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 under foot. ‘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 face down 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 as 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 carefully 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,’ she howled. ‘They’ve taken Toni and Simon.’
‘Just wait there. We’ll handle it.’
Police were taping off the road. A van full of scene-of-crime 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. Statements, statements and more statements. Then Agatha, Charles 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 was put 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. Busses run along that road going to Cheltenham.’
‘But surely the police have questioned 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, Mrs Raisin.’
‘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 fngers 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 pu
t 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 on to 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 more informal ones.’
‘Oh, I might have something. I found a box of photos taken at village fêtes. But you should have some 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 getups, 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 on to 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 fast 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?’ he 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 realized 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.’
James slowly put down his book. He had followed the murder of John Sunday in the newspapers and television. He got up and went to the bar. ‘May I buy a round?’ he asked.
Faces beamed at him. Drinks were rapidly changed from wine to spirits. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying,’ said James. ‘Someone going a bit over the top?’
‘It’s an elderly couple of ladies just outside the village,’ said the florid man. ‘They’ve got lights all over the place like one of those awful Americans.’
‘Sounds fun. I’d like to have a look,’ said James. ‘How do I get there? Should I drive?’
‘Don’t really need to. Turn left as you go out of the hotel door and keep on going about half a mile. You can’t miss it. Their stupid cottage lights up the sky.’
James went out into the evening. It was quite mild and clear with a small moon riding high above the twisted chimneys of the old houses in the village. As he passed the last house in the village, he saw a glow in the sky ahead of him and quickened his step. At last he came to the cottag
e. There were so many Christmas decorations, it was an exercise in vulgarity. A spotlight had even been placed in the garden to highlight a leering Santa clinging to the chimney.
He marched up the path and knocked on the door. ‘Who are you?’ shouted a voice from an upstairs window.
James stood back and looked up. He could just make out an elderly woman half hidden behind a curtain.
‘I’ve just been admiring your lights,’ he said.
‘Go away,’ croaked the woman. ‘Shove off.’
James walked thoughtfully back to his hotel.
The wives of the murderers were missing. They had been famous for their display of Christmas lights. Their pride in that display had led to the murders. Could he, by some mad coincidence, have found them?
He joined the English at the bar and, to their delight, paid for another round. ‘When did the two old ladies arrive here?’ he asked.
The florid man introduced himself as Archie Frank and his wife as Fiona. The others supplied names but James immediately forgot all of them – he was concentrating so hard on finding out about the occupants of the cottage. ‘Came about two months ago,’ said Archie. ‘We don’t see them. They get a local girl to do their shopping. Keep themselves to themselves.’
James made some small talk and then escaped to his room. He phoned Agatha and told her about the mysterious pair and their lights.
‘I’m coming over,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll bring a photo with me.’
‘Don’t come all this way for what might be nothing. Send me over the photo on my computer.’
‘I’m coming,’ shouted Agatha. ‘I’ll bring Toni. Book us rooms. What’s the name of the place and directions?’
Agatha collected Toni from Mircester and drove to Birmingham airport where they got seats on a flight to Paris. Then they took a plane to Marseilles and hired a car. With Toni driving, they set off along the coast to the village of St Charles-sur-Clore.
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body Page 17