by M C Beaton
“Okay, follow us.”
They followed the children to where a taller mound of grass lay by the perimeter fence. “It lives in there,” said the spotty one “Moaning and yelling.”
Agatha walked round the mound and saw the stairs leading down. “It’s an old war shelter,” she called excitedly. Followed by Charles, she went down the steps and then, with his help, lifted the heavy metal bar which guarded the door.
The door swung open and sunlight flooded in, illuminating Paul, who was lying in the foetal position on the floor.
“Paul!” cried Agatha. “Thank God we’ve found you!”
Paul had been crying with fear and despair. He rose to his feet, furious at his weakness, and turned all his venom on Agatha.
“Just keep away from me, you horrible old bat!” he shouted. “If you hadn’t got me involved in your stupid detective work, this would never have happened.”
Agatha turned away in disgust. Then she turned back. “Sit down, you useless twat. Just shut up. You’re going nowhere until the police and ambulance come.”
She pulled out her mobile phone and asked urgently for police and ambulance. Then she walked outside and lit a cigarette. Charles stayed behind and looked down at Paul, who was sitting on the bench, his head bowed.
“The police were here earlier,” said Charles mildly. “Searched the place end to end. If it hadn’t been for Aggie and me, you’d have rotted here.”
“Where’s Frampton?” croaked Paul.
“Dead. Shot himself after he threatened me and Aggie with a gun. Shot himself when the police arrived.”
“Have you any water?”
“No, but the ambulance will be here soon enough.”
Charles went outside to join Agatha. “Don’t take it too hard,” he said. “The man’s in shock.”
Agatha shrugged and puffed energetically on her cigarette. Why did things never work out the way she imagined them? She had dreamt on the road to the building works that she would find Paul and he would be so grateful he would take her in his arms and propose marriage. It was only when they began to search the works that she feared he was dead. Why on earth would a murderer like Frampton leave him alive? To find the diary, of course.
Agatha whipped round and went down into the shelter. “Look here,” she said, “for God’s sake don’t mention that bloody diary or we’ll be in the soup.”
“Okay,” muttered Paul, looking at the floor.
“The story’s this. Charles and I found a portrait of Frampton in Robin’s studio. We phoned you and you came here to question Frampton, who locked you up until he figured out what to do with you.”
“All right!” shouted Paul.
“They’re coming,” said Charles from outside. “I’ll run and meet them and guide them here.”
When Paul had been taken off to hospital for a check, Agatha and Charles found themselves facing an angry Runcorn. “You two,” he said, “were supposed to report to police headquarters today to go over your statements.”
“Well, we couldn’t,” said Agatha. “Because we were doing your work for you. If it hadn’t been for us, you’d have had another body on your hands.”
“You are to go to Mircester now. DC Wong will accompany you and take your statements.”
At that moment Bill came up. “Good work,” he said and earned himself a furious glare from his superior officer.
At police headquarters, Agatha and Charles added their experience of finding Paul to their statements. Agatha was aware the whole time of Bill’s intelligent eyes on her face as she talked so that she could almost see a picture of the diary rising above her head as if on a film.
At last Bill switched off the tape and told them to wait until their statements were typed up.
“Don’t be too hard on Paul,” said Charles. “It must have been hell being shut in there.”
“He called me old,” muttered Agatha. “I’ll never forgive him.”
“Oh, come on.”
“To forgive is divine, Charles, and I ain’t divine. I want to get home and sleep for a week. I phoned Doris Simpson before we left and she said she would have the place all cleaned up. I’ll pay her well.”
“But you already pay her for the cleaning. Why pay more?”
“Because, Scrooge, the mess the place was in is above and beyond the call of duty.”
“I think we should call on Mrs. Bloxby when we get out of here.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s a friend. She’ll be worried about you.”
It seemed to take ages to get the statements signed and it was two hours later before Agatha and Paul sat in the vicarage garden telling Mrs. Bloxby about their adventures.
“What will you do with the diary?” asked Mrs. Bloxby when they had finished.
“I just thought of a way out,” said Agatha. “We’ll take it to William Dalrymple, that history don in Oxford, the one I met on another case. We’ll tell him all and see if he’ll help us by claiming he discovered it in a box in the college library or something. I’ll be glad to be rid of it. Where’s your lesser half?”
“He’s gone to see the bishop.”
“No trouble, I hope?”
“No, it’s good news. The bishop has received money from the Lotteries Commission for the restoration of old churches. We’re to get some for the church roof. Which reminds me. One of the parishioners gave Alf a present of trout. Do stay to dinner.”
