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?”
“I really don’t know. I haven’t been in touch with the solicitors recently. The police say I can leave, but somehow I can’t. I really want to know who murdered my wife.”
“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, ‘Tm 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 up 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 in to Marks & 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
