Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor

by Beaton, M. C.

  It turned out to be the last of the guests, other than Agatha and her party, checking out. They were an elderly couple. He listened with an impassive face to the all-too-familiar complaints of how the hotel had gone downhill and how awful the food was.

  He ordered them a taxi and carried their bags to the door. He held out his hand for a tip, but they ignored him. Swearing under his breath, he returned to the desk.

  By seven in the morning when the girl for the early shift, Kylie Smith, arrived, he was fast asleep. She nudged him awake. ‘I got a call from Betty last night,’ she said. ‘She forgot to tell you that young Mr Weldon’s room key was missing last night and she had to let him in with the pass key. She found his key later on the floor behind the desk. She says you’d better phone him and tell him.’

  ‘Stupid cow,’ said Nick, whose command of the English language had improved in leaps and bounds since he had arrived in Britain eight months ago. ‘But he won’t be awake. You do it.’

  He yawned and stretched and made his way out of the hotel.

  Kylie waited until nine o’clock and phoned Wayne’s room. There was no reply. She phoned again at ten. Still no reply.

  She left the desk and went up to his room. A DO NOT DISTURB sign was hanging outside the door. I’d better wake him, thought Kylie. The maid’s got to get in to clean up. She knocked loudly on the door and called out, ‘Mr Weldon!’

  Cyril Hammond came along the corridor at that moment and asked her what was up. She explained about the key.

  ‘Well, just use it and we’ll go in and wake him up,’ said Cyril. ‘He and Chelsea probably got pissed last night and they’re sleeping it off.’

  Kylie unlocked the door and walked in. Then she screamed and screamed.

  Chapter Five

  Agatha was in her room telling Patrick about the failed attempt to find out whether Wayne had the jewels, when they heard screams. They both ran out into the corridor. Agatha’s room was on the third floor. The screams were coming from the floor below. They both ran down.

  Cyril Hammond was holding Kylie in his arms and trying to calm her down. ‘I’ll need to call the police,’ he was saying.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Agatha.

  Cyril nodded in the direction of Wayne’s room. Agatha and Patrick looked in. Wayne was lying on his back, his T-shirt covered in blood. Chelsea was lying over by the window, the side of her head blown away. A few feathers from a pillow lying on the floor drifted in a draught from the window.

  ‘Shot through the pillow,’ muttered Patrick. ‘Tried to deaden the sound.’

  Kylie’s screams still rent the air. Agatha went back to her and slapped her soundly across the face and she dissolved in sobs.

  Agatha took out her phone and called the police. Then she turned to Cyril. ‘You’d best take this girl downstairs and get her some sweet tea or something to calm her down.’

  Patrick waited until they had gone. Then he extracted the key from the lock and wiped it thoroughly with a handkerchief, and holding it by the handkerchief, put it back in the lock again.

  ‘You’re destroying evidence,’ gasped Agatha.

  ‘Exactly. No doubt the murderer wore gloves. I’ll bet neither you nor Harry did when you were handling the key. We’ll all be fingerprinted.’

  Guilty thoughts raced through Agatha’s shocked brain. She had talked to Harry about the jewels in that pub. She had talked again to Mrs Bloxby about them. What if Charlie Black, the armed robber, had been one of the listeners?

  The police arrived, headed by Detective Inspector Barret. He told Agatha and Patrick to wait downstairs.

  Harry was already there, having heard the grim news from one of the maids.

  ‘They’re going to find out about that missing key,’ said Agatha.

  ‘They’ll assume the murderer took it,’ said Patrick. ‘I mean, he must have. You say Harry left it on the floor behind the desk. The girl probably found it and put it back. We’re all in for a lot of hard questioning. I think Harry here should tell them about that necklace. The sooner they start looking for Charlie Black, the better.’

  ‘And how are all the happy holidaymakers?’ asked a cheerful voice behind them.

