There Goes The Bride (24 page)

She opened up the back of her phone and searched for the SIM card. It had been taken out.

Agatha found her hands were beginning to shake. She used the toilet and washed her hands, wondering what to do. Why should Charlotte disable her phone? So that you can’t call for help, you gullible idiot, sneered a voice in her brain.

Why Warwick Castle? Maybe Charlotte planned to take her on a walk round the rose garden, say, plunge a hypodermic into her in a quiet corner and leave her to rot.

Sylvan, thought Agatha bitterly. His long arm had reached out from the prison. She pinned a smile on her face and returned to the table.

‘I nearly came to look for you,’ said Charlotte. ‘You were ages.’

Agatha noticed Charlotte had a small clutch handbag whereas her own was a large leather one.

‘Goodness, look at that!’ shrieked Agatha suddenly. ‘Over there!’

‘What? Where?’

‘Stand up and have a look out of the window.’

When Charlotte got to her feet, Agatha deftly slid Charlotte’s little handbag across the table and dropped it into her own. Then she emptied her cup of tea back into the pot in case Charlotte had put something into it.

‘I can’t see anything,’ said Charlotte, coming back to the table. ‘What was it?’

‘A peacock.’

‘Agatha, the place is full of peacocks.’

‘I still get excited when I see one,’ said Agatha.

‘Where’s my bag?’ said Charlotte.

‘I don’t know. Did you have it when we came into the restaurant?’

‘I’m sure I did.’

‘Charles!’ cried Agatha, feeling she could have wept with relief as his familiar figure walked into the tea room.

‘Hi, Agatha,’ said Charles. ‘Do you know the place is swarming with police? I wonder what’s going on.’

Charlotte rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘Just going to get some air,’ she said.

Agatha made a grab for her but she twisted away and ran for the door. Agatha followed, shouting to the nearest policeman, ‘That’s her!’

‘Hold back, Agatha,’ said Charles quietly. ‘It’s up to the police now.’

Charlotte zigzagged across the lawn and then dived into the entrance to the battlements. Charles and Agatha walked outside the tea room and watched the chase.

Charlotte appeared, a tiny figure up on the battlements, rushing this way and that, but her escape was now blocked by the police.

Her last cry was faintly borne to their ears as she threw herself off.

People rushed forward and then were herded away by the police. ‘Let’s not look,’ said Charles. ‘Let’s just go and sit down in the tea room.’

‘How did you know?’ asked Agatha.

Charles told her about the phone call from Toni and about how Toni had found the real Mrs Rother.

‘I knew there was something up when my phone didn’t work,’ said Agatha. ‘She’d disabled it. I pinched her handbag in case she had something nasty in there for me.’

‘Let’s have a look.’

The tea room was empty, everyone having rushed outside to see what was happening.

Agatha took out the small clutch handbag and opened it. ‘Don’t touch anything,’ said Charles. ‘Just look.’

‘There’s a syringe in here,’ said Agatha. ‘Why didn’t she just bump me off at home? Why Warwick Castle?’

‘She must have wanted you really off guard and surrounded by crowds of tourists.’

Two plain-clothes detectives came in. ‘Mrs Raisin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you come with us? We have a lot of questions to ask you.’

Agatha was interviewed at police headquarters in Leamington Spa for a long time. Then she was taken to Mircester headquarters, where the questioning started all over again.

Wilkes asked her at one point why she had not suspected Charlotte earlier. Agatha said she had no reason to. She had thought that there might be a remote chance that Sylvan would send someone after her, but she had thought that person would be a man. And all the time during the questioning, Agatha’s spirits sank lower and lower. Had it not been for discovering her phone had been tampered with, had it not been for Toni’s and Roy’s suspicions, then she might have been killed.

The police obviously thought she was a bumbling amateur, and by the time she was released and returned wearily to her cottage, that is exactly how she felt.

There were only two local reporters waiting on her doorstep to interview her. Agatha rallied enough to give them a few brief quotes but wondered where the national press and television were. She was to find out next day that they had decided to go with the better story.

Toni’s face was all over the front pages. The real Charlotte Rother, photographed in hospital, was hailing her as the heroine who had saved her life. She said that the woman who had stolen her identity had drugged her and tied her to the bed. Her real name turned out to be Clarice Delavalle, one of Sylvan’s former mistresses, who bore a remarkable resemblance to Charlotte. Clarice had returned from time to time to feed her and then had not come back and Charlotte was suddenly sure she meant to leave her to starve to death. Also, Clarice had taken her fur coat and jewellery.

Roy Silver had also been interviewed, saying he had seen and heard Clarice in the Ivy talking in French, and had urged Toni to check up on her. The Warwick Castle adventure was reported on the inside pages. There was a head and shoulders photograph of Agatha taken some time ago, scowling at the camera. Reports of the fake Charlotte’s suicide had been taken from eyewitnesses amongst the tourists.

Like all people who don’t really quite know who they are, Agatha considered her job to be her identity. Now she felt totally diminished.

She went up to her bedroom, undressed and showered and then crept under the duvet.

She fell down into a dream where she was trying to get into the office in the morning but her keys would not work. She phoned Toni, who said they had all decided for the health of the agency it would be better if she retired.

A
GATHA WAS AWAKENED
by the harsh ringing of the phone beside the bed. It was Mrs Bloxby. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Raisin?’ came her anxious voice. ‘I have called at your cottage several times but you did not answer the door.’

‘I’m in bed,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll be round to see you as soon as I get dressed.’

‘Actually, I’m outside.’

‘I’ll be right down.’

When Agatha opened the door, Mrs Bloxby looked at her worriedly. Agatha had not removed her make-up properly before going to bed and melting mascara had left black rings under her eyes.

