James Lacey drove along the Mediterranean coast from Marseilles. He stopped off in the village of St. Charles-Sur-Clore near Agde for the night. There seemed to be a small English expatriate community in residence. He was tired of travelling, so he booked into a small hotel called the St. Charles for the night. The receptionist told him that the English residents were finding life hard because of the weak pound. Some of them were thinking of selling up and going back home. 'They used to hold their annual Christmas party here at the hotel,' she said, 'but this year they say they can't afford it.'
He went up to his room and unpacked a few essentials for the night and then went down to the bar. There were a few English couples propping up the bar, drinking glasses of the house wine and complaining about the price of everything. He ordered a whisky and took it over to a quiet corner and began to read a book on Roman military fortifications.
After a few moments, he realised the voices at the bar were becoming enraged over something other than the weak pound. 'It's not only a shameful waste of electricity,' said a thin blonde with a fake-bake face, 'it's vulgar. Lets the side down. I mean, whatever one thinks of the French, they do have
'Fairy lights everywhere,' said her companion, a florid man in blazer and flannels, 'even in the bushes in their garden. And they got Duval, the handyman, to put that Santa on the chimney. And they're old. It's not as if they have any grandchildren.'
James slowly put down his book. He had followed the murder of John Sunday in the newspapers and television. He got up and went to the bar. 'May I buy a round?' he asked.
Faces beamed at him. Drinks were rapidly changed from wine to spirits. 'I couldn't help overhearing what you were saying,' said James. 'Someone going a bit over the top?'
'It's an elderly couple of ladies just outside the village,' said the florid man. 'They've got lights all over the place like one of those awful Americans.'
'Sounds fun. I'd like to have a look,' said James. 'How do I get there? Should I drive?'
'Don't really need to. Turn left as you go out of the hotel door and keep on going about half a mile. You can't miss it. Their stupid cottage lights up the sky.'
James went out into the evening. It was quite mild and clear with a small high moon riding high above the twisted chimneys of the old houses in the village. As he passed the last house in the village, he saw a glow in the sky ahead of him and quickened his step. At last he came to the cottage. There were so many Christmas decorations, it was an exercise in vulgarity. A spotlight had even been placed in the garden to highlight a leering Santa clinging to the chimney.
He marched up the path and knocked on the door. 'Who are you?' shouted a voice from an upstairs window.
James stood back and looked up. He could just make out an elderly woman half hidden behind a curtain.
'I've just been admiring your lights,' he said.
'Go away,' croaked the woman. 'Shove off.'
James walked thoughtfully back to his hotel.
The wives of the murderers were missing. They had been famous for their display of Christmas lights. Their pride in that display had led to the murders. Could he, by some mad coincidence, have found them?
He joined the English at the bar and, to their delight, paid for another round. 'When did the two old ladies arrive here?' he asked.
The florid man introduced himself as Archie Frank and his wife as Fiona. The others supplied names but James immediately forgot all of them, he was concentrating so hard on finding out about the occupants of the cottage. 'Came about two months ago,' said Archie. 'We don't see them. They get a local girl to do their shopping. Keep themselves to themselves.'
James made some small talk and then escaped to his room. He phoned Agatha and told her about the mysterious pair and their lights.
'I'm coming over,' said Agatha. 'I'll bring a photo with me.'
'Don't come all this way for what might be nothing. Send me over the photo on my computer.'
'I'm coming,' shouted Agatha. 'I'll bring Toni. Book us rooms. What's the name of the place and directions?'
Agatha collected Toni from Mircester and drove to Birmingham airport, where they got seats on a flight to Paris. Then they took a plane to Marseilles and hired a car. With Toni driving, they set off along the coast to the village of St. Charles-Sur-Clore.
James was waiting for them outside. 'You shouldn't have bothered,' he said, looking at their exhausted faces.
'I must be in at the kill,' said Agatha. 'I've got a good photograph of them.'
'The best way to go about it,' said James, 'is to find out the name of the village girl who does their shopping and show her the photograph. We'll check at the local store. Don't you want to dump your bags and freshen up?'
'Just for a few minutes, then,' said Agatha.
In the local grocery store, James, in his fluent French, asked if they knew the identity of the girl who delivered groceries to the two old ladies in the cottage with the Christmas lights.
'That's my niece,' he said. 'Michelle!' he shouted.
A thin, small teenager with wispy hair came out of the back of the shop. James held out the photograph of Mrs. Beagle and Mrs. Summer. 'Do you deliver groceries to either of these ladies?'
'No,' she said.
'You have never seen them before?'
'No.'
'You are very sure?'
'Uncle, they are calling me a liar!'
'Get out of here,' said her uncle. 'Dirty English.'
_______
'What was that all about?' asked Agatha outside.
'The girl says she has never seen them and told her uncle I was calling her a liar. He told me to get out. Sorry, it looks as if you've come all this way for nothing.'
'She looked shifty,' said Toni. 'I've studied that photograph for so long, I would recognise them anywhere. What if I go out there after dark on my own and watch? Look, if you didn't want anyone to know where you were and got a girl like that to shop for you, you'd probably pay her not to answer questions.'
'It's worth a try,' said Agatha wearily. 'I am so tired. I could do with a nap.'
That evening, they met up in the bar. James waved to the English propping up the bar but shook his head when they urged him to join them.
'I'm off,' said Toni. 'I'll phone you if I get anything.'
She was wearing a black sweater and black jeans. She pulled a black wool hat over her hair and strode out along the road.
She nearly missed the cottage because all the lights had been switched off. Only a bright moon was riding high above to show her the Santa clinging to the chimney.
There was a garage at the side of the house. As she watched, an elderly figure opened the doors and climbed into a car. Toni took out a torch and shone it straight at the woman. It was Mrs. Beagle. The car shot forward, nearly knocking her over, and sped off down the road.
Toni called Agatha and shouted, 'It's them! They're in the car--they're escaping. Come and pick me up.'
In what seemed like no time at all, James came racing up in his car with Agatha beside him. 'Which way?' he shouted as Toni jumped into the backseat.
'Left.'
'That's the Agde road. Hang on.'
James put his foot down and began to drive at a hectic speed, screeching round bends, whizzing over the cobbles of silent villages, on towards Agde. 'What kind of car, Toni?'