  They swung round. Charles Fraith stood there, the smile dying on his face as he saw their strained looks.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  James Lacey finally reached the villa owned by his friends, Kenneth and Mary Clarke. Before his retirement from the army, he had done a short desk stint at the Ministry of Defence. That was where he had got to know Kenneth along with the Hewitts, now retired to Ancombe. He had kept in touch with Kenneth, learning that Kenneth on his retirement had decided to set up a bed and breakfast in France. He remembered Kenneth as a round, jolly man with a charming wife.

  But the Kenneth who came out to welcome him had changed. He looked so much older and had lost weight. His once thick grey hair was now thin and his pink scalp shone though. He was wearing a Hawaiian beach shirt and droopy grey cotton shorts and open leather sandals with black socks.

  ‘Come in,’ he cried. ‘Mary’s down at the shops. She’ll be back soon. You’re our only guest, so we’ll have plenty of time to catch up on the gossip.’

  ‘Is she here?’ asked James.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My ex. Agatha Raisin.’

  ‘No, old chap. Were you expecting her?’

  ‘I sent her your address. I expected her to join me.’

  ‘Might come along later. Let’s have a drink. I’ll show you to your room first.’

  The bedroom had a double bed, a large Provençal wardrobe, one easy chair and a washbasin with a mirror above over by the window.

  ‘Just leave your things,’ said Kenneth. ‘We’ll sit in the garden.’

  He led the way back downstairs and through a cluttered messy kitchen and out into the back garden, where chairs and tables had been placed on a stone terrace overlooking a weedy and uncultivated garden.

  ‘So how are things?’ asked James, accepting a glass of the local wine and wondering where Agatha was. Surely she would come and join him. He thought ruefully of the times he had changed his holiday destination just to make sure that Agatha did not join him.

  ‘To tell you the truth, I’m a bit homesick. Gets lonely up here when we don’t have guests.’

  ‘What about the locals?’

  ‘Difficult to get to know. Never could master the language.’

  ‘Can’t you learn? Surely it would help.’

  ‘Fact is,’ said Kenneth moodily, ‘I’m homesick. I’d swap all this for rainy London. Damned euro. Everything’s so expensive.’

  ‘You’ve got a big garden. You could grow your own vegetables.’

  ‘My back hurts,’ said Kenneth.

  They heard the sound of a car. ‘That’ll be Mary. She’s dying for some company.’

  They heard the front door open. Kenneth shouted, ‘In the garden, darling. James is here.’

  James remembered Mary as a neat blonde woman. As she came on to the terrace, he barely recognized her. Her hair was grey and she had put on weight. She was wearing a faded blue housedress and her bare feet were thrust into a pair of battered espadrilles.

  ‘How are you, James?’ She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Do pour me a glass of wine, darling. It was hot as hell in the town. So what have you been up to, James, since we last saw you?’

  ‘I wrote a military history, but now I’m writing travel books.’

  ‘How splendid! Give us a plug. We could do with the business.’

  ‘What about August? All the Parisians flock south.’

  ‘Well, they aren’t flocking here.’

  ‘Have you advertised?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Kenneth. ‘Put a small ad in the Spectator.’

  ‘What about the French newspapers?’

  ‘We never actually thought of having French people here,’ said Mary. ‘We advertised good English home cooking.’

  ‘Maybe not a good idea,’
said James. ‘The English like to come to France for French cooking and the French won’t like the idea of English cooking either.’

  ‘Oh, what do you know about it?’ Mary’s voice had a waspish tone. ‘You’re a bachelor. No cares. You’re not stuck in this stinking hot villa miles from anywhere. It was Kenneth’s idea. I sometimes think men never grow up. When we had our first guests, all he wanted to do was play host while I slaved in the kitchen.’

  There was an awkward silence. I want to get out of here, thought James. But I’d better suffer it for a day or two in case Agatha does turn up. Aloud he said, ‘Why don’t I take the pair of you for lunch in Marseilles?’

  They both brightened. ‘That would be great,’ said Kenneth.

  So James entertained them at an outdoor restaurant on the Corniche where Mary ate too much and Kenneth drank too much. The hard sun glittered on the water.

  And then James saw a stocky woman with good legs walking towards the restaurant. She was wearing a large straw hat and dark glasses. Agatha at last.

  He leaped to his feet. ‘Agatha! Over here!’