‘Come into the kitchen,’ said Agatha. ‘I need a black coffee and a cigarette.’

Before sitting down at the kitchen table, Agatha switched on a recently installed extractor fan in the window before lighting a cigarette.

Mrs Bloxby watched her friend sucking smoke down into her lungs and said anxiously, ‘Don’t you ever worry about lung cancer?’

‘From time to time. I’ll stop next month.’

‘Why next month?’

‘Because I need a holiday. Toni can run things,’ added Agatha bitterly.

Mrs Bloxby saw the newspapers spread out on the table. ‘You must be very grateful to Miss Gilmour,’ said the vicar’s wife.

‘I should be, I know. But she’s made me feel like a rank amateur.’

‘Think of all the cases you’ve solved.’

Agatha took a gulp of black coffee. ‘So what? That was then. This is now.’

‘You have had several bad frights and yet you refuse to go for counselling. You should get some help.’

‘I’m all right,’ said Agatha. ‘I need to get away and think. I might give up the agency altogether.’

Mrs Bloxby looked appalled. ‘And put all your staff out of work in the middle of a recession!’

‘Well, maybe that is a bit extreme. I’ll be all right when I get away for a break.’

‘Have you ever heard about taking yourself with you? You can’t get rid of your problems by running away.’

‘Spare me the psychobabble.’

Mrs Bloxby gathered up her handbag and stood up. ‘I’m off. Call me if you need me.’

Agatha was appalled when she realized she had been rude to her best friend. Then she thought, oh, what does it all matter? Nobody needs me. I must get away.

Two weeks later, Agatha sat in a café opposite the Blue Mosque in Istanbul feeling like a new woman. She had been to beauty salons, hairdressers and masseurs. Her hip had not ached once. The weather was sunny and mild. She had plenty of books to read and was in the grip of Eric Ambler’s
Journey Into Fear.

Her jealousy of Toni, her shocks at the attempts on her life seemed to have sailed away down the Bosphorus. At one point, she glanced up from her book and became aware that a man at a table opposite was watching her. He was tall with hooded eyes, a beaky nose and a firm mouth. He had thick brown hair, beautifully cut, although his dark suit looked worn.

He smiled, and for some reason Agatha found herself smiling back. He rose and came to join her. ‘American?’ he asked.

‘No, English,’ said Agatha. ‘Are you a tourist?’

‘No, I live in Istanbul.’

‘Your English is excellent.’

‘Thank you. Is that a very good book?’

‘Excellent.’

‘Then I’ll leave you in peace to read it.’

To Agatha’s surprise, he did not go away, but sat down again. He lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and surveyed the passing crowds.

The muezzins began the call to prayer.

Agatha stopped reading. She was suddenly hungry. She picked up the menu on the table.

‘I’ll take you to lunch,’ said her companion.

‘Why?’

‘You interest me.’

‘Is this a pickup?’ demanded Agatha.

‘Meaning what?’

‘Are you trying to get off with me?’

‘I don’t understand that either. Would I like to get to know you better? Yes. Just lunch.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Agatha.

They walked across the square, over the tramlines and into a dark cellar-type restaurant.

‘You’d better order,’ said Agatha. ‘My knowledge of Turkish food is pretty much limited to kebab.’

The meal was delicious, starting with a cheese pastry as light as a feather followed by lamb cooked slowly in the oven with raisins. Outside, the sunlit crowd flowed up and down.

He had asked Agatha what she did and her descriptions of her detective prowess took up much of the meal. And as she talked, she could feel her old confidence in her abilities returning.

She refused a dessert and settled for coffee instead but decided against drinking brandy because she had already drunk quite a lot of wine.

‘What do you do?’ she asked.

‘I’m a civil servant. I work for the government.’

‘Which branch?’

‘The tax office.’

‘And are you usually allowed such a lot of time off work?’

‘I’m taking a few days’ leave.’

‘Are you married?’ asked Agatha bluntly.

‘Was. Got divorced five years ago. You?’

‘Divorced as well. What is your name?’

‘Mustafa Kemal. And you?’

‘Agatha Raisin.’

‘That’s a funny name.’

‘What’s funny about it?’

‘Raisin. Those wrinkly dried grapes. No, don’t scowl. A pretty woman like you should not scowl.’

‘Tell me about the tax office,’ said Agatha.

‘There’s not much to tell. It is very boring.’

‘Did you ever think of getting another job?’

‘Not really. My family were so proud of me. My mother was a dressmaker and my father, a labourer. I was the first to go to university. Now I am too old to change.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Fifty-four.’

‘That’s not too old to change!’

‘Agatha, as far as jobs are concerned, it’s too old anywhere.’

After lunch he escorted her to her hotel and asked her if she would like to have dinner with him that evening. Agatha happily agreed.

She spent the rest of the day wrapped in rosy dreams of being married in Istanbul. No more detective work. No more feelings of failure. Mustafa obviously thought her a very attractive woman. She felt young again, full of anticipation.

And when he saw her in the foyer of the hotel wearing a black dress, slit up one side to reveal one shapely leg, and his eyes lit up with admiration, Agatha glowed.

He drove her up to the old fire tower which dominates the skyline of Istanbul. On the road there, Agatha, looking out of the car window, saw Erol Fehim, the man who had helped her before.

‘Stop the car,’ she shouted. ‘I think I’ve seen someone I know.’

But he did not seem to hear her and drove on. When they reached the fire tower, they climbed the stairs to the restaurant. They had a table by the window. The view was stunning. Down below, a fountain sparkled in the Golden Horn and there was a magnificent panorama of the palaces and minarets of the great city.