Agatha Raisin: There Goes The Bride

by Beaton, M. C.

  She heard a voice say, ‘I would leave your wife to sleep, Mr Bross-Tilkington. She’s had a bad shock and needs rest. I’m just going to give her a shot of sedative.’

  ‘Good idea. Make sure she has no visitors. Got it? Not one.’

  ‘Certainly. I will give instructions to the desk.’

  Agatha waited until she was sure they had gone, removed the stool, and went back into the hospital room. Olivia’s eyes were closed but tears were running down her cheeks. ‘I can help you,’ whispered Agatha. She gave her the pad. ‘Quickly. Before the sedative kicks in.’

  With a great effort, Olivia wrote something and then fell back on the pillows.

  Agatha ripped off the sheet of paper and hurried out. When she finally got into her car, she heaved a sigh of relief. She took the piece of paper out of her pocket and studied it. The spidery writing straggled across the page. Olivia had written, ‘Calle Miro, Ramblas, Barcelon . . .’

  Agatha frowned. Was Sylvan still alive? She had always been sure he had escaped. It was no use going to the police with this information. George would say they spent their honeymoon in Barcelona. He would get Agatha charged with something or other.

  She would need to go herself. She would tell her staff she needed a break. Toni would be left in charge to make up for her, Agatha’s, lousy treatment of the girl. If it all turned out to be a load of rubbish which led nowhere, then everyone would believe she had simply been in Spain on holiday.

  Agatha decided to spend another couple of weeks making sure the agency was running smoothly and then say she was going on holiday.

  But someone really ought to know where she was and why she was going. It was dark when she drove down into Carsely. The church was illuminated, shining with a golden light, welcoming her home.

  She decided if Charles was in her cottage, she would tell him and maybe persuade him to go with her. But her cottage was dark and silent, with only the patter of the cats’ feet as they came to investigate.

  Agatha desperately wanted to find out something all by herself, to prove to herself and others that she really was a good detective.

  Agatha sat in an open-air café on the Ramblas in Barcelona and watched the crowds go up and down. She wondered if that’s what most of them did on Saturday – walk up one way and then down to the port the other way. Earlier that morning, she had located Calle Miro, but it was a narrow street leading off the Ramblas, with tall apartment buildings on either side. She did not have a house number and there was no café where she could sit and look to see if Sylvan appeared, so she had settled on the Ramblas. If Sylvan – if he were alive – had bought a new boat, then surely he would head from his apartment down the Ramblas to the port.

  Her eyes grew tired with watching the moving crowd. At last, she decided it might be better to go down to the port herself and study the yachts. With her sore hip seeming to make the walk very long, she pushed her way through throngs of people gathered around the living statues. She stopped to watch a man posing as a statue of Julius Caesar, wondering how he could manage to remain so motionless.

  The sun was warm as she reached her goal and strolled along looking at all the yachts and motor cruisers.

  By early evening, Agatha was beginning to feel tired, hungry and defeated. She found a restaurant and ordered a small jug of red wine and a plate of roast rabbit, noticing with pleasure the large glass ashtray on the table in front of her. Unlike the French and British, the Catalans were happy to flout the cigarette ban.

  She decided to stay just one more day. Then she would take Olivia’s scrawled note back to the police, although she would need to think up a good reason as to why she had kept it so long.

  Fortified by a good dinner, she decided to take a taxi back up to the Calle Miro and have one last look around.

  The tall buildings reared up on either side of the narrow street. It was hopeless, she decided after half an hour of gazing up at windows.

  She turned away towards the Ramblas and was passing a dark alley when she was suddenly grabbed and a pad of something was thrust over her mouth. She kicked and struggled, feeling herself losing consciousness.

  When Agatha came to, she opened her eyes cautiously. Her hands were bound behind her back with duct tape and her ankles were bound as well and she was wearing a bathing suit.

  So this is it, thought Agatha, trying not to cry. I’m to be dumped at sea.

