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?
He carefully made the bed up again. Harry 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 just 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.”
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 simply her name on the envelope. It must have been delivered by hand.
She ripped it open. Written in block capitals was the simple message: YOU’RE DEAD.
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
