Charles stood up and began to prowl about the room.
As a matter of interest, where were you?’ asked Agatha.
‘Here, watching television.’
Agatha decided to lie. ‘Mr Jankers said you sent him a threatening letter telling him it would be the worse for him if he married Geraldine.’
‘I was just giving him a friendly warning from one man to another.’
‘But your letter sounded threatening.’
‘Wasn’t meant that way. Look, I’ve been pretty patient with you, but you aren’t the police. Get out and don’t come here again.’
Archie’s face was red with anger.
‘Don’t you want to find out who murdered your ex-wife?’ asked Agatha.
‘The only reason I would want to know would be to shake him by the hand. Now, get the hell out of here!’
He loomed over her, suddenly seeming powerful in his rage.
Agatha rose shakily and edged round him. ‘Come along, Charles,’ she said.
Outside, Agatha rounded on Charles. ‘You were a fat lot of help.’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, sweetie. I was looking at photographs. Do you know old Archie used to be in the paratroopers? There was a regimental photo of him and his buddies in that dark corner by the fireplace. He must have been very tough at one time.’
They got in the car. ‘Well, he isn’t tough now,’ said Agatha.
‘Think about it,’ said Charles. ‘A dark night, a man in a rage, a man who’s been taught to kill. Geraldine all unsuspecting. She turns her back on him. He seizes the scarf and twists it tight. He’s still got powerful hands. Didn’t you notice?’
‘I don’t think it could be him,’ said Agatha stubbornly. ‘I mean, Charlie Black didn’t need to do the murder himself. He could have sent one of his villainous friends. Told him to find out from her where the jewels were and get them. Geraldine refuses and the villain loses his rag and murders her.’
‘My money’s on Archie,’ said Charles.
James Lacey was once more Carsely’s most wanted single man. Before she left, Agatha had bragged to Miss Simms, secretary of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, about her holiday with James. Miss Simms had told the other members, and so it was noticed that James had returned on his own.
A newcomer to the village, Deborah Fanshawe, was particularly interested. She was in her forties, recently divorced, rich and attractive. She was a tall, leggy woman with masses of brown curly hair and a great deal of energy. Deborah was the ladies’ society’s newest member and considered a great acquisition. She organized sales of work and outings for the aged. She seemed to be indefatigable. Only Mrs Bloxby found her somewhat wearisome. When Deborah appeared on her doorstep yet again one morning, the vicar’s wife found it hard to hide her irritation.
‘I am very busy, Mrs Fanshawe,’ she said.
‘Just wanted a word,’ said Deborah cheerfully.
‘Oh, come in, but you can’t stay long.’
Deborah sprawled out on the sofa. She always wore very short skirts and Mrs Bloxby averted her eyes from those long legs and the skirt that was hitched up to show an edge of frilly knickers.
‘It’s about James Lacey,’ said Deborah. ‘I am most definitely interested.’
Mrs Bloxby turned her mild gaze on her and said nothing.
‘How do you think I should go about getting him?’
‘My dear Mrs Fanshawe. That is entirely up to you. I have no advice to give.’
‘But you’re a friend of this Agatha Raisin. Is he still keen on her?’
‘I suggest you ask him. Now, if there is nothing further . . .’
Deborah pouted and got to her feet. ‘Well, I’ll get him. Just you see.’
The vicar came in when Deborah had left. ‘Who was that?’
‘Mrs Fanshawe.’
‘Tremendous lady. Such a help in the parish.’
‘I think she has too many hormones,’ said Mrs Bloxby and walked off to the kitchen, leaving her husband staring after her.
Agatha and Charles returned to the hotel. Betty Teller was once more at the reception desk. She handed Agatha her key and then said, ‘Letter for you.’
Agatha took the envelope. It had only her name on the front. It must have been delivered by hand.
She ripped it open. Written in block capitals was the simple message: YOU’RE DEAD.
