GEORGE BROSS-TILKINGTON WAS waiting for them when they arrived. He was a thickset man with a pugnacious tanned face under a thatch of grey hair.
‘I don’t want you here!’ he said.
‘But your wife -’ began Agatha.
‘I don’t care what my wife says. Shove off!’
Olivia appeared behind him. ‘I invited Mrs Raisin,’ she said. ‘I told you. She has the reputation of being a good detective and I want to know who killed our daughter!’
‘The police -’
‘I am not waiting for the local plods. Besides, Sylvan agrees with me.’
‘He what?’
‘Talking about me?’ Sylvan strolled into the hall. Agatha’s heart beat a little faster. Then she remembered the humiliation of that phone call to Paris.
‘I encouraged Olivia to call in the services of Agatha,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ mocked Sylvan. ‘One would think you did not want the identity of the murderer to be discovered.’
‘Oh, do what you like,’ said George and stomped off.
‘I’m so sorry about that,’ said Olivia. ‘Poor George is grieving and so he covers it up by getting angry.’ Her eyes were puffy with weeping. ‘First, I’ll show you to your room. I was only expecting you, Mrs Raisin.’
‘Call me Agatha. This is another detective, Toni Gilmour, who is going to assist me. But I think it would be better if we both continued to stay in Hewes. That way we can take a more objective view of things.’
‘Very well. Let’s go into the lounge and discuss the matter.’
Toni looked around the drawing room, or lounge, as Olivia had called it. It certainly looked more like a hotel lounge than a room in a private house. There were little islands made up of polished tables and tapestry-upholstered chairs embellished with gilt paint on the woodwork. There was no fire burning on the hearth. Instead the grate was decorated with orange crinkled paper. On a table by the french windows stood a large vase of silk flowers. A polished yacht wheel emblazoned with the name CYNTHIA in gold letters hung over the fireplace. In one corner was a padded leather bar with glass shelves behind it full of all those odd bottles of drink that people usually collect on package holidays, and the shelves were illuminated with pink strip lighting.
Sylvan, Agatha, Toni and Olivia sat down round one of the tables. Toni took out her notebook.
‘Why is there a ship’s wheel over the fireplace?’ asked Toni.
‘That was my husband’s first boat. Cynthia was his first wife.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She died of cancer.’
Agatha was painfully aware of Sylvan Dubois. He was every bit as attractive as she remembered, with his thick fair hair going slightly grey, his hooded eyes and his slim figure.
‘Now, about your daughter,’ said Agatha. ‘Did she have any enemies you can think of?’
‘Everybody adored her.’
‘Had she been married?’
‘No.’
‘But she was very beautiful,’ said Toni. ‘Surely she must have had a lot of offers.’
‘Of course.’
‘So was there a rejected man who might have wanted to kill her?’ asked Agatha.
‘It was the other way round,’ said Sylvan, his French accent light and mocking.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Toni.
‘She was what you call a dumpee.’
‘And what does that expression mean exactly?’ demanded Agatha.
‘It means she was engaged two times and two times the fellow called the engagement off.’
‘Sylvan,’ said Olivia, beginning to cry, ‘if you were not a friend of my husband’s I would ask you to leave.’
‘How did you come to be a friend of James Lacey?’ asked Agatha.
‘I spilt some beer over him in a brasserie by accident. I apologized and we got talking. I gave him my card and said if he was ever in Paris again to look me up and I would buy him dinner. He did. I told him I was going to a friend’s party and took him along. That was where he met Felicity.’
Olivia dried her eyes. ‘It was love at first sight,’ she said.
‘How do you know the Bross-Tilkingtons?’ asked Toni.
‘I was on holiday in Cannes. I met them there – oh – ten years ago and we’ve been friends ever since.’
‘What does Mr Bross-Tilkington do for a living?’ pursued Toni.
‘George is retired,’ said Olivia. ‘He dealt in real estate. Foreign properties, mostly.’
‘In Spain?’ asked Agatha.
‘Yes, Spain and other countries.’
‘A lot of angry people have lost their homes in Spain. They’ve found out that the properties their flats were in had been built on agricultural land and after they had invested their life savings, the local Spanish council came along and bulldozed the buildings. A lot of them claim they had been tricked. The estate agents would say, “Don’t worry about a solicitor. We’ll supply one.” And so they never found out about the danger until it was too late.’
‘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.’
‘Why did you break off the engagement? You were the one to end it, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
The waiter brought Toni’s steak. The speed with which it arrived was a bad sign, she thought. It had probably been sitting up on a hot plate in the kitchen for ages. The waiter was an extremely good-looking young man with slim hips. Bertram eyed him appreciatively as he walked away.
