There Goes The Bride (14 page)

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘I forgot to ask. When exactly did George and Olivia leave?’

‘Yesterday, I think.’

‘So George could have murdered Bert!’

‘Hardly. If Bert’s information was about Sean, then it stands to reason that some Irishman decided to get rid of him in the same way. Sean could have had information about some IRA cell working on the mainland.’

‘But I thought the Provisional IRA had gone all peaceful,’ protested Roy.

‘Oh, yeah?’ said Agatha cynically. ‘Tell that to the people of Omagh.’

Sylvan looked at Agatha’s tired face and said sympathetically, ‘Why don’t you go and have a good night’s sleep? When do the police want to see you in the morning? I have to be there at nine o’clock.’

‘Same time for us,’ said Roy gloomily.

‘Well, then, we will all meet up at the police station.’

As they were making their way out of the restaurant, Agatha stopped in the doorway and said, ‘We didn’t pay the bill!’

‘I run an account here when I am in town. Don’t worry about it. I invited you, remember?’

‘Well, thanks awfully,’ gushed Roy.

Sylvan walked with them to The Jolly Farmer and at the entrance drew Agatha to him, and holding her close, kissed her tenderly on both cheeks.

‘See you tomorrow.’

Agatha walked up to her room in a daze. Could he really fancy her?

But after she had said goodnight to Roy, gone into her room and looked in the bathroom mirror, she let out a squawk of horror. There were deep shadows under her eyes and her hair was a tangled mess. The rain earlier had washed all her make-up off.

If only she could turn the clock back, say, twenty years, thought Agatha. She showered, put on her nightdress and plunged down into an exhausted sleep.

She was awakened at seven in the morning by Roy hammering on the door and saying they’d better get some breakfast because the police might keep them all day.

Agatha spent so much time brushing her hair and making up her face that she had only time to eat a couple of pieces of toast and gulp down a cup of coffee before it was time to go back to the police station.

This time, Agatha was interviewed by Detective Superintendent Walker, a tall stout man with a red round face like a farmer.

He was flanked by Boase and Falcon. The tape hissed quietly as Agatha was taken through her story several times. At last she was told to sign her statement and that she was free to go. Roy was already waiting for her in the reception area.

‘Have you seen Sylvan?’ asked Agatha.

‘I asked the desk sergeant. He left just before I was released.’

‘I’d better phone him and see if he wants to see us.’ Agatha took out her mobile phone. She called the Brosses’ home at Downboys but only got the answering service.

‘You’re keen on him,’ said Roy with a grin. ‘Can’t say I blame you.’

‘I am not,’ protested Agatha. ‘He was so amusing last night that I never really got down to questioning him properly.’

‘We’d better pack it in. I’ve got to get to work tomorrow,’ said Roy.

Agatha paid the bill at the inn and then reluctantly drove out of Hewes. She stopped suddenly outside the town.

‘What is it?’ asked Roy.

‘You know who was missing last night? That dog man, Jerry.’

‘So, he must have gone off with his boss.’

‘Who’s looking after the dogs?’

‘Sylvan, I suppose. Aggie, may I remind you I’ve got to get back to Carsely, pick up my stuff and catch the London train at Moreton-in-Marsh?’

Agatha sighed and drove on. Poor Bert, she thought. I’ve just got to find out what happened.

Despite her burning curiosity, the threat of a recession made Agatha concentrate on her work. Shares were sliding, prices were rising, petrol was a disgraceful cost and she knew that soon people would begin to think twice about the luxury of hiring a private detective. Certainly, there would always be the desperate people and the lawyers who wanted evidence for divorce cases, but all the bread-and-butter cases like missing cats, dogs and teenagers, the backbone of the agency, would soon begin to dwindle. Old memories of poverty drove her on. She was a very rich woman and was determined to stay that way.

Toni was no longer prepared to work overtime, even for pay. For Toni was in love.