  She was lying on her side. Apart from the bed on which she had been placed, there was only one hard chair and on the wall, a badly executed painting of the Virgin Mary.

  Agatha felt nausea rising in her throat and rolled over to the edge of the bed and vomited violently on the floor.

  The door opened and a woman came in. She had a gypsy appearance: swarthy skin, large brown eyes and masses of coarse dark hair.

  She muttered something and came back with a bucket and mop and began to clean the floor. ‘Help me,’ croaked Agatha.

  The woman continued mopping. Agatha stared at the painting and said desperately, ‘Madre de Dios.’

  The woman started, crossed herself, but left the room, carrying the bucket and mop with her.

  Agatha drifted off into unconsciousness again. When she recovered, the room was dark. A solitary candle burned under the portrait of the Virgin. Agatha’s face was stinging and burning. Chloroform, she thought bitterly. My face will be a mass of sores.

  A light French voice sounded from the next room. ‘You know what to do, Maria. See to her.’

  Maria, the woman from before, came in carrying a syringe. She knelt before the Virgin and then approached the bed. ‘Please,’ whispered Agatha. ‘Por favor.’

  Maria put a finger to her lips and jabbed the syringe into the mattress and emptied it. She ripped the tape from Agatha’s wrists and ankles. Then she gently closed Agatha eyes. ‘Dead,’ she whispered. ‘Like dead.’

  Agatha nodded.

  Half an hour passed. Then she heard two men entering the room. She was lifted up and heaved over one man’s shoulder. Then she heard Sylvan’s voice. ‘The bitch weighs a ton.’

  ‘Get her out of here.’ George Bross! Surely that was George’s voice.

  Agatha found playing dead very hard as she was bundled into a sack and carried down a staircase, her legs bumping against the banister.

  ‘Into the boot with her,’ ordered Sylvan.

  She was thrown in and heard the boot lid slam down.

  The car jolted and rumbled over cobbles. The journey did not seem to take very long. Then the boot was lifted and she smelled salt air.

  Sylvan threw her over his shoulder again. ‘Is this the best you could manage?’ she heard George say.

  ‘We needed a cheap, anonymous-looking boat. This is it. Now take her out to sea, get her out of the sack and dump her. She’ll be dead to the world for another few hours. I’ll wait for you here.’

  Agatha felt the dip and sway as she was carried aboard a boat. Then down the stairs to the cabin, banging her head and feet as she was hauled down.

  She was thrown on some sort of bunk, the sack was dragged off her and then she heard George retreating.

  Agatha opened her eyes. She was lying in a squalid, smelly cabin. The engine started up. Agatha realized she was very weak and would have to get up on deck and jump over the side as soon as possible.

  Terror was giving her strength. She staggered to her feet and lurched to the companionway George was at the wheel and the roar of the engine stopped him from hearing her creeping up the stairs.

  Agatha moved quietly away from him to the stern of the boat. Then she wondered whether she might be in danger of being caught up in the propeller. She moved back a bit and, summoning up all her courage, threw herself over the side.

  She gasped as she went down and took in a gulp of salt water. She kicked and surfaced. Her heart sank. The lights of the port seemed very far away and she did not think she had enough strength left to swim that far.

  And then the water was lit up with one mighty explos
ion. The boat with George in charge had exploded in a ball of flame.

  Agatha realized that Sylvan had planned to get rid of both of them. A police launch came racing out from the port, its strong headlight shining across the sea. Agatha waved frantically, treading water.

  The launch curved round Agatha and soon strong hands were helping her on board. A policeman who spoke English was hurried forward to her. Agatha gasped and explained briefly what had happened and that Sylvan Dubois, wanted by Interpol, was alive.

  And then, for the first time in her life, the redoubtable Agatha Raisin passed out.

  Agatha awoke in a hospital bed in a private room. She struggled up against the pillows. Two Spanish detectives were sitting beside her bed. One said in English, ‘You must tell us quickly, what happened? We found the apartment in the Calle Miro but there was no one there.’

