Agatha Raisin Love, Lies and Liquor ar-17 Read online

  “I should really have waited for the press,” said Agatha. “It pays to advertise and I’ve got a business to run.”

  “You’ve said it all. Let’s just hope Regan Enterprises don’t sue.”

  “I said ‘in my opinion.’ They haven’t a leg to stand on.”

  “We’ll see. But unless these casino people have the local police in their pockets, I think after what you said appears in the papers, they might feel obliged to look closely at Regan Enterprises.”

  Over dinner in a pub, Agatha at last found the courage to ask, “What was it you’ve been trying to say to me?”

  James took a deep breath. “I just wanted to say I was sorry I brought you to such a dreadful place for a holiday and I’m sorry I went off like that and left you.”

  A broad smile lit Agatha’s face. “Apology accepted.”

  He felt suddenly embarrassed. “Do you think I could get a bowl of ice? My hand’s throbbing dreadfully. In the movies, the hero socks everyone in sight and yet his hands don’t seem to suffer.”

  “Poor you,” said Agatha, feeling very wifely. She signalled to a waitress and ordered some ice. Then she tried to fight down the reanimation of her feelings for James. That way led to hurt. She had been enjoying her previous detachment from him.

  She began to talk about Regan Enterprises. “Do you know anyone in the City who could find out anything?”

  “I’ve got a stockbroker friend. I could call him.”

  The ice arrived. He wrapped some in a napkin and pressed it against his knuckles.

  Then he suddenly smiled at Agatha.

  “Well, here we are again,” he said.

  TEN

  “THERE’S so much to find out,” said Agatha, taking out a small notebook. “First: How much was Geraldine worth, and who inherits? Could be her dear old buddy Cyril. Second: Must check up how Fred’s businesses are doing. Third: Does Hammond have a criminal record? And fourth: Who’s behind Regan Enterprises?”

  “I’ll phone my stockbroker friend in the morning and see if he can dig up anything on Regan Enterprises for me,” said James. “You forgot a fifth thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That mysterious flask of coffee in your room. Have the police found out if anything was in it? You have a right to ask the police for information on that.”

  “Okay. I think I’ll just ask Fred outright who inherits,” said Agatha. “He’s bound to know by now. I might phone Harry in the morning and ask him to check up on Fred’s businesses. I want to give him as much to do as possible. He’s so good. I wish he didn’t have to go off to university.”

  “Is Charles staying long?” asked James.

  “I think he’ll probably have left by the morning,’’ said Agatha.

  Back at the hotel James escorted Agatha to her room and hesitated outside the door. Then he bent and kissed her on the cheek, and with a brief “Goodnight” strolled along the corridor to his own room at the end.

  “Men are impossible,” muttered Agatha. She put the large brass key in the lock, and then hesitated. She should have asked James to wait to make sure no one was lurking inside. She took a deep breath, unlocked the door and flung it open. She felt round it for the light switch and pressed it down. No light.

  With a screech of alarm she ran along the corridor and hammered on James’s door.

  He jerked the door open and stared down into her frightened face. “What’s up?’

  “The light won’t come on in my room!”

  “Come in. Don’t go back. We’ll call the police.”

  Agatha sat on the edge of the bed shivering, listening to him call.

  “They’ll be along in a minute,” he said, replacing the phone.

  But it was half an hour before a tired-looking Detective Sergeant Wilkins arrived flanked by two police officers.

  They went along to Agatha’s room. Agatha waited, trembling, in the corridor. Then Wilkins came back holding a spent light bulb.

  “You need a new light bulb inside the door, that’s all. The bedside lamps work.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to have dragged you out.”

  “You’re trouble, that’s what you are,” said Wilkins. “I heard all about the row at the town hall.”

  “Someone has to stand up to people like that,” exclaimed Agatha.

  “Okay, so why does it have to be you? I’m off.”

  “Wait,” cried Agatha as he was walking away, following the two policemen.

  “What is it now?”

