Agatha Raisin Love, Lies and Liquor

Get out of the country?”

Agatha had taken the phone call at the reception desk. She went back to join James, who looked at her anxiously. She was trembling and her face was white. In a faltering voice she told him about Mrs. Bloxby’s call. “I’m running out of courage, James,” said Agatha and burst into tears.

She wanted him to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he handed her a large clean handkerchief and said, “Let’s go into the bar and talk about this. You need a stiff drink.”

Agatha gulped and blew her nose and went with him into the bar. “This has become too dangerous,” said James. “I think we should get away.”

Agatha dried her eyes and looked miserably at the smears of make-up on what had once been James’s clean handkerchief.

“We can see Barret,” urged James. “He’ll be glad to see the back of us. We’ll get in my car tomorrow and go over to France and tour around.”

“I feel such a wimp,” said Agatha. “I’m terrified. Yes, we’ll go.”

“Good girl. Let’s see Barret.”

Barret looked relieved. He had received a call from the Mircester police, who were combing the area looking for Mrs. Bloxby’s mysterious caller.

“I forgot to phone Harry,” said Agatha. “I meant to tell him to go to Lewisham and check on Fred’s businesses. Then you’ve got to find out if your stockbroker friend can find anything.”

“Agatha,” said James gently. “None of that matters now. We’re leaving.”

“So we are,” said Agatha dully. “I forgot.”

It was not just the mysterious caller that had broken Agatha, it was the memory of that abduction. She felt she could not face any more adventures.

Said James, “I’ll get my car and we’ll stay away from the hotel for the rest of the day. Then we’ll get back this evening and pack. There’s nothing here to keep us any longer.”

“We’ll probably never know who killed Geraldine,” said Agatha.

“Does it matter? She was a pretty dreadful woman.”

Agatha walked silently beside him, but she felt it did matter. She had never run away from a case before.

Charles Fraith was feeling hunted. He, too, was out walking, but with Deborah, a Deborah who seemed to become more pushing and more pressing with every minute. The fact was that Deborah was still not quite recovered from her ordeal. She had bouts of shivering and a headache over her right temple. So she had thrown subtlety to the winds. She wanted to be Lady Fraith.

She had her arm through Charles’s and was holding it in a strong grip. “You know, darling,” she said, “I think we’d make a great pair.”

Panicking slightly, Charles said, “I don’t know what Agatha would say to that.”

“What’s she got to do with anything?”

“I more or less promised to marry her,” said Charles.

“What! She’s running around with her ex!”

“That’s nothing more than friendship. Agatha’s quite capable of suing me for breach of promise.”

When the reached the hotel, Charles excused himself and said he had urgent phone calls to make and fled up to his room.

Deborah hesitated in reception. The whole thing was mad. She would confront Agatha Raisin and get the whole thing sorted out. But she didn’t want to do it in public.

She went up to the desk. “Is Mrs. Raisin in her room?”

“No. Out at the moment.”

“I thought so. I’ve some stuff she wanted me to leave in her room. Could you give me the key?”

Deborah was still regarded as a local heroine by the staff. Betty, the receptionist, handed over the key.

Deborah went upstairs and entered Agatha’s room. She sat in a chair by the window looking out at the sea, planning what she would say. The room was half dark from the mass of clouds covering the sky outside.

Downstairs, Betty looked up as a man in workman’s overalls walked in carrying a tool bag.

“Got a call the carpet on the upstairs was coming loose,” he said.

“Go ahead,” said Betty indifferently, turning her eyes back to the magazine she had been reading.

The wind was blowing strongly and she felt irritated by the crash and thunder of the waves. Added to the noise was the barman next door playing Annie Lennox CDs at full volume.

The workman came back down.

“That didn’t take long,” said Betty.

“Small job,” he said. “See ya.”

Betty returned to reading an article about Prince William.

She became aware of someone standing in front of her and, with a sigh, looked up again.

“Is Mrs. Raisin in?” asked Patrick.

“No, she’s out,” said Betty, tearing herself out of a fantasy of seeing Prince William walk into the hotel. “But Mrs. Fanshawe is waiting for her in her room.”

“Why? Why did you give her the key?”

“Because she said she had some stuff of Mrs. Raisin’s to leave in her room.”

“You shouldn’t have given her key to anyone. I’ll go and get it back.”

Patrick mounted the stairs and went along to Agatha’s room. The door was not locked. He opened it and went in.

He let out an exclamation of horror. There was blood spattered on the walls and a figure slumped in a chair with half its head blown away.

James and Agatha were driving towards Brighton. Agatha could feel a lifting of her spirits. They would escape tomorrow and she need never see Snoth-on-Sea or that terrible hotel again.

Her mobile phone rang. “Don’t answer that,” said James.

“I must tell Patrick that I’m leaving,” said Agatha. “It may be him.”

It was Patrick, a Patrick unusually flustered and shaken.

“Better get back here,” he said. “Deborah Fanshawe has been shot. She was waiting in your room and some hit man must have thought it was you.”

“We’ll be with you as soon as possible.”

Agatha switched off her mobile. “Turn the car, James,” she said wearily. “Something truly awful has happened.”

*   *   *

Chaos in front of the hotel—police, photographers, reporters and television crew. For once in her life, ducking her head and avoiding the questions shouted at her, Agatha let James hurry her into the hotel.

A policewoman approached them. “Mrs. Raisin?”

“Yes.”

“You are to go into the bar. You will be interviewed there.”

They went into the bar. Charles was there looking white and strained. At another table sat Cyril and his wife, Dawn.

James and Agatha sat down with Charles. “What really happened?” asked James.

Charles looked more shaken than Agatba had ever seen him look before.

“It’s all my fault,” he said. “She was so pushy and she was practically on the verge of proposing to me, so I said I was promised to Aggie.”

“You what?” Agatha stared at him.

“I just wanted to get her off my back. She must have got the key to your room and decided to confront you, and some villain thought it was you and blasted her head off with a shotgun.”

“How do you know it was a shotgun?” asked James.

“Patrick said half her head was missing and there was blood and brains spattered all over the walls.”

“Can’t we get a drink?” demanded Charles, looking at Agatha’s white face. “Oh, here’s Patrick.”

Patrick, looking more lugubrious than usual, slumped down in a chair opposite them.

“What exactly happened?” asked James.