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 Lily Bolero. 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 elephants, 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 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 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.
“I can’t go along to the police station,” said Patrick. “There’s a policeman on guard outside the hotel.”
“Is there anyone you could phone?”
“I’ve got a contact at the station, but he won’t want to speak to me if there’s something important going on.”
There was a tentative tap at the door. “Come in,” shouted Agatha.
Cyril and his wife Dawn entered. “This is terrible,” said Cyril. “Poor Wayne. Poor Chelsea. Who could have done such a thing?”
“It could be that ex-husband of Mrs. Jankers,” said Patrick. “He’s just out of prison and he might have come looking for the jewels.”
“Wayne wouldn’t have had them,” exclaimed Cyril. “I mean, after all this time. Charlie got twelve years.”
He focused his attention on Harry. “What’s he doing here?”
“Harry works for me. And this is Sir Charles Fraith, a friend of mine.”
“I’m frightened,” wailed Dawn. “What if we’re next?”
“Well, I’m hungry,” said Charles. “We could all go to the dining room.”
“Not there.” Agatha repressed a shudder. “The food’s awful.”
Harry picked up a copy of the Yellow Pages. “I’ll order something in. What about pizza?”
“That’ll do,” said Charles. “I’ll take your drink orders and we’ll get them up from the bar.”
Harry searched the Yellow Pages. “Got it,” he said. “Luigi’s Pizzeria. What about just getting simple ones like cheese and tomato?”
They all agreed. Harry phoned and gave the order and told them to deliver the pizzas to the hotel room.
“How is Mr. Jankers?” asked Patrick.
“He’s lying down. He says he’s not ill but it’s all been a great shock,” said Cyril.
They talked in a desultory manner until the drinks and then the pizzas arrived.
“I wish I could get out and see what’s happening,” said Harry. “There must be a fire escape here.”
“There’s a fire escape at the end of the corridor,” said Agatha. “You could try that way, but don’t get caught.”
Harry finished his pizza. “I’ll see if I can discover anything.”
Harry went along the corridor and pushed open the fire door. He wedged a business card in it to keep it open and then went nimbly down the rusty stairs.
He found himself in «ft unkempt garden. He saw a gate lead« ing onto the promenade. It was padlocked and chained. He climbed over it. Waves were buffeting the sea front and washing across the promenade.
He ran along the front, keeping to the buildings, pausing as a particularly large wave smashed over, and then running on when it retreated. There were sandbags outside some of the houses to stop them from being flooded.
Harry wondered why the council didn’t do anything about the increasingly high tides.
He turned off towards the police station and saw a crowd of reporters and photographers outside.
“What’s going on?” he asked one reporter.
“We just know the police brought a man in for questioning. He had a blanket over his head, so we couldn’t see him. The police say they’ll make a statement later.”
Harry couldn’t find out any more, so he dodged the waves again and got back to the hotel.
When he reached Patrick’s room, there was a note in the door. “Downstairs in the bar.”
Harry went down and found the party minus Cyril and his wife. “Where’s Cyril gone?” he asked.
“Upstairs, comforting Mr. Jankers.”
The day dragged on and it was six o’clock before Detective Inspector Barret and Detective Sergeant Wilkins arrived.
Cyril and Dawn joined them in the bar, having been summoned by the detectives.
“We have arrested Charles Black, Mrs. Jankers’s ex-husband,” said Barret. “He was spotted in a pub outside the town called the Feathers.” Agatha winced. Charlie had probably been in the bar when she and Harry had been discussing the jewels. “We found a quantity of jewellery in his car along with a sawn-off shotgun. It’s an open-and- shut case. He has been charged with the murders of Wayne and Chelsea Jankers.”
Cyril brightened. “That means we’re free to leave.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Barret. “You, Mrs. Raisin, and your travelling circus may leave, but I am afraid that you, Mr. Hammond, your wife and Mr. Jankers will need to stay a few days longer.”
“Why?” wailed Dawn.
“It appears that on the night Mrs. Jankers was murdered, Charles Black was in London at a gambling club and did not leave until two in the morning. There are plenty of witnesses to attest to that fact. So that leaves us with the unsolved murder of Geraldine Jankers. We will be back tomorrow to take both of you and Mr. Jankers over your earlier statements.”
“We’ll never get out of here,” moaned Dawn.
“So what are we going to do now?” asked Patrick after the Hammonds and the detectives had left.
“Wait!” Agatha took out her phone and called Phil Marshall. “How are things going at the agency?” she asked.
“I wish you’d get back here,” said Phil. “There’s a lot of work come in and I can barely cope.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Agatha rang off.
