There Goes The Bride (6 page)

‘None of that was going on when my George was selling houses,’ said Olivia angrily. ‘May I remind you it was my dear daughter who was killed?’

‘I thought that maybe,’ said Agatha cautiously, ‘someone might have wanted revenge on the family by killing the daughter.’

‘Nonsense!’

All right. Sylvan, are you sure that Felicity’s two previous engagements were broken off by the men?’

‘So I was led to believe.’

‘Have you their names and addresses?’ Agatha asked Olivia.

‘I’ll get them for you.’ Olivia hurried out of the room. Then they all heard the doorbell and a voice saying, ‘We are sorry to trouble you, Mrs Bross-Tilkington, but my forensic team would like another look at your daughter’s room. And if you are up to it today, we have some more questions to ask you and your husband. Oh, don’t leave, Mr Dubois. You as well.’

When Olivia and Sylvan had left the room, Agatha whispered to Toni, ‘Let’s get out of here. See if that kennel man knows anything.’

They went out through the french windows. The rain had stopped but the lawn was spongy under their feet.

‘I hope he’s got the dogs safely locked up,’ said Agatha uneasily.

‘Yes, I can see them prowling about behind the fence,’ replied Toni as they drew nearer to the kennels.

‘There’s that little shed over there,’ said Agatha.

As they approached the shed, a small burly man came out and stared at them.

He wore a flat tweed cap, sports jacket, worn corduroy trousers and large battered black leather boots. His gnarled face had a squashed look, as if someone had put a heavy weight at some time on top of his head.

‘What do you want?’ he called.

Agatha approached him. ‘Just a word,’ she said. ‘Mrs Bross-Tilkington has asked me to investigate her daughter’s murder. Have you worked for the family long?’

‘Five years.’

‘May I know your name?’

‘Jerry Carton.’

‘I am Agatha Raisin and this is my assistant, Toni Gilmour. Can you suggest any reason why Felicity was murdered?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Why is there all this security? I mean, state of the art burglar alarms, electronic gates and those Alsatians?’

Jerry spat in the direction of Agatha’s feet. ‘It’s a wicked world, lady.’

‘But not that wicked,’ put in Toni. ‘I mean, were you asked to be on your guard against any people in particular?’

‘Why don’t you take your questions and shove them up –’

‘Now, now,’ admonished Agatha in her best Carsely Ladies’ Society manner. ‘Ladies present.’

‘Oh, yeah. Where?’

‘Come on,’ said Toni. ‘This moron doesn’t know anything.’

‘Have you got a police record?’ asked Agatha.

He took a menacing step towards her. ‘Get out of here or I’ll turn the dogs loose.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Toni urgently, tugging at Agatha’s sleeve.

Agatha reluctantly walked back with her to the house. She took out her mobile phone and called Patrick.

‘I’m still on the road back,’ said Patrick. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ said Agatha. ‘I wondered if you could use your police contacts to find out if the kennel man here has a police record. His name is Jerry Carton.’

‘I’ll try. Bill’s in the car in front of me on the motorway. I’ll follow him to Mircester and see if he’ll look up the files.’

Agatha thanked him and rang off.

She and Toni walked back into the drawing room. Toni looked around and sighed. ‘This is not what I expected of the middle classes.’

‘Just like any other class,’ said Agatha. ‘They come in all flavours and some of them are horrible.’

‘Did you read any Betjeman at school?’

Agatha thought of the violent comprehensive she had gone to, where most of the day was taken up fighting off bullies and trying to hear what teachers were saying above the racket made by the pupils in the classrooms.

‘I hope you’re not going to turn all intellectual on me,’ said Agatha. ‘I used to get a lot of that from James.’ James, she suddenly thought, where are you now?

‘It’s the poet John Betjeman. I remember reading a poem, “The Subaltern’s Love Song”. Betjeman had a crush on a girl called Joan Hunter Dunn. She died recently at the age of ninety-two.’

‘What on earth has that to do with anything?’ grumbled Agatha.

‘Well,’ said Toni, ‘you know what things were like in my home. I had a picture of the middle classes as portrayed in that poem: a picture of secure, solid homes, money, adoring parents welcoming suitable young men to take me to the club dance. But it’s not like that at all.’

‘To be fair,’ said Agatha, ‘the sorts of people who get into trouble so that we have to go detecting are usually not very normal.’ Then she thought of some of James’s friends and repressed a shudder. She had to admit to herself that she had taken early retirement and moved to the Cotswolds because she had been following a dream of classy security.

‘There are good people around,’ she added. ‘Take Mrs Bloxby. People like that.’

Sylvan came into the room. ‘This is all very tiresome,’ he said. ‘Questions, questions, questions. And now I suppose you have more.’

Agatha glanced at her watch. ‘Why don’t I take you to lunch?’

‘That would be fine. And your pretty assistant?’

Agatha glared at Toni, who said hurriedly, ‘Actually, if you don’t mind I’d rather go back into the town to find out what I can there.’

‘We can walk down to the pub,’ said Sylvan. ‘I’ve eaten there before. The food’s quite good.’

The pub in the centre of Downboys was called The King Charles. A badly executed painting of Charles II swung in a rising wind outside the old inn. It was a Tudor building, whitewashed with black beams, bulging at the front with age.

‘There’s a free table just over there,’ said Sylvan, propelling her towards it.

‘Do they take an order for drinks here or do I have to go to the bar and get it?’

‘We get our drinks first and then a waitress will come round for our order.’

‘I’ll get them,’ said Agatha. ‘My treat. What are you having?’

‘A half of lager.’

The bar was blocked by villagers. One man turned round on his bar stool and saw her. He whispered something to his companions and they all swivelled round.

‘If you’ve had a good look,’ said Agatha, ‘then make way. I want to get my order in.’

