Agatha was comforted and sustained by a large breakfast of sausage, eggs, bacon, beans and fried bread, washed down with mugs of black coffee.
What was even more surprising was that Charles paid for it.
“I’d better phone the car rental company as soon as I get back,” said Agatha. “I want to get home today.”
“Why bother? I phoned my insurance company early mis morning and I’ve got a courtesy car waiting for me at a garage outside the town. I’ll run you back to Carsely. I’ll order a taxi to wait for us round the corner from the hotel and we’ll need to lug our bags round to it. It’ll be a while before anything can drive up to the front.”
Agatha had hoped to escape the press, but the storm damage was also news and television crews were filling the waterfront. For once in her life all she said was a gruff “No comment.”
She arranged to meet Charles downstairs in an hour’s time. Duckboards had been placed across the wet carpet in the hall.
In her room, Agatha phoned Patrick and told him she was leaving and that she would settle his bill as well as her own. Then she phoned the car rental company and told them what had happened, saying that she would fill in the accident forms and send them off.
The phone rang almost as soon as she replaced the receiver. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I’ve just heard the news on the radio,” said the vicar’s wife. “Would you like me to drive down there?”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Bloxby. I’m coming home.”
“I’ll see Doris Simpson and give her a casserole to put in your kitchen. I won’t talk any more because you must be feeling shaken. Ring me when you get home.”
Agatha packed quickly, looking sadly at all the filmy holiday garments that she had hoped to wear. She had just finished when Charles knocked at the door.
“Taxi’s waiting.”
Charles took hold of Agatha’s case, and they had just reached the top of the stairs when James came to join them.
“Where on earth have you been, Agatha?” he demanded.
“At the police station. I’ve got to go, James.”
“Agatha, I thought we were going on holiday together.”
“I’m going home,” said Agatha. “Besides, your car’s a wreck.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you know? The car park was flooded and all the cars are wrecked.”
“Look, wait at the hotel until I get a replacement. It should only take a few days. You can stay at the hotel with me until then.”
“Taxi’s waiting,” muttered Charles.
“I can’t wait a minute longer in this arsehole of the world,” said Agatha. “I’m off.”
“Agatha, I’m warning you. This is your last chance.”
“Just who the hell do you think you are? Come on, Charles.”
The taxi dropped them off at the garage and Charles signed the papers for a courtesy car—a new Peugeot.
As they drove out of Snoth, Agatha heaved a sigh of relief as she watched the housing estates on the outskirts of the town pass by and recede into the distance.
“Feeling all right about James?” asked Charles.
“I don’t feel anything other than relief at getting away from that place.”
Agatha’s mobile phone rang. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” asked Charles.
“No, I’m going to switch the damned thing off!”
Agatha felt her spirits rise as the miles between her and Snoth-on-Sea increased. Going home! She had never felt so passionately about it before. And when Charles finally turned down the road leading to Carsely, where the trees arched on either side to form a green tunnel, she felt like a hunted animal returning to its burrow.
“I won’t wait,” said Charles, carrying her suitcase up to the door. “I’ll call you.”
Agatha entered her cottage and cried a welcome to her cats. They looked up at her with indifference, a sort of cat’s way of punishing her for her absence. Dumping her suitcase in the hall, she went through to the kitchen. The promised casserole from Mrs. Bloxby was on the kitchen table. “Lamb stew,” said a neat little label on the top.
The doorbell rang, making her jump nervously. She went through to the front door and peered through the spyhole. Bill Wong stood outside. She flung open the door with a cry of welcome.
“Come in, Bill.”
“Mrs. Bloxby phoned me to say you were coming back.”
Agatha’s cats, Hodge and Boswell, ran to Bill, mewing and purring a welcome.
“You’ve been having adventures,” said Bill, following her through to the kitchen.
“I’m glad it’s all over. Coffee? Oh dear, I haven’t any milk.” Agatha opened the fridge. “Yes, I have. God bless Mrs. Bloxby.”
“I’ll have a cup. So it’s all over, is it?”
“The police down there have come to the conclusion that one of Brian McNally’s hit men killed Mrs. Jankers.”
“Why?”
Agatha plugged in the kettle. “Well, because of the jewels from that robbery. He must have demanded them, she said she hadn’t got them, and got killed.”
Bill said, “Somehow, the timing’s out. Charlie Black at that time was out of prison, even if he had an alibi, so it stands to reason that McNally wouldn’t step in until after Charlie got arrested.”
“The police down there are happy,” said Agatha mulishly. “What a long time this kettle’s taking to boil.”
“You’ve only just plugged it in. You must have had several bad frights.”
“Yes, I did. But I find it’s not healthy to brood on them.”
“Not healthy to block everything out of your mind either.”
The kettle boiled. Agatha put instant coffee in two mugs, filled them with hot water, carried them to the table and then lifted the milk out of the fridge.
“What are you trying to say?” asked Agatha. “Do sit down and help yourself to milk.”
Bill pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. Hodge climbed up on him and hung round his shoulders like a fur stole and Boswell lay on his lap.
“I’m saying that I think Geraldine Jankers might have been murdered by someone in that hotel. Just a feeling I’ve got.”
“You weren’t there. I think the police have got it right this time.”
“Where’s James?”
“Still there, as far as I know.”
“I thought you would come back with him.”
“Well, I didn’t,” snapped Agatha. “How’s your coffee?”
“Okay.”
“And how’s your love life?”
“Dormant. Tell you what, run through the Jankers case again for me.”
“Bill, I’m tired. I don’t want to think about it any more.”
“Then I’ll be on my way.” Bill gently lifted down her cats and stood up. “There’s just one interesting thing you might not know.”
“What’s that?” Agatha followed him as he walked to the door.
“Cyril Hammond has a record.”
“Of what?”
“As a young man he assaulted a woman in a pub. Mind you, both of mem were drunk, but he half strangled her before the customers could pull him off. Charged with actual bodily harm and sent to the cooler for eighteen months. Goodbye, Agatha.”
Bill walked out of the front door and closed it gently behind him.
“I didn’t even hear that,” Agatha told her cats. “I don’t even want to have heard that.”
