw tactfully to another table, assuming James would want to make some sort of apology, if he had not done so already.

  “So what’s the plan for today?” asked James.

  “I think your plan for the day should be to go back to Carsely,” said Agatha.

  “I suppose you must be upset with me…”

  “Upset with you? That’s putting it mildly. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I can do without you luridng around and getting under my feet.”

  James’s face flamed with temper. “You should be grateful, yes grateful that I am here to protect you.”

  “I have Patrick. You weren’t around when I was being kidnapped. Fat lot of good you were. Eat your breakfast and stop staring at me.”

  “I did nothing wrong,” said James stiffly. “We were supposed to be going on holiday together, but you changed your mind, not me. I was very angry with you, but I have forgiven you.”

  “Were you always such a pompous prat, or have I just begun to realize it?” said Agatha, stabbing her fork into a poached egg. “Oh, thank goodness, here’s Patrick.”

  “It’s been interesting,” said Patrick. “Any hope of breakfast?”

  “Sure.” Agatha signalled to the waitress. She waited impatiently while Patrick gave his order.

  “Well?”

  “Minor stuff. Fred Jankers once set fire to his school. Served time in a juvenile offenders hostel. Nothing that anyone knows since then.”

  “What about Archie Swale?”

  “When he was serving in Northern Ireland with the paras—he was a corporal—he attacked one of the soldiers in a drunken rage. Spent some time in the glasshouse, but not discharged from the army.”

  “Be back in the minute,” said Agatha. “I’ll just tell Mrs. Bloxby to come back and join us. She should hear this.”

  When Mrs. Bloxby joined them, Agatha said, “You’re such a shrewd judge of character. I would like you to get a look at both Jankers and Swale.”

  “I’d better try to do that today. I promised my husband I would be back tomorrow. He telephoned me this morning.”

  “I’ll drive you to Brighton,” said Agatha. “We can park outside his house and when he leaves you can get a look at him. Good. There’s Fred Jankers just coming in. I’ll take you over and introduce you.”

  Agatha is going on as if she’s forgotten my very existence, thought James.

  Agatha introduced Mrs. Bloxby to Fred Jankers. Mrs. Bloxby began to talk in her soothing voice about how sorry she was to hear of his wife’s death. Agatha made an excuse and left her to it.

  “I’m going up to my room to make some calls,” said James, getting to his feet.

  “You do that,” replied Agatha.

  “What’s going on with you and your ex?” asked Patrick.

  Agatha was suddenly furious. “He said it was my fault he had gone off and left me.”

  “I always thought he was a confirmed bachelor,” said Patrick. “Anyway, what do you want me to do now?”

  “I’d like you to come with me and Mrs. Bloxby to have a look at Swale. I think he’s too old and frail to have committed such a violent murder, but I’d like to see what you think.”

  Upstairs in his room, James paced up and down. He had been so sure that Agatha would treat his arrival with gladness and relief. And he had turned down a dinner with a very attractive woman. He fished in his pocket and riffled through some cards until he found Deborah’s.

  His ego was bruised. It was just that adoring Agatha hadpreviously always been there in his life. Perhaps he had vaguely thought, forgetting the disaster of their marriage, that they would settle down together at some point.

  James decided that he should really phone Deborah and apologize properly for having rushed off. It never dawned on him that a proper apology to Agatha would have mended fences.

  He dialled her number. “Deborah?”

  “James, darling,” she cooed. “How nice of you to call. Where are you?”

  “Snoth-on-Sea.”

  “What a funny name! And how is Mrs. Raisin?”

  “Detecting as usual. I really shouldn’t have come. I thought she would be shattered after her experience, but she’s as tough as old boots. The reason I phoned was to apologize for having dashed off like that.”

  “Don’t worry. We can make it another night. When are you coming back?”

  James hesitated. He was the one who had worked on cases with Agatha in the past. He had a sudden desire to find out something that would impress her.

  “Maybe another day or two,” he said. “I’ll phone you when I get back.”

