There Goes The Bride (13 page)

They climbed on to the deck, shouting loudly, ‘Bert! Bert!’ while the mocking seagulls sailed about overhead.

‘The wind’s whipping our voices away,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s try below.’

‘Must we?’ pleaded Roy. ‘I’m feeling seasick already.’

‘Then stay where you are. I’ll go down.’

But Agatha found the door to the cabin firmly locked.

She retreated back up on deck. ‘No one there. I just said we’d meet around lunchtime. It’s only noon. Let’s go back to the car and wait. He’ll have to pass us to get to his boat.’

They waited and waited while the rising wind rocked the car and the sky grew dark overhead. Suddenly the rain poured down in floods. Agatha switched on the windscreen wipers and continued to watch. At last, the shower passed and the sun shone out again.

‘You wait here,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll try the harbour office.’

But that office was closed. Agatha wandered up and down the row of moored boats until she saw a man working on his deck.

She called out, ‘Have you seen Bert Trymp?’

‘That’s his boat along there, the
Southern Flyer,’
he called back.

‘He’s not on it.’

‘Then try his father’s garage in Downboys. Do you need directions?’

‘I know the way,’ said Agatha.

‘I’m hungry,’ complained Roy when Agatha got back into the car.

‘So am I,’ said Agatha. ‘Look, there’s a café over there. We can get some sandwiches and coffee and then get off to Downboys.’

‘What happened to nice vulgar white-bread sandwiches?’ mourned Roy after lunch as Agatha drove them to Downboys. ‘It’s always that nasty brown bread which tastes of bitter malt.
And
mayonnaise on everything.
And
all wrapped in plastic. No one makes a real sandwich any more. And that ham! It was so slippery and shiny, I could see my face in it.’

‘I’ll get you a good dinner this evening. Here is Downboys and here is the garage and … would you believe it? It’s closed for Saturday. Isn’t that so bloody British? No wonder half our businesses are being outsourced abroad.’

‘Calm down, sweetie,’ said Roy. ‘There’s a house next to it. Bet that’s where they live.’

Agatha marched up to the bungalow next to the garage and rang the bell.

‘I say, Aggie,’ said Roy, grabbing her arm. ‘I’ve just seen a faun.’

‘There might be deer round here.’

‘No, a man who looks like –’

He broke off as the door opened. A short thickset man stood there. He had a pugnacious face, small grey eyes and a thatch of unkempt grey hair.

‘Mr Trymp?’ ventured Agatha.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name is Agatha Raisin and this is Roy Silver. Your son wanted to see us on his boat at lunchtime today but we can’t find him.’

‘I don’t know where he is. He lives on that stupid wreck down in the harbour. Try there.’

‘We have but he’s not on board.’

‘Can’t help.’

‘Mr Trymp, may we come in?’

‘No.’

‘I am a private detective. I have offered a reward for any information about the death of the man who called himself Sean Fitzpatrick.’

‘I ’member you. You’re that bird what was married to the fellow who was going to marry Felicity. I think our Bert’s been playing games. He don’t know nothing.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘’Cos I know my son and he’s as thick as pig shit!’ Mr Trymp slammed the door in their faces.

‘Now what?’ asked Agatha gloomily. ‘Why are you staring about like that?’

‘I saw this chap watching us. He looked like a faun. No, well, maybe like one of those Pan creatures in the old paintings.’

‘Did he have grey hair, hooded eyes, slim figure?’

‘That’s him.’

‘That, if I am not mistaken, was Sylvan Dubois. You must have seen him at the wedding. Not like you to fail to notice someone like him. Why on earth did he not come over and speak to us? You know, Roy, much as I hate to do it, I’d better go to the police and tell them about Bert’s phone call. He may be lying dead in his boat.’

After a long wait at the police station, they were ushered in to face Detective Sergeant Falcon.

He listened carefully while Agatha told him about Bert’s phone call. When she had finished, he said, ‘You can now leave matters with us, Mrs Raisin.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ said Agatha. ‘You’d never have heard about it if it hadn’t been for me. I’m coming with you.’