She had worked on a divorce case for a Mircester businessman, Perry Stanton. He owned a computer company out on the Mircester industrial estate. He had been so grateful to Toni for having secured the necessary evidence that his wife was having an affair that he had begun to ask her out while his divorce was going through. He was tall and handsome and in his late thirties. Toni had kept the budding relationship secret from Agatha, knowing that lady would not approve of the age difference.

She had, however, confided in Sharon Gold, who had admitted that Perry was ‘dreamy’. Toni did not know that it all worried Sharon. Sharon knew that Toni was still a virgin and wanted the best for her friend.

Her worries heightened when Toni told her that she was taking a two-week holiday and going to Paris with Perry.

At last, Sharon could not bear it any longer and called on Agatha at her cottage in Carsely.

Agatha reflected that she could never really get used to Sharon’s appearance. Sharon had masses of hair, now dyed a flaming red. Her generous figure bulged out of a pair of brief shorts and a boob tube. Her plump legs ended in high-heeled stilettos. But Sharon had proved to be quick and clever and good on cases where she could pass unnoticed amongst crowds of young people.

Agatha listened to her carefully. She asked Sharon if she knew which Parisian hotel Toni was being taken to. Sharon took out a tiny notebook from her pink plastic handbag and flipped it open. ‘It’s … here, you read it.’

It was the Hôtel de Notre Dame in the Rue Maître Albert on the Left Bank. Agatha frowned. ‘Doesn’t sound very grand. I thought he would have taken her to the George V or somewhere like that. Leave it with me,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll think of something.’

When Sharon had left, Agatha found Sylvan’s card. Perhaps he might be in Paris. She dialled and heard that now familiar voice on the other end of the line.

She explained the situation to Sylvan and asked, ‘Do you know this hotel?’

‘It is actually a modestly priced but very good hotel indeed. But if he has the money and is not taking her somewhere superb, then he has done it before. He may have a
petite amie
on the side.’

‘A what?’

‘A mistress.’

‘Can you do anything?’ asked Agatha.

‘But certainly. Your little lady will be returned to you intact.’

‘Have you heard anything about Bert’s murder?’

‘Must go.’

Toni was having second thoughts. As they got into a taxi at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, the day was sunny. Suddenly Perry looked much older. But she convinced herself she was suffering from virginal nerves. Why on earth should she feel nervous when her friends leaped in and out of bed without a care in the world?

But her spirits rose as the taxi moved along the quays and she saw Notre Dame rearing up over the Seine. The hotel came as something of a shock to Toni. She knew Perry was very rich and had assumed it would be a grand hotel. Certainly the Hôtel de Notre Dame at a bend in the street looked very French and very pretty.

The motherly-looking woman at the desk checked the registrations and raised her eyebrows. ‘But you cancelled the reservation, Mr Stanton,’ she exclaimed.

‘No, I did not,’ said Perry hotly. ‘Oh, well, give us another room.’

‘I don’t have one. That room was taken almost immediately after the cancellation.’

‘Look, you incompetent fool –’

‘Monsieur,’ said the woman in perfect English, ‘I assure you I am neither a fool nor incompetent. In any case, the room would not have been suitable. It had a double bed, and you surely do not want to sleep with your daughter.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ snarled Perry. Toni began to feel miserable. She had never really worried that much before about the age difference. ‘I know a place up in Saint-Germain-des-Prés,’ said Perry. He strode angrily ahead, pulling his small suitcase behind him. Toni hitched her satchel over her shoulder and followed him.

They had just reached Place Maubert when a tall woman with a child barred their way. ‘So here you are,’ she said. ‘You might have phoned me.’

Perry tried to push past her. ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life,’ he shouted.

A crowd was beginning to gather. ‘Don’t you know your own child?’ shouted the woman. She was tall and blonde and the child, a little girl, was a charming little moppet with a head of golden curls.