Toni’s eyes sharpened and she studied Bertram’s clothes. He was wearing a dark suit, striped shirt and silk tie, all suited to his job. The suit was exquisitely tailored.
‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ demanded Bertram.
‘I was wondering whether you were gay,’ said Toni.
‘You cheeky little… Oh, for heaven’s sake, yes, if it does you any good.’
‘And that was why you broke off the engagement?’
‘Yes, her father found out. I didn’t know he’d put a private detective on to me.’
‘So why did you break off the engagement and not her?’
‘She wanted to go through with it. She told her father that’s what she wanted. I had only just discovered I was gay.’
‘But what about sex?’
‘Felicity thought about little else. She pointed out that we had never had any trouble in that department and that the invitations to the wedding had all been sent out. But I insisted everything was off. George Bross-Tilkington was furious. The Bross-Tilkingtons, when you get to know them, are as common as muck. George’s father, old Harry Bross, was a scrap merchant down the East End of London. Tilkington was his wife’s maiden name. He relished the idea of being the sort of squire of Downboys with his daughter marrying a solicitor. He said a good psychiatrist would soon sort me out. I refused.
‘So he spread it around the town that I was homosexual. I thought that was me finished, but it backfired on him because I began to get all the gay law cases in town. And we’re near enough to Brighton, England ’s San Francisco. Don’t mess with the Brosses, young lady. They’re a scary bunch.’
‘Anything criminal?’
‘Not that I know of. George seems to have made a legitimate pile of money out of the real estate business in Spain.’
‘Have you heard any rumours about why they have so much security at their home?’
‘No. It’s not unusual. Lots of crime around, and people with money get scared of burglars.’
‘When were you engaged to Felicity?’
‘Eight years ago.’
And there was someone after you who called it off. Ernest Wheatsheaf Do you know where I can find him?’
At the Southern Bank in the High Street. He’s the bank manager.’ Bertram called for the bill. He asked for a separate receipt, paid his bill, and hurried off. Toni finished as much of her steak as she could, remembered to switch off the powerful tape recorder in her open handbag under the table, paid her bill and went out in search of the Southern Bank.
Sylvan watched Agatha from under his heavy-lidded eyes as she excused herself and went to the toilet to freshen up. She had a nice high bottom and very long legs, he thought appreciatively, and she exuded an air of very strong sensuality of which she seemed totally unaware. Perhaps a little fling might brighten up his visit. George had begged him to stay on.
At the bank, Toni demanded to see the manager, and was told that he was too busy and someone else would need to deal with her.
‘That’s a pity,’ said Toni. ‘I’ve just won the lottery and -’
‘Oh, wait here,’ said the woman at the desk by the door. ‘I think he’ll want to see you.’
In three minutes’ time, Toni was ushered into Ernest Wheatsheaf’s imposing office. He was a tall thin man with greying hair. Like Bertram, Toni guessed he must be pushing fifty. Why had Felicity never gone for men her own age?
Ernest seized Toni’s hand in a warm clasp. ‘It will be a pleasure to handle your affairs, Miss…?’
‘Gilmour.’ Toni handed over her card. He studied it, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. ‘I am actually a private detective hired by Mrs Bross-Tilkington to find out who murdered her daughter.’
‘Then leave my office immediately! You got in here under false pretences.’
‘Look, Mr Wheatsheaf,’ said Toni, ‘you may as well practise on me because I am sure you will soon be interviewed by the police.’
He had half-risen to his feet. He sank back into his chair.
‘Why?’
‘You were engaged to Felicity. They’ll want to make sure it was you who called off the wedding.’
‘But what has that to do with murder?’
‘They’ll be checking out everyone who might have had a grudge against Felicity.’
‘You are very young to be a detective.’
Toni opened her briefcase and took out a file with newspaper cuttings. ‘Have a look at those,’ she said.
He flicked through the newspaper cuttings, reports of Toni’s successes. Although they had been due in the main to the detective work of Agatha Raisin, Toni was prominently featured because she was the most photogenic.
‘You seem to know your job, miss,’ said Ernest, ‘but I cannot see how this murder has anything to do with me.’
‘You seem to me an intelligent man and someone in an important position in this town,’ said Toni, giving him a charming smile. ‘It’s not that the murder has anything to do with you – of course not – it’s just that you knew Felicity and sometimes – quite often, in fact – the character of the person who has been murdered can give a clue as to the reason for the murder.’
