right to ask the police for information on that.”
“Okay. I think I’ll just ask Fred outright who inherits,” said Agatha. “He’s bound to know by now. I might phone Harry in the morning and ask him to check up on Fred’s businesses. I want to give him as much to do as possible. He’s so good. I wish he didn’t have to go off to university.”
“Is Charles staying long?” asked James.
“I think he’ll probably have left by the morning,’’ said Agatha.
Back at the hotel James escorted Agatha to her room and hesitated outside the door. Then he bent and kissed her on the cheek, and with a brief “Goodnight” strolled along the corridor to his own room at the end.
“Men are impossible,” muttered Agatha. She put the large brass key in the lock, and then hesitated. She should have asked James to wait to make sure no one was lurking inside. She took a deep breath, unlocked the door and flung it open. She felt round it for the light switch and pressed it down. No light.
With a screech of alarm she ran along the corridor and hammered on James’s door.
He jerked the door open and stared down into her frightened face. “What’s up?’
“The light won’t come on in my room!”
“Come in. Don’t go back. We’ll call the police.”
Agatha sat on the edge of the bed shivering, listening to him call.
“They’ll be along in a minute,” he said, replacing the phone.
But it was half an hour before a tired-looking Detective Sergeant Wilkins arrived flanked by two police officers.
They went along to Agatha’s room. Agatha waited, trembling, in the corridor. Then Wilkins came back holding a spent light bulb.
“You need a new light bulb inside the door, that’s all. The bedside lamps work.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to have dragged you out.”
“You’re trouble, that’s what you are,” said Wilkins. “I heard all about the row at the town hall.”
“Someone has to stand up to people like that,” exclaimed Agatha.
“Okay, so why does it have to be you? I’m off.”
“Wait,” cried Agatha as he was walking away, following the two policemen.
“What is it now?”
“Who inherits Geraldine Jankers’s money now that her son is dead?”
“Don’t see any harm in you knowing. That friend of hers, Cyril Hammond.”
“Was it much?”
“A lot, believe you me. Now, if you want any more details, you’d better contact her solicitor.”
He turned away again.
“Wait!”
“Mrs. Raisin, I’m tired. You drag me out on a silly errand and—”
“Does Cyril Hammond have a criminal record?”
He smiled. “Now, that’s the benefit of being in the force and not an amateur like you. Goodnight.”
“Pillock,” muttered Agatha. “Sorry, James, I’d better get off to bed. But it was worth it to find out that Cyril inherits. He’s a sleazy creep. I can imagine him luring her down to the beach. I wonder if he has the rest of the jewels. I’d like a look at his room.”
“Agatha, he wouldn’t carry them around with him.”
“But he might have given Dawn one piece. Wayne gave Chelsea that necklace.”
“Can we talk about this in the morning? I’m tired.”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
Agatha went along to her room. The door was still open. She went in and fumbled her way over to the bedside lamps and switched them on. She hurriedly undressed, washed and crawled into bed, but she left the lights burning.
Charles called at the hospital early the next morning to collect Deborah.
“Can you carry my bag, darling?” asked Deborah. “It’s just a few things of mine I got that nurse to collect for me from the hotel.”
“Right,” said Charles, although that “darling” made him feel uneasy. But Deborah looked very attractive. She must be very strong and healthy, he thought, to come through that ordeal and look as though nothing had happened.
“Is that your car?” asked Deborah, as Charles led the way to a rather old and battered BMW.
“Yes, good old thing. Had it for years.”
“I can see that.” Need to make him get something more fitting when we’re married, thought Deborah.
When they arrived at the hotel, it was to find the reception crammed with reporters, photographers and television crews.
“Good heavens!” said Deborah. “This all must be for me.” She raised her voice. “Here I am!”
“Here she is!” cried a reporter. But no one was turning in Deborah’s direction. They were all focusing on Agatha Raisin, who who was descending the stairs.
Agatha faced a barrage of questions. Why had she hinted that laundered money might be used in the building of the casino? Did she know Regan Enterprises had withdrawn their offer? There was to be no casino in Snoth.
Back in Mircester, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, Agatha’s very first friend, watched the press conference with amusement. It was his day off. He knew of old that Agatha blundered around cases and then sometimes had brilliant flashes of intuition. That remark of hers about laundered money must have sent Regan Enterprises running for cover. If there was nothing in it, he was sure they would have gone ahead with their plans for the casino whatever the townspeople thought. A local television cameraman who had been at the town hall the night before had filmed Agatha making her speech. There were clips of it interposed throughout the press conference.
Then the smile left his face. Did Agatha know that if Regan Enterprises was a dicey operation and she had ruined their plans, they would be out for blood?
Harry and Phil watched the same conference on a small television set in their office.
“You have to hand it to her,” said Phil. “She’s quite a lady.”
“She’s a lady who is now in serious danger, if she wasn’t before,” said Harry. “Look, Phil, could we put a few of the minor cases on hold? I’m going down there. She’ll need all the help she can get.”
Mrs. Bloxby was enjoying a quiet cup of tea when the vicarage doorbell went. She sighed and got to her feet. That was the trouble with being a vicar’s wife. The villagers felt free to call any time they felt like it.
She opened the door and looked at the neatly dressed businessman standing outside.
“Can I help you?”
“My name is John Belling,” he said, a smile crinkling his tanned face. “I am thinking of buying somewhere in the village. Do you know if there’s anything for sale?”
“There isn’t anything at the moment,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Or not that I know of. But sometimes people don’t like estate agents’ boards being put up. You could try some estate agents in Moreton-in-Marsh or Chipping Campden.”
“I heard an old friend of mine, Agatha Raisin, lives here.”
“You are unlucky. She is away at the moment.”
“What a pity. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to make a bid for her cottage.”
“Mrs. Raisin has no intention of selling.”
“I am sure her cottage will be vacant very soon.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m psychic.” Again that smile.
Mrs. Bloxby was suddenly afraid. “You must excuse me,” she said hurriedly. “I’ve left something on the stove.”
She shut the door and went quickly to the phone and telephoned Bill Wong. She breathlessly repeated the conversation she’d had with her visitor. “Right,” said Bill when she’d finished. “I’ll be over with some men right away. I don’t like the sound of this.”
Mrs. Bloxby then phoned Agatha. Alarmed, Agatha asked for a description, and when Mrs. Bloxby finished, she said, “I think you’ve just had a visit from that drug baron, Brian McNally. Have you told the police?”
“Yes, Bill Wong is on his way over. Oh, do be careful, Agatha. Can’t you and James go away for that holiday?