Chapter Seven
Charles looked over her shoulder. ‘Could be some nutter.’
‘I’m taking this to the police,’ said Agatha.
‘Do you mind going on your own? I’m tired.’
‘Charles! Someone could be out there waiting to murder me!’
‘Tell you what, Aggie. Go up to your room. If you go to the police station, by the time they’ve finished with you the tide will be up and you’ll need to run the gauntlet of the waves. They’ll send someone.’
All right,’ said Agatha reluctantly.
Once in her room, she saw the bottle of brandy Charles had brought the night before. She poured herself a stiff measure and then phoned the police station and asked to speak to Barret.
When he came on the line, she told him about the threatening letter. ‘I’ll send someone to collect it,’ said Barret. ‘We’ll let forensics have a look at it. It’s your own fault. You should go back to Shitface-on-the-Wold, or wherever it is you come from.’
‘I run a successful detective agency in Mircester,’ said Agatha crossly.
‘Whatever. I’ll have someone along there in the next half-hour.’
Agatha sat and sipped her brandy. Then she decided to go down to reception and wait for the policeman.
When he finally arrived, he was soaking wet. He took the letter from her and put it in an envelope.
‘Now I have to go back out and dodge the waves,’ he said crossly. ‘Two people were swept out to sea last year. If the council don’t do something about it soon, we’ll have more drownings, not to mention the whole front falling into the sea.’
When he had left, Agatha realized she was hungry. She went to the desk and phoned Charles’s room. There was no reply.
She could wait until the tide retreated and go out into the town for something to eat. Agatha decided to brave the dining room in the hope that the food would not be so awful as the last time.
The dining room was empty except for Fred Jankers. The press had gone.
He looked across the room and saw her. ‘Please join me,’ he said.
Agatha thought he looked much better. He had regained colour in his cheeks and some sparkle in his eyes.
‘What’s on the menu this evening?’ asked Agatha, sitting down opposite him.
‘I don’t know. The chef has left now that there’s so few of us to cook for. They’ve got some woman in from the town. We’re supposed to take pot luck.’
A waitress appeared bearing two bowls of soup. Agatha tentatively tasted it and then her eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘This is delicious,’ she said. ‘Ham-and-pea soup.’
It was hard to make conversation because of the din of the waves outside. The soup was followed by roast lamb, roast potatoes and peas.
Fred suggested they order wine, but Agatha refused, so he ordered a half-bottle for himself.
‘I don’t know which has upset me more,’ said Fred, ‘the murder of my wife or this business about the jewels. I really didn’t know anything about them. Poor Geraldine was a dark horse. They’re going to release her body for burial. I suppose I’ll have to bury Wayne and Chelsea as well.’
‘Won’t Chelsea’s parents be responsible for her funeral?’
‘She was an orphan. She lived with an aunt, but the aunt told me she didn’t want to know anything about it. Quite shocking. She said she always knew Chelsea would come to a bad end.’
‘Why?’
‘She didn’t like Wayne and she hated poor Geraldine. Made quite a scene at the wedding, she did. Drunk, of course.’
‘Who inherits now that Wayne is dead?’
‘Did she ever talk about Archie Swale, her ex?’
‘No, she never did. Never talked about Charlie either. She would say, “The past is past.” One of her favourite sayings.’
I’ll bet it was, thought Agatha cynically.
Charles paced up and down his room, wondering what to do. When the phone had rung, he had not answered it, being sure it was Agatha. His manservant, Gustav, had rung him on his mobile and said that Guy and Cynthia Partington were coming on a visit. They were Charles’s great friends. They lived outside Inverness and he had enjoyed their hospitality during the grouse season.
But it would mean leaving Agatha in the lurch. He was tempted simply to pack up and disappear, except that Agatha might think he had been kidnapped and call out the police.
The really cheap and caddish thing would be to wait until she had gone to sleep and leave a note at the desk downstairs for her. Charles decided at last that the caddish way was the easiest.