The weather outside was clearing up. A shaft of sunlight shone through the office window and gilded the fair cap of Toni’s hair.
Ernest suddenly smiled. ‘I can only give you ten minutes but I will do my best. Did you know Felicity?’
‘No, but her fiancé invited me to the wedding. She was very beautiful.’
‘She was quite plump and she had brown hair when I was engaged to her.’
‘When was that?’
‘Let me see, about five years ago. She seemed fresh and innocent and eager to please. I thought she would make a very good wife.’
‘You weren’t in love with her?’
‘I found her very suitable,’ he said repressively. ‘A man in my position must be careful whom he weds.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I found her too… er… demanding.’
‘You mean sex?’
He actually blushed.
‘Well, yes. It struck me as not being very ladylike. She was furious when I broke off the engagement. In fact, her mother and father threatened me with all sorts of lawsuits. Then she went off with her parents to somewhere on the Continent. When she returned a long time after, I forget how long, she had transformed herself into a beauty.’
Wondering whether Ernest might be gay as well as Bertram, Toni asked, ‘Are you married now?’
‘Yes, indeed, and very happily.’
‘Can you think of anything to do with Felicity that might drive someone to murder her?’
He said drily, ‘Perhaps her present fiancé found that murder was the only way of getting out of the marriage.’
‘What about the Bross-Tilkingtons? Anything there?’
Ernest’s secretary put her head round the door. ‘Mr Barnstaple is complaining that you are keeping him waiting, sir.’
‘Show him in. Good day, Miss Gilmour. I really must get back to work.’
An hour later, Toni and Agatha met up in their room at the pub. Toni had phoned Agatha, telling her it would be a good idea to come back and listen to the two taped interviews.
‘It’s all very odd,’ said Agatha, after she had heard the tapes. ‘I must talk to James.’
‘Are you going to phone him now?’
‘No. I talked to Mrs Bloxby this afternoon and she said he was back in Carsely. I want to talk to him face to face. I’ll leave now and come back tomorrow. See what you can find out about Sylvan Dubois. That’s an odd sort of friendship. Keep trying to get Olivia on her own. You shouldn’t be too much troubled by the press. There’s been a double murder over in Brighton, so most of them have hurried off there. You’d better rent a car.’
Back to the Cotswolds drove Agatha, back down the leafy roads leading to Carsely. She was assailed with a sudden longing to forget about the whole thing. Her excellent cleaner, Doris Simpson, had been looking after her beloved cats in her absence. How wonderful it would be just to go to bed, have a long lie-in in the morning, and spend a lazy day reading books and playing with her cats.
The old mellow stone houses of the village of Carsely glowed in the late-evening light. The weather was unusually warm and the little gardens were heavy with blossom.
She parked in front of her cottage and went in to a sulky reception from her cats. She patted them but they oiled away from her and stood expectantly in front of the garden door. She let them out, went upstairs and refreshed her make-up, and then walked next door and rang the bell.
James answered it. They stood looking at each other for a moment and then James said quietly, ‘Come in, Agatha.’
Agatha walked into the familiar room and sank down on the sofa, biting back a yelp as her arthritic hip gave a nasty twinge.
James slumped down in his favourite armchair by the fireplace. ‘What a mess,’ he said.
‘Why didn’t you stay on?’ asked Agatha.
‘Because I had to get away from George and Olivia. At first they accused me of the murder and after I was cleared by the police, the atmosphere was still hellish.’
‘You could have booked in at The Jolly Farmer with us,’ said Agatha.
He said in a low voice, ‘I had to get away. You have no idea what a fool I feel.’
‘Well, Olivia has hired me to find out who killed her daughter and I’m going to do it, so I need some clue as to why someone would want to bump her off. What was she like?’
‘Very beautiful, as you know. She seemed to adore me. I was flattered by the way she hung on my every word. It was only on that Ukraine trip that I began to slowly realize that when I was talking, she was usually thinking of something else.’
‘Toni interviewed her two ex-fiancés. The first said he broke off the engagement because he was gay, the second because he found her too sexually demanding.’
‘Now that’s ridiculous. Felicity was in fact rather shy.’
‘But the gay chap said she was oversexed and Sylvan Dubois said she was hot stuff between the sheets.’
There was a long silence while James stared at Agatha. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he said at last.
‘Three of them are surely right.’
‘Good heavens! She was old-fashioned maidenly towards me. Said we should wait until after we were married.’
‘James, in this day and age? Didn’t you find that a bit odd?’
