“Some jeweller in Lewisham. They got him, but they never found the jewels.”
“Is he still in prison?”
“As far as I know.”
“Who would have wanted to kill, Geraldine?”
“Just about everyone I can think of.”
“Her husband?”
“Fred? Naw. Poor little bugger got sandbagged by her. He’s not exactly weeping over her death. But Fred couldn’t hurt anyone.”
“What about her son?”
“Wayne? Her own son! Why?”
“He inherits.”
“Don’t think she would leave enough to make her own son murder her.”
“Did you know that Geraldine stole my scarf, the one she was found strangled with?”
“Who told you that?”
“Mr. Jankers. He said she found it lying in the dining room after we had left.”
“Now there’s a thing. He left us thinking you must have murdered her.”
James interrupted. “As to that, Agatha, I really think we should go along to the police station and tell them. With us in the clear, we can get out of here.”
But after they had said goodbye to Dawn and were walking along in the direction of the police station, Agatha began to fret. Only a short time ago, she had longed to get out of this terrible place and head south to the Mediterranean with James. She tried to conjure up a dream of James holding her in his arms on a hotel balcony overlooking the moonlit sea, but the dream would not come. They would probably have separate rooms, she thought wearily, and no doubt James would run into some old friends and she would be left on the outskirts of some party while they all chattered on about people she did not know.
At the police station, they asked to see Detective Inspector Barret. They were told to wait. Agatha sat down on a bench and suddenly wished she could smoke. She had been trying to cut down, but all the terrible threats about what happened to the health of smokers only made her want to smoke more.
“Cheer up, Agatha,” said James. “We’ll soon be heading south.”
“I don’t—” Agatha was just beginning when they were told that Barret would see them. They were taken to an interview room.
James gave Agatha a puzzled look. “You were starting to say something.”
But at that moment Barret walked in.
He listened in silence as Agatha told him about Mr. Jankers’s confession that his wife had actually found Agatha’s scarf where she had dropped it in the dining room.
“We’ll need to take another statement from him,” said Barret. “Why didn’t he tell us in the first place?”
“He didn’t want to sully his wife’s good name.”
“I’ll be having a sharp word with him. Wasting police time unnecessarily. Sending us off chasing after you pair.”
“When you get your statement,” asked James, “will we be free to leave?”
“Yes, I see no reason to keep you.”
Agatha was unnaturally silent when they left the police station.
“Well, that’s that,” said James at last. “We can pack up and be on our way.”
“Don’t you want to find out who murdered Geraldine?”
“I neither know nor care.”
“But I’ve brought Harry and Patrick down. Think of the expense.”
“That’s your fault. You haven’t charged anyone anything.”
“But think of the good publicity if I solve the case. Besides, I was photographed going into the police station and photos appeared in the papers with captions giving my name and saying I was helping the police with their enquiries, which made me look guilty.”
James stopped abruptly. “Agatha, I do not want to stay in this place a moment longer than I have to. If you won’t come with me—well, I’ll just go on my own. I could do with a decent holiday after this.”
Agatha stared up at him, the wind from the sea blowing her jacket about her stocky figure, her bearlike eyes narrowing.
“I can’t just leave it,” she said stubbornly.
James looked back at her with something like amazement in his blue eyes. Where had the Agatha gone who would have gone through fire and water to be with him?
“I think you are being selfish and silly,” he said flatly.
“No, it’s you who are being selfish. It was selfish in the extreme to pick out this place for a holiday simply because
“I have nothing more to say to you,” said James haughtily.
He stalked off. Agatha watched him go. As he approached the hotel, a large wave burst over the sea wall and drenched him from head to foot.
“There is a God,” said Agatha Raisin.
She realized when she got to the hotel, that she was very hungry. Somewhere deep inside her was an ache because of James’s behaviour. Agatha went to Harry’s room and tapped on the door.
Harry opened it. The odour of fish and chips wafted out of the room.
“Got any of that fish supper left?” asked Agatha.
“Just about to start. Come in. We can share it.”
“Have you met Wayne Weldon and his equally horrible wife?” said Agatha, walking into the room.
“Not yet. I was just taking a recce round the town. Horrible little place. I’ll be down there at breakfast time and strike up a conversation. Dig in, Agatha. Loads of fish and chips.”
“No knives and forks?”
“Course not.”
“Anything to drink?”
“I’ve got a bottle of wine. I’ll get another glass out of the bathroom.”
They ate and drank in silence. Then Agatha told Harry all she had found out.
“Hasn’t been much of a second honeymoon for you, has it?” commented Harry.
“It wasn’t a second honeymoon,” said Agatha defiantly. “James is leaving tomorrow to holiday on his own.” Then, to Agatha’s horror, she gave a gulping sob and began to cry.
“Here, now,” said Harry, moving his chair next to hers and giving her a hug. “The man’s a bastard. You’re better off without him.”
He handed Agatha a clean handkerchief. Agatha blew her nose and gulped and then dried her eyes. “You won’t look the part,” she said, giving him a watery smile, “if you’re going to carry clean handkerchiefs about with you. Don’t these studs hurt?”
Harry had one in his nose and one in his upper lip. “No, but I wish I’d never started wearing them. I suppose I’ll need to get surgery to get the holes filled up. So why is James leaving?”
“Like I told you, Fred Jankers had confessed to the fact that his wife found my scarf and kept it. We told the police and the police said we were free to go.”
“You’ve got me and Patrick here,” said Harry. “Why don’t you go off and have a nice holiday?”
Agatha sighed. “Because horrible reality is creeping in and I don’t think it would be a nice holiday at all.”
There was a knock at the door.
Harry walked over to it and called, “Who’s there?”
“Patrick,” came the reply.
Harry opened the door.
“I just saw James Lacey lugging his suitcase out of the hotel,” said Patrick. “Where’s he going?”
“On holiday,” said Agatha bleakly. “By himself. I didn’t know he meant to leave tonight.”
Harry flashed a warning look at Patrick.
Agatha caught that look. She knew Harry was trying to warn Patrick not to pursue the subject. How strange that young Harry, with his shaven head, leather and studs, should be so considerate. But, then, Harry in
