on, Agatha. You’re going to love this place.”
James pushed open the door and ushered Agatha in. Then he stood behind her, blinking in dismay. What had once been three bars, lounge, private and public, had been knocked into one large room. Music was blaring out. On a raised platform at the end of the room, a girl wearing nothing but a G-string undulated round a pole to the cheers and leers of crowds of white, pasty-faced youth.
They backed out into the rain. “When I was in the main street buying warm clothes,” said Agatha, “I saw an Indian restaurant.”
“Won’t do,” said James sadly. “Nothing the British drunk loves more than a curry.”
“And a Chinese.”
“We’ll try the Chinese.”
To their relief the Chinese restaurant only contained a few quiet couples. Agatha took off her coat and then exclaimed, “I’ve lost my scarf. I must have dropped it in the dining room.”
“We’ll get it when we go back. Let’s order.”
Put in a good mood by what turned out to be an excellent meal, they discussed travel plans, Agatha at last agreeing to James’s suggestion that they should take the ferry to France and motor down to the Mediterranean.
Outside her hotel room, Agatha hesitated slightly, wondering whether to invite James in, and then decided against it. Let any romance wait until the sunny beaches of the Mediterranean.
The sun shone the next day, but that only made the town look shabbier. James trudged around various places he remembered from his youth, only to find they had been built over or had changed for the worse. Even the wide sandy beach had been eroded by the rising seas and was now only a thin strip of shingle at the bottom of the sea wall. Every high tide, waves crashed over the wall, sending huge plumes of spray like ghostly arms towards the houses and hotel. James thought that unless they built a proper barrier, it would not be long before the sea engulfed the front of the town.
“What’s causing it?” asked Agatha. “Melting ice caps? But it’s so cold for June. Where’s all this global warming?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be off to the sunshine tomorrow. Did you find your scarf?”
“No. The manager said no one had handed it in. Maybe I was wearing it and it blew away.”
Agatha felt they were walking and talking like two bachelors. She cheered herself with the thought of balmy evenings on the Mediterranean. They drove over to Brighton that evening and had an excellent meal.
By the following morning, Agatha was in high spirits as they said goodbye to Snoth-on-Sea. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever return to this dump, she told herself.
They were approaching Dover when James suddenly said, “I’d better pull over. There’s a police car racing along behind us.” He drew to the side of the road. To their amazement, the police car stopped in front of them. Then another police car coming out of Dover joined them.
James let down the window as two policemen and a man in plain clothes approached the car. The plain- clothes man flashed a badge and asked, “Are you Mr. James Lacey and Mrs. Agatha Raisin?”
“Yes,” said James. “But look here—”
“Get out of the car. Both of you. We don’t want any trouble.”
Bewildered, they got out and stood in the sunshine. Cars slowed down as they passed; curious eyes stared from car windows.
“I am Detective Inspector Barret of the Snoth-on-Sea CID,” said the plain-clothes man. “Mrs. Raisin, we are taking you in for questioning over the murder of Geraldine Jankers …”
“What!” screeched Agatha.
Agatha was taken off in a police car. James followed, driving his own car and accompanied by a policeman.
The police station at Snoth-on-Sea was a Victorian one. Cameras went off in Agatha’s face as she was ushered in. She shouted over her shoulder at James, “Get a lawyer.”
The police station smelt of urine, disinfectant and strong tea. Agatha was led to an interview room and locked in. She sat at a scarred table. The only light was from a barred window, which looked as if it had not been cleaned since the police station had been built.
Agatha was later to regret that she had not waited for the arrival of the lawyer before she was questioned. She was so confident that it was all a silly mistake and angry at the interruption of her journey with James that she decided to adopt a lofty tone.
After ten minutes the door opened and the arresting detectives entered. A tape was put in. Inspector Barret and a Detective Sergeant Wilkins began the questioning. Agatha agreed that, yes, she was Mrs. Agatha Raisin and added that she ran her own detective agency.
Barret pushed a plastic evidence bag across the table. “Do you recognise this scarf?”
“Yes, it’s mine,” said Agatha. “I lost it.”
“When exactly did you lose it?”
“I don’t know. The night before last, maybe. Look, what is all this about?”
“I explained when I took you in for questioning,” said Barret.
“I was too shocked and angry to listen to you. Explain again.”
“You are being questioned about the murder of Geraldine Jankers.”
“That fat bitch at the hotel?”
“You were heard threatening to murder her.”
“Oh, you silly man,” said Agatha contemptuously, “a lot of people threaten to murder people when they get angry. I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“You have identified your scarf. Mrs. Jankers was found dead on the beach. She had been strangled with your scarf.”
Agatha looked at him in horror. He stared back with a look of dislike on his normally impassive face. He was a thickset man in need of a new suit because the grey one he was wearing was stretched at the seams. He had a heavy, open-pored face with shaggy eyebrows over grey eyes. His sergeant was younger, with a narrow face, pointed nose and long thin mouth. Agatha realized in that moment that she should have waited for a lawyer. She had badly antagonized both of them. But in the hope of remedying the situation, she smiled and said, “Anyone could have used my scarf.”
“But you were the only one overheard threatening to murder her. Now describe your movements since arriving in Snoth-on-Sea.”
So in a subdued voice, Agatha did.
“You and Mr. Lacey have separate rooms at the hotel. What is your relationship with Mr. Lacey?”
“He is my ex-husband. We were about to go on holiday together.”
“Leaving the country?”
“Yes, but—”
The door opened and a policewoman said, “Mrs. Raisin’s lawyer is here.”
A well-dressed, elegant man entered the room. “If you do not mind, gentlemen, I would like a word with my client.”
Barret told the tape that he was ending the interview and then switched it off. He and Wilkins left the room.
“I am Jeremy Posselthwaite,” said the lawyer. “I am an old friend of James Lacey. He called me on my mobile and it was fortunate I just happened to be in Brighton at the time. What have they got on you?”
“This dead woman insulted me in the dining room of the hotel. I said something about wanting to murder her. I lost my scarf. She was evidently found strangled with it. That’s it.”
“And before you came here, you had never met Mrs. Jankers before?”
“Never.”
“I gather from James that they not only insulted you and the other hotel guests but that Wayne Weldon, the son, picked a fight with James and came off badly.”
“Yes.”
“They are still trying to estimate the time of death. They guess she was murdered sometime last night. Where were you?”