They shuffled off their bar stools and left a space for her. Suddenly everyone fell silent. The barman was a small fussy man wearing a blazer, white shirt and cravat over grey flannels. His face was fake-tanned and his teeth cosmetically whitened. Agatha guessed – as it later turned out, correctly – that he was someone who had retired from show business to open a pub.

She ordered a gin and tonic for herself and a half of lager for Sylvan and walked back to the table.

A buzz of conversation rose again.

‘Cheers,’ said Sylvan.

‘Don’t you ever speak French?’ asked Agatha. When she had dreamed about him, he had always murmured to her in French.

‘When I am speaking to a French person, yes – otherwise, why bother?’ He handed her a menu. ‘The roast beef and Yorkshire pudding is very good,’ he said.

Agatha thought of her waistline, but she was very hungry, so she smiled and said she would try it.

Sylvan raised a hand. A waitress promptly appeared.

‘What will be your pleasure, sir?’

‘You, you gorgeous creature.’

The waitress, who was thin and spotty, giggled with delight. As if aware that Agatha Raisin’s eyes were boring into him, Sylvan gave the order. Agatha detested men who flirted with waitresses, or indeed anyone, whilst in her company.

‘I’m glad of this opportunity to talk to you,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘And I am glad of that.’

‘For a start, you know George Bross-Tilkington. Why all the security?’

‘It’s become a dangerous world. He’s a rich man. There were several burglaries in the village a few years ago. That’s when he began to take precautions.’

And what of Felicity? I’ll need to interview her two previous fiancés. Are you sure they broke off the engagements and not the other way around?’

‘So I was told. Would you like some wine?’

Just a short time ago, Agatha would have said yes, hoping for a romantic lunch, but now she was in full detective mode. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I want to keep a clear head. So what was Felicity really like?’

‘Very beautiful.’

‘I want to know about her character.’

‘I don’t think she had much of a character. She worked so hard on her appearance – beauticians, hairdressers, personal trainer, all that.’

‘But James is an intelligent man. Surely beauty wasn’t enough.’

‘Felicity had a special talent. Here’s our food. I am very hungry. Let’s leave the questioning for a little.’

The roast beef was delicious. Agatha ate a bit but then she felt she simply could not wait to find out what Felicity’s special talent had been.

‘What talent?’ she demanded.

‘She was very good in bed.’

Agatha slowly put down her knife and fork. ‘How do you know?’

He gave a very Gallic shrug and his eyes sparkled with amusement.

‘You mean, you had her?’

Again that shrug. Oh, James, thought Agatha miserably, was I not good in bed?

‘But that was surely not enough,’ she protested. ‘He told me he wanted out of the marriage.’

‘Ah, but he is an honourable man. The date was set, the ring was on the finger. He is much older than Felicity and runs on a different set of ethics. Now, if Felicity had changed her mind, she would have cancelled the wedding even at the last minute.’

‘Did she love him?’

‘Felicity had so much self-love there was not room for anyone else.’

‘Bitch!’ said Agatha. Her eyes filled with tears.

He leaned across the table and took her hand in a warm clasp. ‘You must care very deeply for your ex-husband.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Agatha furiously. ‘Whatever I felt for James is long gone.’

She could not explain that the whole business was making her feel old and frumpy. Also, she reminded herself that James had divorced her. No honour there. No sticking to the marriage vows.

‘Eat your lunch,’ he said gently.

‘I think I’ve had enough,’ said Agatha, pushing her plate away. ‘I should get back to the house.’

‘Have a coffee and brandy. You need it.
Je t’en prie
.’

Agatha pulled herself together. Good detectives surely didn’t emote all over the place. Patrick and Phil, for example, went doggedly on with their work. Bill Wong, even in the throes of a broken romance, never let emotion cloud his judgement. It was all to do with increasing age, she thought miserably. That awful feeling of losing powers of attraction, of growing wrinkles, nasty little face hairs, and a stomach that kept insisting on dropping slowly south were all very demoralizing. She must stop regarding Sylvan as a Frenchman she had thought attractive and stick rigorously to her job.

Toni meanwhile had secured the names and addresses of Felicity’s ex-fiancés. The first one was Bertram Powell and he worked as a solicitor in Hewes.

His secretary, a plump young woman with lacquered hair and a power suit, asked if she had an appointment and when Toni said she hadn’t one, the secretary gave a thin smile and said Mr Powell was busy all that day.

Toni glanced at her watch. Lunchtime. No sound from the inner office. She thanked the secretary and left.

She began to check the restaurants near the solicitor’s office, asking in each one for Mr Powell. She struck lucky at a steak house in one of Hewes’s cobbled lanes that led down to the river Frim. The maître d’, assuming that Toni was joining Bertram Powell for lunch, escorted her to his table.

‘Hello,’ said Toni, holding out her hand.

He rose from his seat, looking puzzled. He shook her hand. The maître d’ held out a chair for Toni and she sank down into it.

‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded Bertram. He was much older than Toni had expected him to be. She thought he might be approaching fifty. His face was broad and pugnacious and his nose looked as if it had been broken at one time. His hair was black and sleek, as black as his small eyes.

‘I am a private detective investigating the murder of Felicity Bross-Tilkington.’

Bertram looked suddenly amused. ‘Go on with you. You’re a child.’

Toni handed over her card. ‘Don’t be put off by appearances. I am very good at my job.’

A waiter hovered with a menu. ‘Have you something uncomplicated, like steak and chips?’ asked Toni.

‘Of course.’

Toni ordered a well-done steak and chips and a bottle of mineral water. ‘I do not expect you to pay for my lunch, Mr Powell.’

‘I should hope not. I can’t tell you anything about Felicity. We were engaged some time ago.’