conventional dress could look quite attractive.
“To business,” said Agatha briskly, while deep inside her a little Agatha ran about, tearing her hair and weeping for lost love. “Is Charlie Black out of prison?”
“Yes,” said Patrick. “There’s a copper along at the station, knew some friends of mine from the old days. He checked up for me. He got out two weeks ago.”
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “Wait a bit. He robbed a jewellery store in Lewisham. The police got him, but they never got the jewels. Just say he left them with Geraldine. He arranges to meet her on the beach. He asks about the jewels. What if she says she sold them and spent the money? He strangles her in a rage.”
“Now, that’s possible,” said Patrick. “He appears to have had a history of violence.”
“I don’t see it,” said Harry. “If she had sold the jewels or still had them and had no intention of giving them to him, she wouldn’t meet him on a deserted beach at dead of night. Come to think of it, the body must have been found pretty quickly. There’s only a strip of shingle at low tide.”
“I found out,” said Patrick. “She was spotted by a man walking his dog at one in the morning, and eleven- thirty in the evening was low tide. The shingle is only exposed for two hours, and when the police got to her, the sea had nearly reached the body. So they think she was murdered sometime between, say, eleven-thirty and one in the morning. They won’t be completely sure until the full results of the autopsy are in.”
“Did you get the name of the man who saw her?”
“Chap called George Bonford. Lives along the promenade. Said his dog’s getting old and, like old people, wants to pee the whole time, so he took him out. Dog stopped to pee. Bonford stopped and looked over the wall and saw her lying on the beach. He could see her body quite clearly in the street lights on the promenade.”
“So Harry’s going to try to get to know Wayne and wife, and you, Patrick, are going to see the dog walker. I wonder what I should do. I know, I think I’ll get to know Cyril Hammond better. So that’s all for tonight.”
Agatha lay in bed that night visualizing James speeding towards the Channel Ferry. “I’ve done the right thing,” she cried to the uncaring ceiling, “so why do I hurt so much?”
James drove through the night, his mouth set in a firm line. He remembered he had friends who ran a bed and breakfast at their villa outside Marseilles. Suddenly his mouth relaxed in a smile. As soon as he could the next day, he would send Agatha a postcard with their address. He knew his Agatha. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—hold out.
She’d probably fly down to Marseilles and rent a car. She might even be there before him!
Ah, he knew his Agatha so well.
Back in Carsely the following morning, Sir Charles Fraith stood irresolute outside Agatha’s cottage. He was a friend of hers who dropped in and out of her life when it suited him to do so. He had a key to the cottage, but as he stood there he knew there was no one inside. The house had that feel about it, even though Agatha’s car was parked outside.
He decided to visit Mrs. Bloxby at the vicarage.
Mrs. Bloxby welcomed him with pleasure. She liked Charles, always so well tailored and neat, from his expensively barbered fair hair to his handmade shoes.
“Coffee in the garden?” she asked. “Such a fine day.”
“Lovely.”
Charles went through the French windows into the garden and sat down, enjoying the smell of flowers and the domestic sounds of clattering cups in the kitchen.
Mrs. Bloxby reappeared carrying a laden tray. “I’ve just made a batch of scones,” she said. “Help yourself. I suppose you are wondering where Mrs. Raisin is.”
“Yes, I phoned the office and Mrs. Freedman only said she wasn’t in today.”
“I am very worried about her. You see, James took her off on some mystery holiday.”
“Poor Agatha. The never-ending dream.”
“Well, Mrs. Raisin, I am sure, was hoping for somewhere romantic, but I saw an item in the newspapers which worried me.”
“What’s she been up to? I haven’t been reading the papers.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
Mrs. Bloxby went into the house and came back with a cutting. It showed a photograph of Agatha and James arriving at the Snoth-on-Sea police station. The story underneath said that a Mrs. Geraldine Jankers had been found dead on the beach and Mrs. Agatha Raisin and Mr. James Lacey were helping police with their enquiries.
“Snoth-on-Sea doesn’t sound a romantic place,” said Charles.
“I am sure Mr. Lacey had a romantic reason known only to himself for going there.”
“Murder does seem to follow Aggie around. I might go down there.”
“I do not think that is wise,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Mr. Lacey certainly would not welcome your presence.”
After he had left her, Charles went home. He went on the Internet and looked up hotels in Snoth-on-Sea. There appeared to be only one main hotel. The Palace. He rang up the hotel and asked to speak to Agatha. He was told she was out. Charles had a sudden idea. He asked to speak to James Lacey. He was told Mr. Lacey had checked out.
“Thought that pair would quarrel sooner rather than later,” he said. “Oh, well, may as well pay Aggie a visit.”
FOUR
IN the dining room the following morning, Harry spotted his quarry. Wayne and his wife, Chelsea, were dining alone. Neither the Hammonds nor Fred Jankers had put in an appearance.
Harry also noticed an elderly couple and a thirtyish couple seated at tables. Had they been in the hotel at the time of the murder? Agatha had not mentioned being suspicious of other hotel guests.
He looked gloomily down at his greasy breakfast, wondering how to strike up a conversation with Wayne and Chelsea. Then he noticed they had a ketchup bottle on their table, whereas he had none.
He got to his feet and strolled over to them. “Mind if I borrow your ketchup?” he asked. Wayne was even more unsavoury close up. His eyes were close together and his nose looked as if someone had squashed it. Chelsea had brown hair highlighted with streaks of blonde. Her head was an odd shape, as if it had been crushed in a press. It was very narrow. She was wearing false eyelashes and false nails. Her skin was sallow and there was a rash of little pimples on her chin. Her eyes were as green as contact lenses could make them. She was wearing a blouse with fringes and a layered skirt. Harry recognized it as a now out-of-date fashion, which had been, at the time, dubbed Pocahontas Gone Bad.
Wayne studied Harry from his shaven head to his expensive sneakers, and suddenly smiled. “Help yourself, mate.”
“Ta.” Harry lifted the bottle. Then he said, “I’m Harry. What are a trendy pair like you doing in a dump like this?”
“ ‘Sawful, ain’t it?” drawled Chelsea. “Wayne’s mum was here on her honeymoon but she got murdered.”
“Go on!” said Harry.
“Look, bring your breakfast over here,” said Wayne, “and we’ll tell you about it.”
That was easy, thought Harry. He picked up his plate of food and his coffee cup and sauntered over to join them.
“You must be feeling wrecked,” he said sympathetically.
“I’m feeling furious,” said Wayne, “cos I knows who done it.”
“Who?”
“Some cow who calls herself a detective. Agatha Raisin.”
“Have the police arrested her?” asked Harry.
