Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘It was a slip of the tongue,’ said Charles desperately.

  ‘Oh, yeah? Get in that room over there. Move it!’

  They retreated before him. ‘The police know where we are,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Move! Drop your handbag and leave it on the floor.’

  He backed them into a room, empty except for a few packing cases, and then slammed the door on them and locked it.

  Agatha and Charles looked at each other in dismay.

  ‘Why did you call him Silen?’ whispered Agatha.

  ‘Because I felt he was lying. What are we going to do?’

  Charles went to the window. It was barred. They could hear the sound of hurried movements coming from the other room.

  ‘Have you got your phone?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘I left it behind,’ mourned Charles.

  They heard the outside door of the flat slam shut and then footsteps mounting the stairs.

  ‘He’s gone,’ said Agatha. ‘He may be back. We’ve got to get out of here. Can’t you break the door down?’

  Charles aimed a kick at the lock and then hopped around the room, moaning, ‘I think I’ve broken my foot.’

  ‘I’m going to look in these cases,’ said Agatha. ‘There might be something we can use. Stop howling and help me.’

  But Charles sat on the floor nursing his foot. Agatha gave an exclamation of disgust and began to search in one of the packing cases. ‘This one’s full of car radios,’ she said. She tried the next one. ‘Leather jackets. No use. There must be something here we could use. Why couldn’t he steal hardware?’

  Charles fished in his pocket and held up a Swiss army knife. ‘Look what I’ve got!’

  ‘Oh, Charles, try and fiddle with the lock.’

  ‘Should be able to do it. It’s only a Yale.’

  Charles extracted a thin blade from the knife and inserted it between the lock and the door jamb. The blade snapped in two. ‘This can’t be genuine,’ he said.

  ‘Where did you buy it?’

  ‘At a market in Morocco. I’ll try another blade.’

  He inserted a stronger blade and tried again. Agatha waited in a fever of impatience. She was just beginning to say, ‘Here, let me try,’ when there was a snap and the door swung open.

  ‘Right,’ she said, seizing her handbag. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘He’s coming back,’ cried Charles. ‘Back in the room. He’s probably got that gun with him.’

  They darted back into the room and shut the door.

  They heard Peter come in. Then they heard splashing sounds and the air was filled with the smell of petrol.

  ‘He’s going to burn us to death,’ whispered Agatha. She took out her phone and called the police. ‘Number fifty-two B Carriage Way, Lewisham,’ she said urgently. ‘Armed man with shotgun about to burn the place down. For God’s sake, hurry!’

  The sinister splashing sounds continued outside.

  ‘Give me one of those car radios,’ whispered Charles.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just get it. We’ll be burned to a crisp if we don’t do anything.’

  Agatha handed him a radio.

  The door had not locked again. Charles eased it open. Peter was holding a can of petrol. His back was to Charles.

  Charles raised the radio and brought it down with all his force on the back of Peter’s head. Peter slumped unconscious to the floor.

  ‘Come on, Aggie,’ shouted Charles. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  They ran out and up the stairs and leaned against the railings, panting.

  ‘Where the hell are the police?’ raged Charles.

  At least we’re safe.’ Agatha opened her handbag and lit a cigarette.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that. I hate smoking.’

  ‘You smoke yourself – that is, when you can pinch someone else’s cigarettes.’

  ‘I don’t any more. Haven’t you heard about the dangers of passive smoking?’

  ‘Bollocks. We’re in the polluted open air of London.’

  ‘You’ll get wrinkles.’ Charles seized the cigarette from Agatha’s fingers and threw it down the area steps.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ Agatha raged. Then there was a whumph and a sheet of flame roared up from the area steps just as the police and fire brigade arrived.

  ‘There’s a man in there,’ shouted Charles.

  ‘Stand back,’ ordered a police inspector.

  Agatha and Charles clutched each other as firemen shot water down into the basement.