  Agatha wearily began at the beginning of her story, of how Olivia had given her the street name in Barcelona. She said she decided to investigate the matter herself. But she called Maria ‘Carmen’, the only Spanish name she could think of, and gave the police a false description. She explained how she was supposed to be drugged and dumped at sea so that it would look like a swimming accident, or rather, that was what George Bross had been led to believe. Sylvan had really meant to kill them both. She was suddenly frightened that Sylvan might already be heading to England to deal with Olivia, but the detectives assured her that Olivia was now being guarded.

  Then later that day, the Spanish detectives were replaced by English detectives from the Special Branch. She had to go through the whole story again. One detective said, ‘The press are clamouring outside. We’re not against getting this in the newspapers because it will put everyone on the alert. We’re offering a reward for the capture of Sylvan Dubois.’

  ‘Give me a mirror,’ ordered Agatha.

  A nurse brought her a hand mirror and Agatha squeaked in horror. Her face was covered in red sores from the chloroform and her hair was lank and dull.

  ‘I must have make-up,’ she cried. ‘And a hairdresser.’

  Agatha’s story made all the television channels and all the newspapers in Europe and Britain.

  Maria, back in a gypsy encampment high up in the Pyrenees, read Agatha’s exploits and was glad she had escaped. She had been in love with Sylvan, besotted by him, right up until the evening when she realized he was a murderer.

  Roy Silver felt sulkily that he could have done with some of that publicity and that Agatha should have taken him to Barcelona.

  Charles and Mrs Bloxby were appalled at how near death Agatha had been. Sitting in the vicarage garden, Charles said, ‘I saw Agatha on television last night and she looked so white-faced.’

  ‘That was probably thick make-up,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘She said that she believed she was chloroformed and that burns the skin. I wonder where Mr Lacey is?’

  James was at that moment sitting beside Agatha’s bed, giving her a lecture. ‘I could hardly believe my eyes when I read about you,’ he said. ‘You should have gone straight to the police.’

  ‘Oh, stop nagging,’ said Agatha. She was starting to feel more cheerful. ‘I was beginning to wonder about my detective abilities, but I have really proved myself.’

  ‘You were more like a tethered goat than a detective,’ said James. ‘Anyway, they say you can go home tomorrow, so I’ve decided to act as bodyguard.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ said Agatha, studying his handsome face and wondering why she didn’t feel a thing for him.

  ‘Did Olivia say anything now? Does she know who killed her daughter?’

  ‘She believes it was Sylvan. Evidently she genuinely knew nothing about the smuggling.’

  Agatha did not return to a hero’s welcome from the police. Mircester was furious with her, as was Hewes. Thanks to a good lawyer supplied by James, she escaped being up in court on a charge of obstructing the police in an investigation.

  Then she had to straighten out affairs at the agency. The two new detectives, Paul Kenson and Fred Auster, had complained about anyone as young as Toni being the boss and had been refusing to take orders.

  Agatha, rattled by her interview with the police, blasted them and threatened both of them with the sack and then sent them scurrying off to do the jobs they had previously refused. James was calling at the office in the early evening to take her out to dinner. Agatha was looking forward to being seen with a handsome man – but that was all.

  Well, that was all until James graciously extended the invitation to include Sharon and Toni. Toni took one look at Agatha’s face and said hurriedly that neither she nor Sharon was dressed to go out to dinner. But James was so insistent that Agatha felt obliged to urge them to join them.

  Sharon had shaved her eyebrows and pencilled in two arches, giving her round face a look of surprise. She had also acquired a nose stud. Her red-dyed hair was streaked with blonde and her generous breasts slipped out of a low-cut blouse. Toni was wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans. But the pair of them were in high spirits and James smiled on them indulgently.

  It was then Agatha wished she had a man of her own. James had turned into a sort of big brother, Charles came and went, and Roy made occasional visits. But someone of her very own by her side, thought Agatha dreamily, would mean company in her old age, would mean a protector as well, because the shadow of Sylvan was always there to haunt her.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ demanded James suddenly.