Back to the harbour under a squally sky. Boats and yachts were bobbing at anchor. ‘You two wait here,’ commanded Falcon. He and a policeman went on board. Falcon eventually emerged. ‘I’ll get the boy’s father down here and tell him to bring any keys.’

The man from the harbour office came strolling along. ‘What’s up?’

‘We think something may have happened to Bert Trymp, Mr Judson,’ said Falcon. ‘Did he leave keys with you?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact. They’re on a nail in the office.’

‘Where anyone might have got hold of them while that lazy sod is in the pub,’ muttered Falcon.

They waited impatiently. Judson came back with a ring of keys. Falcon took them, and accompanied again by the policeman, went back on board. Agatha pulled her coat more tightly around her.

‘Here comes Sylvan,’ said Roy.

Agatha looked along the quay and saw Sylvan strolling towards them. He came up to Agatha and kissed her on both cheeks and then asked cheerfully, ‘Any more bodies?’

‘Do you know where Bert is?’ asked Agatha.

He shrugged and spread his hands.

‘We were up at the garage,’ pursued Agatha. ‘Why didn’t you speak to us?’

‘Things to do,’ he said lazily. ‘Places to go. Why are you looking for Bert? I assume that is why the police are here.’

‘He said he had information about Sean’s murder.’

‘But it has been established that Sean or whatever he was really called was killed by the IRA.’

‘And where’s the proof of that?’ demanded Agatha angrily. She was angry because those kisses had given her a flutter.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sylvan, ‘but the police seem sure of it.’ He raised his expressive eyebrows in the direction of Roy.

‘This is a friend of mine, Roy Silver. Roy, Sylvan Dubois.’

‘Charmed,’ tittered Roy.

‘Why don’t you both join me for dinner tonight?’ asked Sylvan.

‘We didn’t really mean to stay …’ began Agatha, but Roy chipped in with ‘That would be lovely. I mean, Aggie, we can hardly leave without finding out what happened to Bert.’

‘All right,’ said Agatha. ‘Where?’

‘There’s a very good Cantonese restaurant called China Dreams on the main street,’ said Sylvan. ‘Shall we say eight o’clock?’

He turned to leave. ‘Aren’t you going to wait and see if the police find anything?’ asked Agatha.

‘If they had, they’d be leaping about by now.
À bientôt!’

Falcon eventually reappeared. ‘No sign of him,’ he called to Agatha. ‘He probably was playing a trick on you. But we’ll keep looking.’

‘Now what?’ asked Roy.

‘I want to find a Marks and Spencer,’ said Agatha, ‘and buy some clean underwear and a nightie. We may as well stay the night.’

After they had booked rooms in The Jolly Farmer and done their shopping, Agatha said, ‘We’ve still got time until this evening. I’d like to have a look at the bottom of the Brosses’ property. Bert might be working on a boat there.’

‘We could go back to the harbour and see if anyone will take us down the river,’ suggested Roy.

‘Good idea.’

But Judson said he didn’t know of anyone available. They did not say where they wanted to go, only that they wanted to sail down the river for a bit. ‘I’ve a dinghy you can rent,’ said Judson, ‘but I don’t think you’d know how to handle one of those.’

Roy looked out over the water. The sun was shining and the wind had dropped. He had only ever had one lesson, but he knew Agatha often thought he was a wimp and wanted to impress her. ‘I can handle a dinghy,’ he said eagerly.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Agatha nervously.

‘Oh, sure as sure.’

Agatha was impressed when Roy got the sail up and the dinghy began to move swiftly down the river. Roy was proud of himself as he tacked backwards and forwards down the river.

Then the wind returned with a roar and Agatha screamed as the dinghy heeled dangerously.

‘Do something!’ shouted Agatha. ‘My bum’s wet.’

Roy scrambled to lower the sail but the boat was now caught in a strong current and they were borne at what seemed like a terrifying rate. Just when they both feared they would be taken right down the river and out to sea, the current drove the dinghy straight into a group of willows on a headland just after the Brosses’ property. They seized the branches and held on.