  The woman removed her sunglasses and stared at him blankly. James actually blushed and sat down hurriedly. ‘Sorry,’ he called to her. ‘A mistake.’

  Charles leaned back in his chair and surveyed the group. ‘You’re in for some hard questioning from the police. They’ll want to know why you didn’t tell them about your suspicions.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell them.’ Agatha looked strained and weary. ‘What would they have done anyway if Harry had told them about that necklace? Nothing, that’s what. It wouldn’t have been enough to justify a search warrant.’

  Her heart sank as Betty Teller walked into the hotel. A policeman led her towards a little-used smoking room which the police had commandeered as an office. They would take Betty through the events of yesterday evening. They would ask her if she had left the desk. She might tell them about Harry calling her to the door.

  ‘I’d better check in,’ said Charles, getting to his feet. ‘Where’s James?’

  ‘He decided to visit friends in the south of France.’

  ‘Typical,’ said Charles cheerfully.

  Agatha watched his well-tailored figure approach the desk, now manned by the manager, Mr Beeston. Agatha never knew whether Charles was fond of her or simply looked on her as someone who occasionally provided interesting diversions.

  After ten minutes, Betty Teller emerged. ‘Mrs Raisin,’ called the policeman. Agatha suppressed a groan and walked into the smoking room.

  ‘Mrs Raisin,’ began Barret, ‘first of all, I would like to know why you are still here and why two members of your staff are here also. We checked up on you. That unsavoury-looking youth, Harry Beam, is employed by you, as is Patrick Mulligan. You all had your photographs in the newspaper a year ago. Mr Lacey, your companion, has left.’

  ‘It was my scarf that was used in the first murder,’ said Agatha defensively. ‘I am a detective. I felt compelled to stay on to see if we could find out who had committed the murder.’

  ‘Indeed. Now to yesterday evening. Betty Teller, the receptionist, said that you were sitting in reception, reading a magazine, when Harry Beam came down the stairs. He walked to the door and called to her. He told her he had just seen a man on stilts with a monkey on his shoulder, but she could not see anyone there. Did you take the key to Wayne Weldon’s room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This is only the initial interview. You will be asked to report at the station later, make a full statement, and sign it. Why do you think Harry Beam lied?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ Agatha felt herself becoming flushed and cross. ‘Maybe he didn’t lie. Maybe he fancied the receptionist.’

  ‘We’ll ask him. Now, why do you think Mr Weldon and his wife were murdered? Do you think they knew the killer of Mrs Jankers?’

  Agatha decided to tell the truth. ‘I found out that Mrs Jankers’s second husband, Charlie Black, robbed a jewellery store, but the jewellery was never been recovered. Harry noticed that Chelsea Weldon was wearing a necklace that looked like real diamonds. I think they may have had the jewellery and Charlie Black may have murdered both of them for it.’

  ‘These suspicions of yours – did you tell anyone else, apart from your colleagues?’

  ‘No, certainly not.’ Agatha felt uneasy, thinking of how she had talked about the jewels in that pub and then in the restaurant.

  ‘I think you stole the key to that room,’ said Barret. ‘I think you waited until young Weldon and his wife went out and went upstairs.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Agatha, glad now that Patrick had had the foresight to wipe that key clean.

  ‘Right, just you wait there. We’ll get Mr Beam in here and see if your stories match.’

  Harry was summoned. He must have made a lightning change of clothes, thought Agatha. The studs had been removed. He was wearing a plain charcoal-grey suit, striped shirt and silk tie.

  ‘Sit down on that chair next to Mrs Raisin,’ ordered Barret. ‘Now, yesterday evening, why did you distract the receptionist by telling her that fairy story about a man on stilts?’

  ‘I was considering chatting her up,’ said Harry. ‘I felt like having some young company for a change.’

  Agatha winced.

  ‘Then I spotted Mrs Raisin in reception. I hadn’t noticed her before because she had been hidden behind the magazine she was reading. Mrs Raisin expects us to work all hours of the day. So I dropped the idea.’