  ‘Now, who are you?’ demanded the police inspector, ‘And who’s in there?’

  More police had raced up the stairs to evacuate the flat above.

  ‘In a moment,’ said Agatha, watching anxiously as firemen with breathing apparatus began to descend the area steps.

  She sighed with relief when a fireman slowly emerged with Peter slung over his shoulder.

  Ambulance men rushed forward. Peter was put on a stretcher and an oxygen mask was placed over his face.

  ‘Now,’ said the police inspector.

  Charles and Agatha eyed each other anxiously. Charles did not want to admit they had started the fire.

  They gave their names and then began the long explanation of why they were there. ‘I hit him with a car radio and knocked him out,’ said Charles. ‘That’s how we made our escape. You see, it was when I called him Mr Silen that he panicked.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we believe he’s Pete Silen, not Peter Brody. He was Charles Black’s partner in the jewel theft – that is the Charles Black who has just been charged with murder.’

  ‘So how did the fire start?’ asked the inspector. ‘I mean, it obviously started after you had knocked him out.’

  Charles looked at Agatha. ‘It was that man,’ said Agatha. ‘He was walking past smoking and he threw his cigarette down the area steps. Silen must have splashed some petrol outside as well as inside.’

  ‘You’d best come down to the police station and make a full statement.’

  Mrs Bloxby answered the door and found James Lacey on the steps.

  ‘Mr Lacey. How nice. Do come in. How was your holiday?’

  He followed her into the vicarage drawing room and sat down on the sofa with a sigh. ‘Not very good, actually.’

  Mrs Bloxby had no intention of telling him that she knew he had deserted Agatha.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We could have left Snoth-on-Sea . . .’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a place I used to go to with my parents as a boy. I thought Agatha would love it, but it had all changed for the worse. Then there was this murder. When the police told us we were free to leave, Agatha refused to budge, so I went to the south of France to stay with friends who have a B and B there. I sent her a postcard, giving her the address and asking her to join me, but she didn’t. I can’t understand it.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Mrs Bloxby gently. ‘You left her in the middle of a murder inquiry and then expected her to make her own way to the south of France?’

  ‘Put like that, it sounds bad. But she agreed to go on holiday with me. Maybe I should go back and give her a hand. She has a talent for running into danger.’

  ‘I believe Sir Charles is still with her.’

  I’m enjoying this, thought Mrs Bloxby. Oh dear.

  James’s face darkened. ‘That’s all right then. I had better go home and get on with my work.’

  As he walked from the vicarage, he felt the pangs of emotional indigestion. James was not used to feeling guilty, particularly about anything to do with Agatha. He tried to tell himself that it was all her own fault, but finally came to the miserable conclusion that he had behaved like a selfish bastard. Agatha had spoilt him by being always adoring and always available. He had an uneasy feeling that he had lost her respect and affection for good.

  It was evening by the time Charles and Agatha were released by the police. They were both tired and
felt bludgeoned by all the questioning. As they drove off, Agatha said, ‘They made me feel like a criminal. Why hadn’t we shared our suspicions with the police? What would they have done? We were only looking for someone called Peter. I mean, who would have thought that it would be Pete Silen?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent, Aggie. We hoped it might turn out to be Silen.’

  ‘But we didn’t really expect to find him!’

  ‘I’m hungry. All we’ve had is a sandwich. Let’s stop somewhere and eat.’

  Agatha was too tired to want to waste time sitting in some restaurant, so they bought takeaway burgers, fries and Cokes and had them in the car.

  ‘Nothing like junk food when you’re feeling miserable. Now, back to the hotel. I could sleep for hours.’

  It was midnight when they reached the hotel. They were confronted by a policeman on duty. ‘Mrs Raisin? Sir Charles Fraith? You are to report to the police station immediately.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the night,’ wailed Agatha.

  ‘Those are my orders.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Charles wearily. ‘May as well get it over with.’