The little girl held up her arms. ‘Papa,’ she said.

The row went on, Perry shouting he did not know her and the woman claiming that he had deserted her and left his daughter fatherless. She repeated it all in French for the benefit of the listening crowd.

Perry turned round desperately. ‘Look, Toni …’ he began, but Toni had disappeared.

Perry swung back to the woman, beside himself with rage, and shouted, ‘You lying slut,’ and the woman translated the insult for the listeners. A market worker stepped forward and socked Perry hard on the jaw and Perry stumbled backwards and fell down on his bottom on the pavement.

When he struggled to his feet, the woman and child were getting into a taxi and speeding off.

He ran along the street, searching for Toni, but he could not see her anywhere.

Toni was sitting in the cool darkness of Notre Dame amongst the flickering candles. At last she went outside and walked down to the river and sat down on a bench and phoned Agatha, who pretended she was hearing about Perry for the first time.

Agatha felt that Sylvan had really gone in for overkill but when Toni had finished, she said soothingly, ‘Best to find out now rather than later. Are you going to the airport? Or do you want to stay on in Paris?’

‘I just want to get home. Not the airport. He may be waiting there.’

‘Then go to Gare du Nord and get yourself a ticket on Eurostar
.
Get a return. It’s cheaper, and choose a date to go back when you might want a holiday.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever want to see Paris again,’ said Toni. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

Agatha phoned Sylvan and thanked him. ‘You owe me, Agatha Raisin. One actress and one child actress.’

‘Send me a bill.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Have dinner with me.’

‘All right. Where?’

‘I have never been to the Cotswolds. What about tomorrow night? Give me directions.’

Agatha did, her heart beating hard. A little voice of caution was telling her she knew nothing about Sylvan except that, when there was a murder, he was always there.

But what hurt could one dinner do her?

A
GATHA CALLED ON
Mrs Bloxby the following morning. The vicar’s wife had heard about the death of Bert on television. ‘I really don’t see what the police are up to,’ complained the vicar’s wife. ‘You cannot have three murders around the Bross-Tilkingtons without them being involved in some way, not to mention their French friend.’

‘What about the French friend?’ asked Agatha defensively.

‘He’s always on the scene. Have you thought of that? He is house-sitting for the Bross-Tilkingtons and then a body is found under a jetty on the property right after the boy said he had information for you.’

‘Bert might just have fallen in and smashed his head on something,’ said Agatha.

‘The police are treating it as murder. For your own safety, Mrs Raisin, I would keep well clear of any of them.’

Agatha realized with a sinking heart that when Sylvan called at her cottage that evening, the faces behind the twitching lace curtains of Carsely would register his presence in the village.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Agatha in what she hoped was a casual way, ‘he’s taking me out for dinner tonight.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘He’s an attractive Frenchman, I’m sure he’s not involved, and I haven’t had any fun in ages.’

‘Do you mean sex?’

‘You shock me.’

‘Just a thought. Please don’t let your hormones cloud your usually sharp mind, Mrs Raisin.’

‘I do owe him a favour.’ Agatha told Mrs Bloxby about Toni’s adventure.

‘I would make sure that dinner is all he gets,’ said Mrs Bloxby with unusual severity. ‘It may be a chance, however, to extract some more information from him. Where do you plan to take him for dinner?’

Agatha had really planned to serve a candlelit dinner at home but she said airily, ‘I’ll think of somewhere.’

But Mrs Bloxby’s remarks had caused her to think it might be better to take him out to a restaurant. And she was sure a Frenchman would not appreciate her microwave cuisine. She booked a table at the hotel in Mircester and then did little work that day, fitting it in between visits to Evesham to go to the beautician’s and then round to the hairdresser’s, Achille. Her favourite hairdresser, Jeanelle, was on holiday, so the manager, Gareth, took over, pointing out that her roots were showing. Tinting meant more time than Agatha felt she had to spare, but it just had to be done.