  “Who inherits Geraldine Jankers’s money now that her son is dead?”

  “Don’t see any harm in you knowing. That friend of hers, Cyril Hammond.”

  “Was it much?”

  “A lot, believe you me. Now, if you want any more details, you’d better contact her solicitor.”

  He turned away again.

  “Wait!”

  “Mrs. Raisin, I’m tired. You drag me out on a silly errand and—”

  “Does Cyril Hammond have a criminal record?”

  He smiled. “Now, that’s the benefit of being in the force and not an amateur like you. Goodnight.”

  “Pillock,” muttered Agatha. “Sorry, James, I’d better get off to bed. But it was worth it to find out that Cyril inherits. He’s a sleazy creep. I can imagine him luring her down to the beach. I wonder if he has the rest of the jewels. I’d like a look at his room.”

  “Agatha, he wouldn’t carry them around with him.”

  “But he might have given Dawn one piece. Wayne gave Chelsea that necklace.”

  “Can we talk about this in the morning? I’m tired.”

  “Okay. Goodnight.”

  Agatha went along to her room. The door was still open. She went in and fumbled her way over to the bedside lamps and switched them on. She hurriedly undressed, washed and crawled into bed, but she left the lights burning.

  Charles called at the hospital early the next morning to collect Deborah.

  “Can you carry my bag, darling?” asked Deborah. “It’s just a few things of mine I got that nurse to collect for me from the hotel.”

  “Right,” said Charles, although that “darling” made him feel uneasy. But Deborah looked very attractive. She must be very strong and healthy, he thought, to come through that ordeal and look as though nothing had happened.

  “Is that your car?” asked Deborah, as Charles led the way to a rather old and battered BMW.

  “Yes, good old thing. Had it for years.”

  “I can see that.” Need to make him get something more fitting when we’re married, thought Deborah.

  When they arrived at the hotel, it was to find the reception crammed with reporters, photographers and television crews.

  “Good heavens!” said Deborah. “This all must be for me.” She raised her voice. “Here I am!”

  “Here she is!” cried a reporter. But no one was turning in Deborah’s direction. They were all focusing on Agatha Raisin, who who was descending the stairs.

  Agatha faced a barrage of questions. Why had she hinted that laundered money might be used in the building of the casino? Did she know Regan Enterprises had withdrawn their offer? There was to be no casino in Snoth.

  Back in Mircester, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, Agatha’s very first friend, watched the press conference with amusement. It was his day off. He knew of old that Agatha blundered around cases and then sometimes had brilliant flashes of intuition. That remark of hers about laundered money must have sent Regan Enterprises running for cover. If there was nothing in it, he was sure they would have gone ahead with their plans for the casino whatever the townspeople thought. A local television cameraman who had been at the town hall the night before had filmed Agatha making her speech. There were clips of it interposed throughout the press conference.

  Then the smile left his face. Did Agatha know that if Regan Enterprises was a dicey operation and she had ruined their plans, they would be out for blood? Her blood.

  Harry and Phil watched the sam
e conference on a small television set in their office.

  “You have to hand it to her,” said Phil. “She’s quite a lady.”

  “She’s a lady who is now in serious danger, if she wasn’t before,” said Harry. “Look, Phil, could we put a few of the minor cases on hold? I’m going down there. She’ll need all the help she can get.”

  Mrs. Bloxby was enjoying a quiet cup of tea when the vicarage doorbell went. She sighed and got to her feet. That was the trouble with being a vicar’s wife. The villagers felt free to call any time they felt like it.

  She opened the door and looked at the neatly dressed businessman standing outside.

  “Can I help you?”

  “My name is John Belling,” he said, a smile crinkling his tanned face. “I am thinking of buying somewhere in the village. Do you know if there’s anything for sale?”

  “There isn’t anything at the moment,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Or not that I know of. But sometimes people don’t like estate agents’ boards being put up. You could try some estate agents in Moreton-in-Marsh or Chipping Campden.”

  “I heard an old friend of mine, Agatha Raisin, lives here.”