  Detective Inspector Barret and Detective Sergeant Wilkins were waiting for them in an interview room. Barret looked angry.

  ‘You had important information about this case that you did not report to the police. You should have told us about Pete Silen.’

  ‘It was only a guess,’ said Agatha. ‘We were only checking up on one of Mrs Jankers’s old dancing partners. How were we to know he’d turn out to be a villain?’

  ‘In the future, I want you to report anything significant to us before you set out to investigate it. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Stop shouting at me. I’m tired and I was nearly killed.’ To Agatha’s horror a tear slid down her cheek.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said Charles angrily. ‘All this could have waited until the morning.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Barret. ‘I’ll let you go. But remember, your amateur efforts are impeding a police investigation.’

  ‘How?’ yelled Agatha. ‘If it hadn’t been for us, the police would never have got Pete Silen.’

  ‘Come on, Aggie,’ said Charles. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  When Agatha finally said goodnight to Charles and was undressing, the phone rang. ‘Now what?’ she muttered, picking up the receiver.

  It was Harry Beam. ‘I’ve been trying you all evening,’ he said. ‘It was on television about Pete Silen.’

  ‘Couldn’t this call have waited until the morning?’

  ‘It was just this. Did you know that Fred Jankers and his late missus lived in Lewisham? In fact, I think Fred still has a house there.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s quiet at the agency. Why don’t I go to Lewisham and make some inquiries. Maybe the neighbours know a bit about the late Geraldine. There might be some other man in the picture. Do the police think Pete killed Geraldine?’

  ‘I gather he has an alibi. All right, Harry. Go to Lewisham but keep in touch.’

  Agatha rang off and got out of the rest of her clothes. She cleaned off her make-up but was too tired to take a shower. She crawled into bed and lay there shivering.

  She could hear the sound of the waves pounding against the promenade outside.

  There was a knock at the door and she let out a whimper of terror. ‘Who’s there?’ she called.

  ‘It’s me. Charles.’

  Agatha crawled out of bed and unlocked the door. ‘I brought some brandy,’ said Charles. ‘Funnily enough, I can’t sleep. Thought you might need a nightcap.’

  ‘I could do with something,’ said Agatha. ‘I think I’m suffering from delayed shock. Aren’t we supposed to be drinking hot sweet tea?’

  ‘Probably. But brandy is cheerier.’

  Charles found two tooth mugs in the bathroom and poured generous measures of brandy. He was wrapped in a brightly coloured dressing gown. Agatha had got back into bed. He handed her a glass of brandy and then sat on the bed beside her.

  ‘Cheers, Aggie.’

  ‘Cheers,’ echoed Agatha.

  After two glasses of brandy she began to feel warm and sleepy. She placed the empty glass on the bedside table, leaned back against the pillows, closed her eyes and fell instantly asleep.

  Charles did not feel like going back to his own room. He got under the blankets next to her in the double bed and was soon asleep as well.

  The ringing of the telephone on the bedside table next to him woke him in the morning. Charles picked it up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is James Lacey. I want to speak to Agatha. Is that you, Charles? What are you doing in her room?’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Charles cheerfully.

  The phone at the other end was slammed down.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Agatha sleepily.

  ‘Some idiot wanting to know if we want breakfast. Go back to sleep. It’s only seven in the morning.’

  Harry Beam arrived in Lewisham the following morning armed with Fred Jankers’s address, which had appeared in several of the newspapers after the murder of his wife.

  The address was on the outskirts of Lewisham in a builder’s development called Rosedown, where all the two-storeyed houses were identical and had a raw, recently built look. Harry had hoped to break in, but the gardens had no concealing trees or bushes. He was driving his white van.

  He had with him a series of lock picks, but he knew it would take some time to open one of the doors and did not want to be observed by any of the neighbours as he fumbled with the lock.

  He also did not want to spend all day waiting for darkness. He drove off until he found a quiet stretch outside an industrial estate. He stopped and got a pair of workman’s overalls out of the van and a toolbox.

