“We were in Brighton. We wanted some decent food, so we went to a French restaurant called Le Village. It’s in the Lanes.”
“And when did you return to the hotel?”
“About eleven in the evening. Look, this Mrs. Jankers was found dead on the beach. She detested me as much as I detested her, although we had only met in the dining room the evening before. How on earth could I be able to persuade her to take a walk on the beach with me?”
“When did you find your scarf was missing?”
“It was after we left the dining room on our first evening. We couldn’t stand the food, so we went to a Chinese restaurant. That was when I discovered the scarf was missing and I thought I must have left it in the dining room.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Jankers took it. Or whoever murdered her, They haven’t formally charged you with anything, have they?”
“No, all they are doing is questioning me.”
“Well, the first thing to do is to get you out of here. If they have further questions, they can check with you at your hotel. They really haven’t got much to hold you on. Back in a minute.”
* * *
An hour later Agatha and James walked gloomily along the seafront. They had been told not to leave the town.
“Oh, look,” said Agatha, “even the seagulls are dirty. Why is that, do you think? There doesn’t seem to be much industry around here.”
“Bugger the seagulls,” said James moodily. “What are we going to do?”
“I think I’ll ask Patrick and Harry to come down here and help us solve this case.”
“Let’s leave it to the police for once.”
“No, I want out of here. Just think. Harry could put on that gothic look of his, or whatever it’s supposed to be—you know, the studs and black leather—and get cosy with the Jankers family and friends. Patrick can work with us. The police always take to Patrick because he used to be one of theirs.”
They had reached a dusty bandstand at the edge of the promenade. “Look at that,” said James. “That bandstand used to glitter green and gold and the band played such jolly tunes.”
Agatha glanced sideways at him and realized for the first time that she neither knew nor understood James. The clouds of obsession were clearing away, leaving her looking at a stranger.
They walked up into the bandstand. Litter blew around their feet.
James stood silently, looking out to sea. I never thought he might be an unhappy man, thought Agatha. Surely only an unhappy man would chase after fond memories of childhood.
She took out her mobile phone. “Look, James. I’m going to phone them at the office and then we’ll get something to eat, but not at the hotel.”
He did not reply, so she shrugged and phoned Mrs. Freedman and asked to speak to Patrick.
“Hullo,” said Patrick. “I’m afraid things here are still quiet. Where are you phoning from?”
“A dreary dump called Snoth-on-Sea. Let me tell you what’s been happening here.”
Briskly Agatha outlined their supposed involvement in the murder of Mrs. Jankers. “I want you and Harry to come down here and help me solve this murder. Can Phil cope on his own?”
“I should think so, if we aren’t away too long.”
“Can you both set out as quickly as possible? I’ll book rooms for you at the hotel. No, on second thought, I’ll book your room, Patrick. Tell Harry to book his own and wear his skinhead black-leather look. I want him to cosy up to the dead woman’s family.”
“We should both be down there by evening. Food good?”
“Lousy.”
“Okay, we’ll eat on the road.”
Agatha felt more cheerful when she had rung off. “Harry and Patrick will be here this evening,” she said.
“If you think that will do any good.” James had his shoulders hunched before the increasing wind.
“Well, it’s better than mooning around here looking for your lost youth,” snapped Agatha.
“You really are a bitch.”
“I know,” said Agatha. “Let’s eat.”
After a moderately good pub lunch, they made their way back to the hotel. The manager greeted them with the news that Mr. Cyril Hammond, the Jankerses’ family friend, wished to speak to them and was waiting in the bar.
James remembered the bar as having once been an elegant place with white-coated waiters moving around among the palms. Now it was dingy. The long mahogany bar had been replaced by a plastic fake-wood one and the beautiful Victorian mirrors were gone. Low coffee tables had replaced the good old sturdy ones. “Probably sold off the contents to an antique dealer,” said James. ‘Oh, there’s Hammond, over there by the window.”
Cyril Hammond rose to meet them. He had a sallow face and black hair combed straight back from his forehead. His little toothbrush moustache was neatly trimmed over a small thin mouth. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and white trousers with knife-edged pleats.
“Drink?” he asked.
He signalled to the solitary fat waitress, who lumbered up and took their orders, sighing heavily as she did so, as if overworked, although they were the only customers in the bar.
“I’m sorry about the incident,” said Cyril.
“Murder is hardly an incident,” Agatha pointed out.
“Oh, that. I meant Wayne picking a fight.”
“Why did you want to see us?” asked James. He took a sip of his cloudy half pint of beer, made a face, and put it down on the table.
“It’s like this. That detective, Barret, he said you, Mrs. Raisin, were a private detective.”
He did not tell Agatha that Barret had added a bitter complaint that any weirdo these days could go around calling themselves a private detective.
“I am very successful,” said Agatha.
“I’m worried about the family and I want this cleared up. None of us would have touched her.”
“What about her husband? She was on her honeymoon?”
“Oh, Fred? I can’t imagine him strangling anyone or having the strength to do it. It must have been some stranger.”
“The police don’t know exactly when she was murdered,” said Agatha. “Has anyone any idea why she went out walking on the beach? It’s a peculiar place to go. I mean, there’s hardly any beach left.” As if to illustrate her point, spray dashed against the windows.
“High tide,” commented Cyril. “We don’t know why Geraldine went out. Her husband says he was fast asleep and didn’t hear her leave.”
“There are houses on either side of this hotel,” said James. “Surely the police have been questioning people.”
“As far as I can gather,” said Cyril, “nobody saw anything. There are stairs down to the beach right opposite the hotel. Once down there, she couldn’t be seen because of the promenade wall.”
“Do you want us to try to find out who did it?” asked Agatha.
“I wish you would. I don’t have that much money…”
“It’s all right,” said Agatha grandly. “I’ll be working for myself. I want to get out of this place as soon as possible.”
“Was Mrs. Jankers married before?” asked James.
“Yes, three times.”
Agatha blinked in surprise. She thought she would never understand men. She had known attractive women who couldn’t even get married once.
“How did the marriages end?” James asked.
“The first one—that would be Jimmy Weldon. He died of a heart attack. Then the second, Charlie Black, is doing time for armed robbery. She divorced him when he was in prison. Before Fred, there was Archie Swale. She divorced him after she met Fred at ballroom dancing classes.”