  “You are unlucky. She is away at the moment.”

  “What a pity. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to make a bid for her cottage.”

  “Mrs. Raisin has no intention of selling.”

  “I am sure her cottage will be vacant very soon.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I’m psychic.” Again that smile.

  Mrs. Bloxby was suddenly afraid. “You must excuse me,” she said hurriedly. “I’ve left something on the stove.”

  She shut the door and went quickly to the phone and telephoned Bill Wong. She breathlessly repeated the conversation she’d had with her visitor. “Right,” said Bill when she’d finished. “I’ll be over with some men right away. I don’t like the sound of this.”

  Mrs. Bloxby then phoned Agatha. Alarmed, Agatha asked for a description, and when Mrs. Bloxby finished, she said, “I think you’ve just had a visit from that drug baron, Brian McNally. Have you told the police?”

  “Yes, Bill Wong is on his way over. Oh, do be careful, Agatha. Can’t you and James go away for that holiday? Get out of the country?”

  Agatha had taken the phone call at the reception desk. She went back to join James, who looked at her anxiously. She was trembling and her face was white. In a faltering voice she told him about Mrs. Bloxby’s call. “I’m running out of courage, James,” said Agatha and burst into tears.

  She wanted him to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he handed her a large clean handkerchief and said, “Let’s go into the bar and talk about this. You need a stiff drink.”

  Agatha gulped and blew her nose and went with him into the bar. “This has become too dangerous,” said James. “I think we should get away.”

  Agatha dried her eyes and looked miserably at the smears of make-up on what had once been James’s clean handkerchief.

  “We can see Barret,” urged James. “He’ll be glad to see the back of us. We’ll get in my car tomorrow and go over to France and tour around.”

  “I feel such a wimp,” said Agatha. “I’m terrified. Yes, we’ll go.”

  “Good girl. Let’s see Barret.”

  Barret looked relieved. He had received a call from the Mircester police, who were combing the area looking for Mrs. Bloxby’s mysterious caller.

  “I forgot to phone Harry,” said Agatha. “I meant to tell him to go to Lewisham and check on Fred’s businesses. Then you’ve got to find out if your stockbroker friend can find anything.”

  “Agatha,” said James gently. “None of that matters now. We’re leaving.”

  “So we are,” said Agatha dully. “I forgot.”

  It was not just the mysterious caller that had broken Agatha, it was the memory of that abduction. She felt she could not face any more adventures.

  Said James, “I’ll get my car and we’ll stay away from the hotel for the rest of the day. Then we’ll get back this evening and pack. There’s nothing here to keep us any longer.”

  “We’ll probably never know who killed Geraldine,” said Agatha.

  “Does it matter? She was a pretty dreadful woman.”

  Agatha walked silently beside him, but she felt it did matter. She had never run away from a case before.

  Charles Fraith was feeling hunted. He, too, was out walking, but with Deborah, a Deborah who seemed to become more pushing and more pressing with every minute. The fact was that Deborah was still not quite recovered from her ordeal. She had bouts of shivering and a headache over her right temple. So she had thrown subtlety to the winds. She wanted to be Lady Fraith.

  She had her arm through Charles’s and was holding it in a strong grip. “You know, darling,” she said, “I think we’d make a great pair.”

  Panicking slightly, Charles said, “I don’t know what Agatha would say to that.”

  “What’s she got to do with anything?”

  “I more or less promised to marry her,” said Charles.

  “What! She’s running around with her ex!”

  “That’s nothing more than friendship. Agatha’s quite capable of suing me for breach of promise.”

  When the reached the hotel, Charles excused himself and said he had urgent phone calls to make and fled up to his room.

  Deborah hesitated in reception. The whole thing was mad. She would confront Agatha Raisin and get the whole thing sorted out. But she didn’t want to do it in public.

  She went up to the desk. “Is Mrs. Raisin in her room?”

  “No. Out at the moment.”