  Then he returned to the house, stopped the van, and walked confidently up to the house and round to the back door. To his relief, there was a high hedge screening the back garden. He pulled on a pair of thin latex gloves and got to work with the lock picks. After a quarter of an hour, he managed to get the door open.

  He found himself in the kitchen. It was a mess; Geraldine Jankers had obviously not bothered to clean up before she and her husband left. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink and there were the remains of a breakfast on the table.

  He moved quietly through to the living room. A low coffee table was covered with glasses and bottles. Newspapers and magazines were scattered about. A set of bookshelves did not hold any books but various photographs of Geraldine. He went across a small square hall and opened a door on the other side, which revealed a dining room that looked as if it had hardly been used. He shut the door on it and opened a door next to it.

  This, he judged, had been Fred’s study. Unlike the other rooms, it was neat and tidy. Here were shelves of well-read books and a desk by the window had neatly arranged papers on it. He debated whether to pull the curtains, but decided against it. No one was moving on the street outside. He sat down and began to go through the papers. There was nothing of interest on the top of the desk except bills due to be paid. He opened the drawers. In a deep left-hand drawer he found clearly marked files – tax, VAT, insurance, bank – and decided it would not be worth going through them. He opened the right-hand drawer and found a file marked ‘Personal Correspondence’ and lifted it out.

  At first, the contents seemed disappointing. Fred belonged to a bowling club and there were letters inviting him to various functions connected with it. There was one from Wayne saying he was looking forward to the holiday at Snoth-on-Sea. Modern Harry was amazed that people still wrote letters instead of texting messages, but he had noticed that Fred did not appear to own a computer. There was one from a ballroom dancing class, querying Fred’s non-attendance. Then he found a small square envelope and opened it up.

  The message was written in block capitals and simply said, IF YOU MARRY GERALDINE IT WILL BE THE WORSE FOR YOU. It was signed ARCHIE SWALE.

  Harry whistled
under his breath. Here was something at last. Archie Swale was the old geezer who lived in Brighton and who had been married to Geraldine. He carefully replaced the letter in the file and put everything back in the desk.

  He then proceeded to search the rest of the house. In the main bedroom, he searched through the bedside tables without finding anything of significance. He ripped the duvet and sheets off the bed and lifted up the mattress.

  Lying on the box spring and gleaming in the faint light coming through the window he saw two gold watches, a diamond brooch, a sapphire-and-diamond necklace and four gold chains. So Charlie Black didn’t get all the jewellery, he thought. Did Fred know about this?

  Harry carefully made the bed up again. He went quietly downstairs and let himself out. Fortunately for him, the lock clicked back into place.

  He walked briskly to his van and drove off. Once he was well clear, he stopped the van and phoned Agatha on her mobile and told her what he had found.

  ‘The police should know about that jewellery,’ said Agatha, ‘but we can’t tell them. And what about old Archie Swale? He can’t have killed Geraldine. He’s just not strong enough. Maybe that letter was simply to warn Fred what he was letting himself in for by marrying Geraldine. Good work, Harry. Charles and I will pay Archie a visit.’

  Agatha and Charles drove to Medlow Square in Brighton to confront Archie Swale. ‘We’d better try to find out what he was doing on the night of the murder,’ whispered Agatha.

  But when she saw Archie again as he stood in the doorway – elderly and frail – her heart sank. He surely could never have had the strength to strangle someone like Geraldine.

  She introduced Charles, stressing his title. ‘Where’s the other fellow?’ asked Archie.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Agatha, privately relieved to note that for the first time in her life she really did not care where James was. ‘We just wanted to ask you a few more questions.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Archie reluctantly. ‘You’d better come in.’

  When they were seated, Agatha asked, ‘Did the police ask you where you were the night Geraldine was murdered?’

  ‘The police haven’t been near me, I’m glad to say.’