And Charles, aware of the horrors of Agatha’s deep freeze, quickly accepted.
Later, as they walked to Agatha’s cottage, she said, “I wonder if the press will be waiting on the doorstep.”
“Doubt it,” said Charles. “Runcorn will make sure the police get all the credit and you get none.”
“The press’ll all be outside Mircester police headquarters,” said Agatha wistfully. “It’d be nice to go there and put them straight.”
“Leave it, Aggie. We’re too tired.”
Agatha’s cottage was clean once more. She played with the cats and then went up to have a bath and go to bed. She put on the black see-through nightie because it was cool, but she could not help feeling silly when she thought she had bought it for Paul’s benefit.
She was just getting into bed when the doorbell rang. Agatha went through to Charles’s room but he was fast asleep.
She sighed and went downstairs. Suddenly aware that she had nothing on but the black nightie, she opened the door a crack and peered round it.
Paul Chatterton stood there holding a large bouquet of flowers. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I owe you my life. Agatha, please forgive me.”
Overcome by gladness, Agatha seized a wrap from the hall-stand and put it round her and then opened the door wide. “What beautiful flowers!” she said.
Paul smiled. “For a beautiful woman.” He bent to kiss her.
And that was when Juanita leapt on his back, screaming and cursing in Spanish. Agatha tried to retreat and close the door on them but Juanita suddenly jumped down from Paul’s back, squeezed in front of him, and shouted, “You whore.” She whipped off Agatha’s wrap and glared at her nightie. Then she grabbed the flowers and jumped up and down on them.
“Anything the matter, darling?” asked Charles from behind Agatha. He moved her aside and glared at Juanita. “Why are you shouting at my fiancée?”
She goggled at him. “Your…?”
“Yes,” said Charles firmly. “Today she saved your husband’s life and this is all the thanks she gets.” He pulled Agatha back and shut the door on Paul and his wife.
“Thanks,” said Agatha weakly.
“Anytime,” said Charles cheerfully. “That nightie is very revealing. Feel like a bit of nookie?”
“No,” said Agatha crossly and stumped off up the stairs.
A month later Agatha answered the door to Bill Wong. “No Charles?” he asked.
“No, he’s long gone,” said Agatha. “Paul, too. Paul’s moved to Spain and he’s going to rent his cotta
ge.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been round earlier. Something strange has happened.”
“Oh, what?”
“Do you know an Oxford don called William Dalrymple?”
“Can’t recall if I do.”
“Agatha! One of the reasons you were interested in Frampton was because, as you told me, you visited some history don in Oxford.”
“Oh, yes, that William Dalrymple.”
“He claims to have bought a box of books at an auction and he found Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s diary.”
“My heavens! What a coincidence!”
“Indeed. Particularly as you knew him. Look, Agatha, the case is closed, thanks to you. But here’s what I think. I think you and Paul found it when you were investigating that secret passage and had to find a way of getting rid of it.”
“What a fertile imagination you do have.”
“Not nearly as fertile as yours. I assume Harry and Carol came to thank you.”
“Yes, they did.”
“And did they pay you anything?”
“Well, no. But I didn’t ask.”
“Agatha, if you ever get involved in murder again-and I hope you don’t-you should try earning some money.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“We’ve been digging into Frampton’s background. He was once a mining engineer in South Africa. That explains the cyanide pellets. And there’s something else. While he was living in Durban, he was dating a young girl who subsequently disappeared. She was never found. The police in Durban are reopening that case. We found a quantity of cocaine in his cottage, hidden under the floor-boards, together with his diary. He was passionate about making his mark in the world with some great academic historical find.”
“Funny how some people can go quite mad without anyone around them realizing it,” said Agatha. “I’m glad it’s over.”
“By the way, it was Briar who slit the roof of Paul’s MG and threw the CD player in the ditch.”
“How on earth did you find that out?”
“Some crusty old codger from Hebberdon came forward with the information. All he would say was that Briar didn’t like the looks of the pair of you and wanted to frighten you off from coming back.”
“Why didn’t he talk about this before?”
“I think they were all a bit frightened of Briar.”
They talked some more and to Agatha’s relief, Bill did not mention the diary again.
After he had left, she thought about Harry and Carol taking her services for free.
The phone rang. It was Roy Silver. Agatha bragged away happily about her brilliance in solving the case. Roy listened patiently and then said, “I’ve got a PR job that might interest you.”
Agatha took a deep breath. “I’m out of PR. Not going to do any again.”
“Why?”
Agatha grinned.
“Because I’m going to start my own detective agency.”
M C Beaton
***
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