  “I thought so. I’ve some stuff she wanted me to leave in her room. Could you give me the key?”

  Deborah was still regarded as a local heroine by the staff. Betty, the receptionist, handed over the key.

  Deborah went upstairs and entered Agatha’s room. She sat in a chair by the window looking out at the sea, planning what she would say. The room was half dark from the mass of clouds covering the sky outside.

  Downstairs, Betty looked up as a man in workman’s overalls walked in carrying a tool bag.

  “Got a call the carpet on the upstairs was coming loose,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” said Betty indifferently, turning her eyes back to the magazine she had been reading.

  The wind was blowing strongly and she felt irritated by the crash and thunder of the waves. Added to the noise was the barman next door playing Annie Lennox CDs at full volume.

  The workman came back down.

  “That didn’t take long,” said Betty.

  “Small job,” he said. “See ya.”

  Betty returned to reading an article about Prince William.

  She became aware of someone standing in front of her and, with a sigh, looked up again.

  “Is Mrs. Raisin in?” asked Patrick.

  “No, she’s out,” said Betty, tearing herself out of a fantasy of seeing Prince William walk into the hotel. “But Mrs. Fanshawe is waiting for her in her room.”

  “Why? Why did you give her the key?”

  “Because she said she had some stuff of Mrs. Raisin’s to leave in her room.”

  “You shouldn’t have given her key to anyone. I’ll go and get it back.”

  Patrick mounted the stairs and went along to Agatha’s room. The door was not locked. He opened it and went in.

  He let out an exclamation of horror. There was blood spattered on the walls and a figure slumped in a chair with half its head blown away.

  James and Agatha were driving towards Brighton. Agatha could feel a lifting of her spirits. They would escape tomorrow and she need never see Snoth-on-Sea or that terrible hotel again.

  Her mobile phone rang. “Don’t answer that,” said James.

  “I must tell Patrick that I’m leaving,” said Agatha. “It may be him.”

  It was Patrick, a Patrick unusually flustered and shaken.

  “Better get back here,
” he said. “Deborah Fanshawe has been shot. She was waiting in your room and some hit man must have thought it was you.”

  “We’ll be with you as soon as possible.”

  Agatha switched off her mobile. “Turn the car, James,” she said wearily. “Something truly awful has happened.”

  * * *

  Chaos in front of the hotel—police, photographers, reporters and television crew. For once in her life, ducking her head and avoiding the questions shouted at her, Agatha let James hurry her into the hotel.

  A policewoman approached them. “Mrs. Raisin?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are to go into the bar. You will be interviewed there.”

  They went into the bar. Charles was there looking white and strained. At another table sat Cyril and his wife, Dawn.

  James and Agatha sat down with Charles. “What really happened?” asked James.

  Charles looked more shaken than Agatba had ever seen him look before.

  “It’s all my fault,” he said. “She was so pushy and she was practically on the verge of proposing to me, so I said I was promised to Aggie.”

  “You what?” Agatha stared at him.

  “I just wanted to get her off my back. She must have got the key to your room and decided to confront you, and some villain thought it was you and blasted her head off with a shotgun.”

  “How do you know it was a shotgun?” asked James.

  “Patrick said half her head was missing and there was blood and brains spattered all over the walls.”

  “Can’t we get a drink?” demanded Charles, looking at Agatha’s white face. “Oh, here’s Patrick.”

  Patrick, looking more lugubrious than usual, slumped down in a chair opposite them.

  “What exactly happened?” asked James.

  “It seems Mrs. Fanshawe got the key from Betty saying she had some stuff of Agatha’s to leave in her room. After Mrs. Fanshawe had gone upstairs, a man in worker’s overalls and carrying a tool bag came in and said he was to repair part of the stair carpet She told him to go ahead. After a short time he came back down and walked out of the hotel.”

  “It wasn’t Brian McNally in person,” said Agatha shakily, “because he was in Carsely putting the wind up Mrs. Bloxby by saying he wanted to buy my cottage. I know it must have been him from her description.”