  Deborah replaced the receiver and sat at her kitchen table deep in thought. Her cottage was decorated in what she fondly considered to be true country style, with chintz and horse brasses and bunches of herbs hanging from hooks on the kitchen ceiling. She had just been beginning to wonder why she had buried herself in the country when she had come across James Lacey and had decided she wanted to marry him.

  She had invited several of the members of the ladies’ society for dinner that evening, but as she looked around the piles of ingredients spread about her kitchen, she wished she hadn’t bothered. Deborah was strictly a colour-supplement cook. She specialized in recipes that demanded a whole string of totally unnecessary herbs.

  She had bagged her previous husband after a ruthless campaign, forgetting that it was that very ruthlessness of hers which had eventually made him ask for a divorce.

  At last she picked up the phone again and rang all the women she had invited and cancelled the dinner. Then she got out a road atlas and searched it until she found Snoth-on-Sea. She conjured up a mental image of Agatha Raisin based on that group photograph. No competition at all, she told herself.

  As they drove to Brighton, Mrs. Bloxby gave her impressions of Fred Jankers. “It’s hard to tell. He seems very quiet and gentlemanly. Quite old-fashioned, and yet he is only in his fifties. But it could be an act he’s perfected. You say Mrs. Jankers married him for his money? Perhaps it might have been the other way around. Was she rich?”

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha.

  “It would also be interesting to find out how his businesses are doing and whether he insured her life.”

  “Good point,” said Patrick. “I’d better get on to that when we get back.”

  Agatha felt suddenly tired. All her bright hard efficiency seemed to be draining away and, horror of horrors, deep down she felt the beginnings of that old longing for James. He had looked as handsome as ever that morning with his bright blue eyes, tanned face and dark hair going grey at the temples.

  They parked outside Archie Swale’s house in Brighton and waited. “Maybe he’s gone out already?” suggested Patrick after an hour.

  “I know,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I’ll go and knock at the door and say I’m collecting for something. I’ve had years of practice.”

  “Be careful,” warned Agatha as the vicar’s wife got out of the car.

  Mrs. Bloxby went across the road and knocked at the door. When Archie answered it, she gave him a sweet smile and said, “I am collecting for Help the Aged and wondered whether you could spare anything.”

  “I can give you a pound.”

  “That would be marvellous.”

  “You’d better come in. I emptied the change out of my trousers last night and left it on the desk.”

  She followed him into his sitting roo
m. He went to his desk and picked up a pound. Mrs. Bloxby opened her handbag and produced a sticker from a previous Help the Aged collection from a number of other old charity stickers.

  “No sticker,” he said. “I had a good suede jacket ruined by one of those. Must be hard on the feet, all this collecting.”

  “It is, rather.”

  “I say, would you like a sherry?”

  “Why, that is very kind of you.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes, my husband is the vicar of… Saint Edmunds,” said Mrs. Bloxby, privately praying that there was a Saint Edmunds in Brighton.

  He handed her a small glass of sherry. Mrs. Bloxby looked across at the regimental photograph. “I see you are an army man.”

  “Was. I miss it. Too old for it now.”

  “This government does seem very determined to merge the old regiments.”

  A tide of angry red suffused his face. “Bunch of Commie bastards. Lefties. Faggots. I’d shoot the lot of them! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s all right. We still have free speech in this country. Or do we?”

  He went off on another rant while Mrs. Bloxby sipped her sherry and covertly studied him. She noticed he had very powerful wrists.

  Feeling she had heard enough, Mrs. Bloxby waited until he had paused for breath, and said, “I really must be on my way.”

  He looked disappointed. “Call again any time,” he said, ushering her to the door.

  He was standing on the front step watching her leave, so Mrs. Bloxby walked right past the car where Agatha and Patrick were crouched down and out of the square. Agatha only cautiously raised her head when she heard the street door slam. She drove out of the square and caught up with Mrs. Bloxby.

  “How did you get on?” she asked when Mrs. Bloxby had climbed into the car.

  “I got an impression of a violent, angry man. He has powerful wrists. I think he has high blood pressure. He looks too old to have committed a murder and yet I feel he could have found great strength in one of his bursts of rage.”