  Barret studied him for a long moment. Then he said, ‘I want both of you to stay in the hotel. A policeman will call for you later and take you both down to the station, where you will make official statements.’

  At that moment, the door opened and the policeman who had been on guard outside said, ‘A word with you, sir. It’s urgent.’

  Barret joined him. They went out together. Agatha half rose to leave. ‘Sit down!’ barked Detective Sergeant Wilkins.

  The door opened again and Barret called, ‘Wilkins!’

  The detective went out to join him. A policewoman was seated in a corner of the room. Had she not been there, Agatha would have pressed her ear to the door.

  At last Barret came back, looking excited. ‘You two can go,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in touch later.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  Charles Fraith had been joined by Cyril and his wife. ‘This is awful,’ said Cyril. ‘Why are the police going away? We were told to wait to be interviewed.’

  ‘Something’s happened,’ said Agatha, ‘that’s sent them running off.’ Dawn Hammond was crying quietly.

  ‘Where’s Patrick?’ Agatha asked Charles.

  ‘He went up to his room to make some calls.’

  ‘I think we should go up and join him. He may have heard something.’

  ‘Give me his room number,’ said Charles. ‘I’ll join you there. I haven’t unpacked yet.’

  James sat gloomily nursing a glass of wine in the villa garden. Perhaps it was just as well that Agatha hadn’t joined him. Kenneth moaned constantly about the folly of having ever left Britain and of having sunk his savings into this bed and breakfast.

  Mary drank quite a lot and complained so much about the price of food that at last James suggested he pay for his visit just as if he were a customer. He had expected his generous offer to be refused and was quite taken aback when it was accepted with alacrity.

  Mary came out into the garden and placed a radio on the table. ‘Just going to get the news on the BBC World Service,’ she said. ‘It’s like a little bit of home.’

  For heaven’s sake, thought James impatiently you would think she was in Outer Mongolia.

  She switched on the radio in time for the Greenwich time signal, followed by the strains of ‘Lilliburlero’. The news began. A bomb explosion in a busy street in Toronto, an outbreak of cholera in Bangladesh, protesters in Africa demonstrating over the cull of e
lephants, and the discovery of a mummy in Egypt.

  ‘They hardly ever give any news of home,’ complained Mary. ‘You would think there still was a British Empire the way they go on.’

  ‘Shh!’ admonished James, for the announcer had gone on to say, ‘There was a shooting yesterday evening in the quiet seaside town of Snoth-on-Sea. Wayne Weldon, son of the Geraldine Jankers who was recently found strangled to death on the beach, was found shot in his hotel room along with his wife, Chelsea. Now, to our main story. A bomb went off in the early hours of this morning in a busy street in Toronto . . .’

  ‘Excuse me. I’ve got to use the phone,’ said James, getting to his feet.

  ‘Just put the money for the call next to the box on the table in the hall,’ said Mary.

  ‘I’ll use my mobile.’

  James went up to his room and dialled the Palace Hotel and asked to be put through to Agatha’s room. He waited impatiently. At last he was told there was no reply. ‘Can you page her?’ he asked. There was another long silence, and then the manager came on the line. ‘Mrs Raisin’s friend, Sir Charles Fraith, has arrived,’ said Mr Beeston, proud of having a title staying at his hotel. ‘I’ll try his room, if you like, sir. Mrs Raisin may be there.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said James.

  He rang off and sat staring out of the window. In the hope that Agatha might arrive after all, he had booked for two weeks and paid in advance.

  Now she had Charles with her, he thought bitterly, she would not bother to come. He wanted to leave. He knew he wouldn’t get a refund, but the thought of enduring another day of Kenneth and Mary was too much for him. He would go back to Carsely and immerse himself in work. He had a travel book on Tunisia to write. He had travelled extensively in that country and had all his notes. It was odd, but he had always assumed Agatha would follow him wherever he went. For the first time he realized how much Agatha’s unstinting adoration meant to him. The only thing that made him glad she had not come was the knowledge that she would have hated it as much as he did.

  Agatha, Harry, Patrick and Charles were seated in Patrick’s room. ‘I wonder what’s up,’ said Agatha.