Why did I ever come to this place? thought Agatha, as she trudged along the promenade beside the restless sea. At the end of the prom, she could see the hotel. It looked like a prison. What were they all doing? Playing Scrabble and talking about the weather?
Tired as she was, before she got to the hotel she turned and walked along the pier. There was a fascination in piers, those Victorian structures on the British coastline whose elegant spindly structures led out over the waves with their theatre or dance hall at the end, with their souvenir booths and slot machines. Her heels clacked on the boards. Someone had shovelled a clear pathway through the rapidly melting snow. She longed to be able to go up to her room and pack and get in that rented car and drive as far away as possible. She stood at the end of the pier looking down at the surging waves racing each other toward the shore until she began to shiver.
Wearily, she turned and walked towards the hotel. Mr. Martin was at the desk.
'No calls,' snapped Agatha and went up to her room. Scrabble purred and mewed while Agatha prepared cat food and a bowl of water. She wanted a hot bath but she was so very tired. After Scrabble had been fed, Agatha climbed into bed without undressing, pulled the duvet up to her ears and plunged down into a dreamless sleep.
The Red Lion in Carsely was busy that lunch-time. Publican John Fletcher pulled a pint of Hook Norton for James Lacey and said, 'Our Agatha's in another mess.'
'What? There was nothing in the papers this morning,' said James.
'Heard it on the radio this morning,' said John. 'Some colonel died at that hotel Agatha's staying in. Agatha's been pulled in. Helping police with their inquiries, it said. You should go down there and see if you can help.'
'Her fiance will look after her. He's a police inspector,' sad James grimly and moved away from the bar.
Sir Charles Fraith was driving back to his estate when he heard the news about Agatha on the radio. 'Silly woman,' he muttered. When he got home, he phoned the Garden Hotel but was told that Mrs. Raisin was not taking any calls.
What on earth was going on down there? he wondered. Might be fun to find out. Life had been a bit boring recently and the girl he had thought had fancied him like mad had just got engaged to someone else. He packed an overnight bag, got back in his car and headed south.
Agatha did not awake until evening. She soaked herself in a hot bath, washed her hair, then put on a night- dress and dressing-gown and phoned down to the desk and asked for sandwiches and coffee to be sent up. She did not feel like facing the others. She wanted to pretend they didn't even exist. The night porter had just come on duty. 'I have a note here to say you don't want any calls to be put through.'
'That's right,' said Agatha.
She switched on the television, which was showing an old James Bond movie. When her sandwiches arrived, Agatha settled down in a chair in front of the television with the cat on her lap to watch it.
Charles strolled into the Garden Hotel at nine that evening. The desk was empty. He peered into the lounge. It was empty apart from a tortoise-looking old man.
'Do you know where I can find Mrs. Raisin?' he asked.
'I think she's in her room,' said Harry.
'Which one's that?'
'Number nine. Top of the stairs and turn left.'
Carrying his bag, Charles tripped up the stairs and turned left. There was a mirror in the corridor. He stopped and brushed down his smooth fair hair and studied his neat features. Then he went along and knocked on the door of number 9. No one answered but he could hear television noises. He tried the handle. Locked.
'Aggie! It's me!' he shouted. A dyed blonde woman with a blotchy face passed him in the corridor. Charles grinned at her. 'She must be deaf,' he said. He knocked again. 'Come on, Aggie. It's me, Charles!'
Agatha opened the door. 'Oh, Charles,' she said, 'I've been having such an awful time.' And she burst into tears. He took her in his arms.
'It's all right. I'm here.'
Charles saw the blotchy-faced old blonde was watching them and propelled the weeping Agatha into the room and kicked the door shut behind him with his foot.
'What mess have you been getting yourself into?' He stroked her hair. 'Real hair, too.'
'It-it g-grew back,' sobbed Agatha into his shoulder.
'You're wetting my jacket. Any drink in this place?'
'Phone down for something.'
Charles picked up the phone and ordered a bottle of brandy. 'Which room?' asked the suspicious voice of the night porter.
'Mrs. Raisin's room.'
'On her bill, sir?'
'Of course,' said Charles cheerfully.
He sat down on the bed. 'Now, come here and tell Charles all about it.'
Agatha dried her eyes and sat beside him. She told him everything from the beginning, only breaking off to answer the door and take in a tray with a bottle of brandy and two glasses.
'This is good of you, Charles.'
'Actually, it's on your bill.'
'You never change,' said Agatha. 'Here's thanks to me.' She continued her story while the brandy sank lower in the bottle.
'What a peculiar set-up,' said Charles. He lay back on the bed and clasped his hands behind his head.
'If you're staying the night,' said Agatha, 'then you'd best go and get yourself a room.'
'I've got a room,' said Charles lazily. 'Let's go to bed.'
'I don't like casual sex, Charles.'
'Who said it was casual?'
'You've proved in the past that it was casual.'
'Then let's just cuddle up.'
Agatha felt tipsy and tired and suddenly reluctant to be left alone.
'All right, she said. But vanity made her go into the bathroom and put on some light make-up. When she returned, Charles had put on his pyjamas and was lying tucked up in bed, fast asleep.
So much for romance, thought Agatha, getting in beside him. Scrabble, curled up on a chair, watched her curiously. The bedside light on Charles's side of the bed was burning. She leaned across him to put it out but before she could, his eyes opened and he smiled at her and wrapped his arms around her.
'None of that,' said Agatha, trying to pull free. He kissed her and then said mischievously, 'None of what? None of this?' He kissed her again. Janine's voice that Agatha would never have sex again suddenly sounded in her ears.
She told herself later that it was only to prove Janine wrong that she did.
Inspector Jimmy Jessop drove to the Garden Hotel. The results of the autopsy had come through. The colonel had died of natural causes. It was nearly midnight but he knew Agatha would thank him for letting her know as soon as possible. He wanted to tell her in person, to see the relief in her eyes.
He parked outside the Garden and walked in. Daisy came up to meet him, her face still swollen with crying and her eyes glittering oddly. Behind the desk, the night porter snored gently.
'Going to see Agatha?' asked Daisy.
'Yes.'
'Just go up,' said Daisy. 'Her room's number nine.'
Jimmy hesitated and looked towards the desk. 'I should phone first.'
'She's not receiving calls.'
'Oh, in that case ...'
Jimmy headed for the stairs. Daisy gave a little smile and went back into the lounge.