He hung the DO NOT DISTURB notice outside his door and began to pack. The phone rang twice and then Agatha knocked at his door and called out, ‘Charles, are you there?’
Affecting a sleepy voice, he shouted, ‘I’m awfully tired. Going to sleep.’
‘See you in the morning,’ called Agatha.
Charles sat down to write that note. He lied and said that Gustav had phoned him in the middle of the night and that he had had to leave immediately. He waited until one in the morning, and then, carrying his suitcase, took the creaky lift downstairs. He handed the note to the night receptionist, Nick Loncar.
‘I’ll just get your bill, sir,’ called Nick to Charles’s retreating back. Charles turned and reluctantly approached the desk. He handed over a credit card and waited impatiently while Nick made out a receipt.
Then he walked out of the hotel and round to the car park.
The next morning, Agatha tried phoning Charles’s room. No reply. She decided to go down for breakfast, hoping that the splendid local woman was on duty in the kitchen.
She was relieved to see the dining room was empty. Conversation with Fred had died the previous evening over the apple crumble. He had looked suddenly tired and had said he did not want to wait for coffee.
Betty Teller came in and handed her an envelope. ‘This was left for you,’ she said.
Agatha opened it gingerly, expecting another threatening letter. To her amazement, it was from Charles. ‘Dear Aggie,’ Charles had written. ‘Got phoned by Gustav in the middle of the night. My aunt is very ill. Didn’t want to wake you. Have to dash. Will phone. Love, Charles.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ muttered Agatha. ‘His aunt’s as strong as a horse.’ She knew Charles’s aunt lived with him and sometimes answered the phone. She took out her mobile and dialled Charles’s number. His aunt answered. ‘Agatha Raisin here,’ said Agatha. ‘I heard you were very ill and –’
‘Absolute nonsense,’ came the robust voice. ‘Goodbye.’
Agatha felt bereft. Charles knew that someone had threatened her and yet he had decided to clear off.
She stared across the bleak expanse of the dining room and tried not to cry. Then she decided to take action. She phoned Patrick. ‘Can the agency spare you?’ she asked. ‘I need some help down here.’
‘I don’t think a few days would hurt,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll drive down today.’ Agatha told him all she had learned so far and then rang off.
A waitress served her breakfast – fluffy scrambled eggs and bacon and a pot of excellent coffee. Despite her misery, Agatha resolved to tell Mr Beeston, the manager, that if he paid the local woman a good salary he might entice customers back to his hotel.
After breakfast she decided to go out shopping. The hotel did not have a laundry service and she was tired of washing out her underwear in the handbasin in her room. Much easier to buy new stuff.
She walked to the promenade wall and looked out to sea. The tide was out and grey choppy waves stretched to the horizon under a grey sky.
Agatha had a sudden longing to be back in Carsely with her cats. Although she knew Charles’s friendship was often fickle, she felt abandoned. The new Agatha Raisin, she told herself firmly, must give up any emotional reliance on men. Bugger them all. Who needed them?
She turned up a side street that led to the main street. There was a sex shop with a colourful display of gadgets in the window. A group of schoolgirls were staring in the window and giggling.
Whatever happened to romance? thought Agatha. Or will these girls grow up more sensible than me, never expecting any knight on a white charger to come along?
She went into Marks and Spencer and bought herself six pairs of knickers and three brassieres.
Agatha was emerging from the shop with her purchases when she collided with a tall man. Her shopping bags fell to the ground. ‘Here! Let me.’ He stooped and gathered up her bags and handed them to her. ‘Sorry about that. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
Agatha smiled up at him. He was well dressed in a tailored suit and dark overcoat. His face was thin and tanned and his hair properly barbered.
‘I recognize you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re that woman detective. I saw your photo in the local paper. You must have a fascinating life. I say, have you time for a coffee?’
‘That would be nice,’ said Agatha. ‘You haven’t introduced yourself.’
‘I’m Terry Armstrong.’