Roy swung on to the shore by the branches and grabbed the dinghy’s tender and made the boat fast. He helped a shaken Agatha ashore. They both sat down on the muddy, grassy bank. Agatha’s face was white. ‘You silly chump,’ she said. ‘You told me you knew how to handle the thing.’

Roy shivered. ‘You know, that Judson must have known it was dangerous. He must know all about that current. I’ll pull the dinghy up on the bank and he can collect it. If those willow branches hadn’t been blown down so near the water, we’d have had it. Let’s get back to the pub. I’m freezing.’

Agatha was recovering. She took out her mobile phone and asked directory inquiries for Judson’s number and then called him. She blasted him for having risked their lives. He shouted back that they were incompetent until Agatha threatened to go to the police. He said he would come down the river, collect the dinghy and take them back. Roy, with a sinking heart, heard Agatha say, ‘We’ll find our own way back.’

‘Why?’ asked Roy miserably.

‘Because, as we scooted past, I saw the Bross house through the trees. If we walk back along the riverbank, we’ll be able to get to Bross’s boat. Bert might be there. If he’s not, we’ll find a way round the property to the village and phone for a taxi.’

They squelched their way along under a now lowering sky. They rounded a bend and came to the stretch of river in front of the house but there was no boat at anchor. ‘Snakes and bastards!’ complained Agatha. There was a short wooden jetty. She walked to the edge and stared up and down the river.

‘Oh, come on. Let’s get out of here,’ pleaded Roy.

Agatha was about to turn away when the movement of something in the water below the jetty caught her eye. She stared down. Under the restless motion of the river a white shape could be seen.

‘Roy,’ said Agatha in a shaky voice. ‘I think there’s something down there.’

Roy trotted up and knelt down on the jetty. The water swirled and eddied and then amongst the swirls there was a sudden calm. ‘It’s a face,’ he said. ‘Aggie, there’s a body down there.’

Agatha took out her phone and called the police.

Oh, how long the day seemed as darkness fell and the body of Bert Trymp was lifted from the river. Halogen lamps were set up. Teams of scene of crime operatives moved in the light in their white suits like ghosts. After the body was pulled from the water, Agatha said she thought it was probably that of Bert. It was difficult because she had only met him once and the face was swollen from immersion in the river. Someone had struck him a savage blow on the back of the head, filled his pockets with rocks and dropped him off the jetty. Bert’s father was collected and brought to the scene. In a gruff voice, he identified his son and then burst into tears. The Bross-Tilkingtons were abroad, said Falcon. They were on holiday in Barcelona.

Then Agatha and Roy were driven to the police station and the questioning began. Boase and Falcon seemed to find Agatha’s knack of finding bodies very suspicious.

It was eleven o’clock in the evening when they were finally released. ‘I’m hungry,’ wailed Roy.

‘The Chinese restaurant is still open,’ said a familiar voice behind them.

‘What are you doing here, Sylvan?’ demanded Agatha.

‘I am the prime suspect. I am house-sitting for George. The body was found under his jetty. They have taken away my passport. Let’s eat.’

‘I should really change,’ said Agatha. She had not only bought underwear but a sweater and trousers from Marks.

‘Don’t,’ wailed Roy. ‘I’m simply too hungry.’

‘The restaurant is only just along the street,’ said Sylvan.

The staff at the restaurant seemed to know Sylvan very well. They rushed to welcome him. ‘Shall I order for us?’ asked Sylvan.

I always seem to land up with men who won’t let me choose my own food, thought Agatha, but she was too tired to protest. ‘Go ahead.’

Sylvan seemed to know a great deal of light yet scurrilous gossip about various celebrities. He poured generous amounts of wine. Agatha began to relax. She felt it would do no harm to get mildly drunk and maybe, therefore, enjoy a good night’s sleep without being plagued by nightmares of Bert’s dead face.

But charming and attractive as Sylvan was, Agatha, mindful of her detective duties, finally asked, ‘Who do you think killed Bert?’