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ answered Agatha vaguely. But she had just remembered hearing about an exclusive dating agency. It cost a lot of money and catered to the rich. ‘I’ll try that,’ said Agatha out loud.

  ‘Try what?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘Something for dessert,’ replied Agatha.

  Chapter Nine

  A MONTH LATER, Agatha dressed with great care for her first date. It was all very exciting. She looked at the photo stuck on her dressing table mirror. It showed a slim man of middle height with thick brown hair and a pleasant smile. And he was none other than Baron, Lord Thirlham; hobbies, fine wines, reading, and country walks.

  He had an estate in Oxfordshire and they had agreed to meet in the restaurant at the Randolph Hotel in Oxford.

  Agatha was wrapped in a warm dream as she left for her date. She could see the announcement in The Times. She would be Lady Thirlham. She would give up the detective agency and become a real lady. She would open fêtes and do good works. People would say how gracious she was. Thirlham was a widower. So much easier, surely, when the man had been married already.

  After she had parked her car in the hotel car park, she made her way into the Randolph and through to the dining room.

  ‘Lord Thirlham’s table,’ said Agatha grandly to the maître d’.

  She was ushered to a table at the window. She was exactly on time but his lordship had not yet put in an appearance. Agatha had planned to drink very little because she was sure she would be motoring home. The agency gave strict advice that couples should take time to get to know each other first. But a quarter of an hour passed and there was still no sign of the baron. Agatha ordered a stiff gin and tonic.

  After another quarter of an hour had passed, she was just about to leave when a small round man was ushered up to the table. Agatha looked at him in amazement. ‘Lord Thirlham?’

  ‘That’s me,’ he said, sitting down and shaking out his napkin. He must have sent a photo of himself when he was younger, thought Agatha dismally. His hair was grey. His face was round with rather protruding eyes and a small pursed mouth. In fact, thought Agatha, he had probably sent in a photo of one of his friends.

  He smiled at her and said, ‘The purpose of this dinner is to find out about each other, so I will tell you all about myself.’

  And so he did – in long, studied periods, pausing only from the fascination of his own life story to order food and wine. He began with his childhood, his nanny, his brother and two sisters, his school, university, army and yackety, yack
ety, yack, unaware that Agatha was no longer listening.

  At last, Agatha could not bear it any longer. As the coffee arrived, she rose to her feet.

  ‘Going to powder your nose?’ he said.

  ‘Sure.’

  Agatha made her way out to the desk and said to the concierge, ‘Could you tell the maître d’ to bring my share of the bill. I wish to pay it now. Do not let my dining companion know I am leaving.’

  Payment completed, Agatha fled out into the night. She had paid a very large amount to the dating agency. They would certainly hear from her in the morning.

  The agency was full of apologies. They pointed out that their contract stated that if Agatha had not met anyone suitable in a year’s time, then two thirds of her money would be refunded.

  Hope seemed to spring eternal in Agatha’s bosom. Perhaps the next one would be the man of her dreams. She had told the agency that the next photograph she received must be a proper picture of her date.

  For a time, it seemed as if no one on the agency’s books found the idea of Agatha Raisin appealing. Then one morning she received a letter from the agency along with a photograph and description. Her next hopeful was a university lecturer. His photograph showed a tall thin man of her own age wearing glasses and dressed in a tweed jacket and flannels. He had a rather frog-like mouth. His name was John Berry. May as well give it a try, thought Agatha.

  The meeting was to be in London at a restaurant in Chinatown. Agatha decided to take the train up to town. She was wearing a comfortable trouser suit and flat walking shoes. She planned to visit a hairdresser in London prior to the meeting because she always felt more confident with her hair just newly done.

  Memories of Sylvan made her feel uneasy as she entered the restaurant. She could not help wondering how many of the staff had been smuggled into Britain.

  She recognized her date from his photograph. He rose and gave her a charming smile. Agatha brightened.