They walked together along the street. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Agatha.
‘I’m a builder. My men are working on some new houses locally. Here’s a café. It’s not too bad.’
He opened the door and ushered her in.
It was an old-fashioned tea shop, perhaps a relic of the days when James Lacey was a boy. There were lace covers on the tables and a large central wooden stand with layers of gorgeous-looking cakes.
Agatha took stock of her new companion. His accent was London, or so she thought. In her youth, each district of London had its separate accent, but now there was just one, if you excluded the Cockneys.
‘Have you been on holiday?’ she asked. ‘That tan never came out of a bottle.’
‘I’ve got a place in Marbella.’
‘Building trade must be good.’
‘I do pretty well.’
A waitress came up. He ordered a pot of coffee. Agatha refused an offer of cake.
‘So tell me about your job,’ he asked.
‘If you’ve read the newspapers, I’m afraid you’ll know as much as I do,’ said Agatha. ‘The police have arrested Charlie Black, the man who robbed the jeweller’s, and now they’ve got Pete Silen, his partner, as well.’
‘I read about Pete Silen. He nearly killed you.’
Agatha happily launched into a highly exaggerated account of her adventures in Lewisham.
When she had finished, he asked, ‘And what about this friend of yours who was with you? Is he back at the hotel?’
Agatha’s face darkened. ‘He cleared off sometime during the night.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid he’s like that.’
‘It’s bit boring down here. What about joining me for dinner tonight?’
‘I’d like that,’ said Agatha, feeling her spirits soar. Damn Charles and James. She still had pulling power.
He said he would pick her up at her hotel at eight. ‘I know a good place well outside of town,’ he said.
Agatha walked back to the hotel with a light heart. She spent the rest of the day on her laptop, writing down everything about the case, and then she printed it all out on her portable printer to show to Patrick when he arrived.
Patrick turned up in the late afternoon. He settled down in Agatha’s room and carefully studied her notes. He tapped a page. ‘Is it possible this old boy, Archie Swale, might have murdered his ex-wife?’
‘I feel
doubtful about that. Charles appeared to think so.’
‘We could drive over to Brighton this evening. I’d like to get a look at him.’
‘He wouldn’t see us. Besides, I’ve got a date.’
‘Who?’
Agatha grinned. ‘Just a fellow who picked me up.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Not like you to be so curious about my personal life. Oh, well. He bumped into me as I was coming out of M and S in the High Street. He apologized. He then said he recognized me from my photo in the local paper and wanted to hear all about my work. We had coffee and he’s invited me out for dinner.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a builder. But a rich one. He’s got a place in Marbella.’
‘So have a lot of villains.’
‘He’s not a villain,’ said Agatha hotly. ‘Do you mean to say a man can’t be attracted to me?’
She glared at him.
‘No, no,’ mumbled Patrick. ‘When is he picking you up?’
‘At eight o’clock.’
Patrick studied her flushed face in silence. Then he said, ‘I’ll run over to Brighton and wait outside this Swale’s house. I’ll get a better idea about him if I can see him.’
‘How’s Phil Marshall getting on?’
‘He’s amazing for his age. Never stops working. He says there’s a newcomer in the village.’
‘Who?’
‘A widow called Deborah Fanshawe, hell-bent on chasing your ex.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘Phil says she’s very attractive.’
I don’t care any more, Agatha told herself fiercely. I’ve got a date. I’m moving on.
Agatha had gone out shopping again for her date. The dresses she had brought when she had expected to be going somewhere warm and glamorous were too filmy for this cold British summer. If anyone talks about global warming again, thought Agatha, I’ll strike them.
She chose a white silk blouse with a plunging neckline and a black skirt cut on the bias. A pink pashmina completed the ensemble.
Agatha felt rejuvenated when she went down the stairs that evening to find Terry waiting for her. To her surprise, he was dressed in jeans, a donkey jacket and a plaid shirt.
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor Page 9