Raisin based on that group photograph. No competition at all, she told herself.
As they drove to Brighton, Mrs. Bloxby gave her impressions of Fred Jankers. “It’s hard to tell. He seems very quiet and gentlemanly. Quite old-fashioned, and yet he is only in his fifties. But it could be an act he’s perfected. You say Mrs. Jankers married him for his money? Perhaps it might have been the other way around. Was she rich?”
“I don’t know,” said Agatha.
“It would also be interesting to find out how his businesses are doing and whether he insured her life.”
“Good point,” said Patrick. “I’d better get on to that when we get back.”
Agatha felt suddenly tired. All her bright hard efficiency seemed to be draining away and, horror of horrors, deep down she felt the beginnings of that old longing for James. He had looked as handsome as ever that morning with his bright blue eyes, tanned face and dark hair going grey at the temples.
They parked outside Archie Swale’s house in Brighton and waited. “Maybe he’s gone out already?” suggested Patrick after an hour.
“I know,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I’ll go and knock at the door and say I’m collecting for something. I’ve had years of practice.”
“Be careful,” warned Agatha as the vicar’s wife got out of the car.
Mrs. Bloxby went across the road and knocked at the door. When Archie answered it, she gave him a sweet smile and said, “I am collecting for Help the Aged and wondered whether you could spare anything.”
“I can give you a pound.”
“That would be marvellous.”
“You’d better come in. I emptied the change out of my trousers last night and left it on the desk.”
She followed him into his sitting room. He went to his desk and picked up a pound. Mrs. Bloxby opened her handbag and produced a sticker from a previous Help the Aged collection from a number of other old charity stickers.
“No sticker,” he said. “I had a good suede jacket ruined by one of those. Must be hard on the feet, all this collecting.”
“It is, rather.”
“I say, would you like a sherry?”
“Why, that is very kind of you.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes, my husband is the vicar of… Saint Edmunds,” said Mrs. Bloxby, privately praying that there was a Saint Edmunds in Brighton.
He handed her a small glass of sherry. Mrs. Bloxby looked across at the regimental photograph. “I see you are an army man.”
“Was. I miss it. Too old for it now.”
“This government does seem very determined to merge the old regiments.”
A tide of angry red suffused his face. “Bunch of Commie bastards. Lefties. Faggots. I’d shoot the lot of them! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s all right. We still have free speech in this country. Or do we?”
He went off on another rant while Mrs. Bloxby sipped her sherry and covertly studied him. She noticed he had very powerful wrists.
Feeling she had heard enough, Mrs. Bloxby waited until he had paused for breath, and said, “I really must be on my way.”
He looked disappointed. “Call again any time,” he said, ushering her to the door.
He was standing on the front step watching her leave, so Mrs. Bloxby walked right past the car where Agatha and Patrick were crouched down and out of the square. Agatha only cautiously raised her head when she heard the street door slam. She drove out of the square and caught up with Mrs. Bloxby.
“How did you get on?” she asked when Mrs. Bloxby had climbed into the car.
“I got an impression of a violent, angry man. He has powerful wrists. I think he has high blood pressure. He looks too old to have committed a murder and yet I feel he could have found great strength in one of his bursts of rage.”
“What was he raging about?”
“The government.”
“Well, I rage about them myself.”
“Not like this. Quite beside himself. If I am to make myself useful, perhaps I should try to engineer a further conversation with Mr. Jankers before I leave.”
Agatha checked the clock on the dashboard. “Nearly lunchtime. He’ll probably be in the dining room.”
“Such a big breakfast,” sighed Mrs. Bloxby. “But I will see what I can do.”
When they returned to the hotel a policeman was waiting to escort Agatha and Patrick back to police headquarters in Lewes for more questioning about the hunt for Brian McNally.
Mrs. Bloxby retreated to her room to telephone her husband to assure him she would be returning home as soon as possible and then she descended to the dining room. There was no sign of Fred Jankers. She walked through to the bar and found him ensconced in a chair by the window.
Mrs. Bloxby approached him. “Do you mind if I join you? I always feel rather self-conscious drinking on my own.”
“Please do. Let me buy you a drink. What’ll it be?”
“Just an orange juice, thank you.”
“Nothing stronger?”
“No, orange juice will do fine. I am thirsty.”
Fred ordered her drink. “I never asked you,” he said. “Are you a detective as well?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Jankers. I am married to the vicar of the village where I and Mrs. Raisin both live. I heard about the terrible attack on her and thought she might need some help.”
“So you came all this way? Wish I had friends like you.”
“You must miss your wife terribly,” said Ms. Bloxby in her quiet soothing voice.
“Here’s your orange juice. Cheers. Well, fact is, after I got over the awful shock of her being murdered and all, I felt a bit relieved. Is that wicked?”
“I gather you did not know her very long.”
“No, unfortunately. I hate to shock a lady like yourself, but I think Geraldine was after my money.”
“How dreadful for you. How did you find out?”
“Just after we were married. I overheard her talking to that Cyril Hammond, a friend of hers. He’s still in the hotel. I heard her saying, ‘I know Fred’s not much to look at, but there should be some rich pickings.’ That’s all I heard.”
“I cannot help wondering,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “why a lady such as your late wife would go down to the beach in the middle of the night. I mean, she cannot have known anything about the tides and it’s a dangerous place to go.”
“I think she was plotting something,” said Fred. He ran one podgy hand nervously over his head.
“Like what?”
“Maybe plotting to kill me.”
“My dear Mr. Jankers!”
“She made me take out a heavy insurance policy, and if she was plotting with anyone it would be that old friend of hers, Cyril Hammond.
“Have you told the police this?”
“I tried, but Cyril says he was asleep and his wife backs him up.”
“Mr. Jankers, have you not considered leaving here? I am sure the police would allow you to go.”
“Fact is, I think the answer to that murder is here. Mind you, that friend of yours doesn’t strike me as much of a detective.”
“Oh, she is very good. She never lets a case go until she has an answer.”
Could this man have murdered his wife? wondered Mrs. Bloxby. He seemed too quiet and neat in his business suit.