‘I was dazzled by her appearance and she seemed so sweet and innocent. When she went for you at that party, I could hardly believe it. But I had already discovered that she was extremely stupid, on the cusp of being mentally retarded. I would guess she had received practically no education at all. I had already approached George and told him I did not think I would make a suitable husband and he threatened me with every lawsuit under the sun and said if I broke his daughter’s heart, he would kill me.’
‘Let me think,’ said Agatha. ‘I gathered from your engagement party that Sylvan was a friend of yours, and yet he seems to be pretty close to Olivia and George. How did you meet him?’
‘I met him by accident in a brasserie. He spilled beer over me. We began to chat and I found him very amusing. We became friends. Then the next time I was in Paris, he invited me to a party at his friend’s apartment and it was there that I met Felicity.’
‘Could you have been set up?’
‘Conspiracy theories, Agatha? I could simply have been polite to the girl and left. The whole mess was entirely my fault.’
‘When did you propose?’
‘Two days after I first met her. I’m a silly old fool, but it all seemed so romantic – Paris and the most beautiful girl in the world on my arm. Don’t glare at me like that, Agatha. You’ve made a fool of yourself in the past. What about the last one who turned out to be a murderer?’
‘Charles has been gossiping.’
‘No, Bill Wong. He worries about you.’
‘Did you get any hint of a rejected lover anywhere?’
‘Not even a whiff. I didn’t even know about her previous engagements.’
‘Why don’t you come back to Hewes with me,’ urged Agatha. ‘We could go detecting like we did before.’
‘I’m sorry, Agatha, I have a heavy writing schedule and I just want to forget about the whole thing.’
Agatha got to her feet, her small eyes boring into him. ‘Well, I think you’re a wimp,’ she yelled and stormed out.
Angry tears ran down her face as she let herself into her cottage. It had been humiliating to hear her ex-husband burbling on about how beautiful Felicity had been and romantic Paris.
Then she sniffed the air. Cigarette smoke! And she hadn’t lit up a cigarette since she got back.
She took out her mobile phone to call the police and backed towards the front door.
‘Is that you, Aggie?’ called a familiar voice from the kitchen.
Charles!
Agatha put away her phone and went into the kitchen, scrubbing at her eyes with a handkerchief as she went.
Charles was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette from a packet of Bensons Agatha had left on the counter. He had the keys to Agatha’s cottage and dropped in and out as he pleased. Agatha had once tried to stop him, but then realized that often she was lonely and Charles’s company was better than none.
Charles looked at Agatha’s red eyes. ‘Been calling on James?’
‘Yes, pass me one of my cigarettes.’
‘So what did he say about Felicity?’
‘She appears to have had the reputation, according to two previous fiancés, not to mention that Frenchman, of being a nymphomaniac. But surprise, surprise. No sex for James till after the wedding.’
‘She may have been a nymphomaniac, but I think she was a narcissist as well. She wanted to star on her wedding day. She probably pictured herself in white and pearls going up the aisle. Do you mean to say she was turned down before because of too much sex? Hard to believe.’
‘Trust you to think so. The first fiancé was gay, and the second, I gather from Toni, a stuffy bank manager who thought it was all not very naice.’
Charles leaned back in his chair and blew a lazy smoke ring up to the beamed ceiling. ‘I once knew this girl who was really hot stuff,’ he said. ‘Got herself a reputation around the county. After her last affair was ended and no ring on her finger, I met her at a party. She was a little bit drunk and she confided in me that according to any future man, she was going to be the complete virgin. And she did eventually get married. Men can be stuffier than you think, and the old ways still apply – why marry when you can get it all and more without any responsibility whatsoever?’
‘But James is an intelligent man! Why did he leave things until it was too late? He said he’d discovered she was very stupid.’
‘Stupid as a fox, Aggie. She looked gorgeous. Very flattering to a man of James’s age to have an adoring piece of arm candy. Maybe he wanted children. Felicity was well within the child-bearing age. The idea of a son or daughter to carry on the Lacey name maybe blinded him. You never would face up to it, you know, that for a man of James’s age to still be a bachelor meant there was something wrong.’
‘He married me,’ Agatha pointed out.
‘We all know you’re unique. Tell me how he met Felicity?’
Agatha told him what she knew.
‘He could have been set up. Do be careful of Sylvan.’
‘Why? Do you think he’s the murderer?’
‘No, but I think he’s a lightweight philanderer.’
‘It takes one to know one, Charles.’
He smiled. ‘Doesn’t it just.’
They sat in silence for a while. Then Agatha said, ‘I’d better get back there tomorrow, but I’ll call on Mrs Bloxby in the morning before I go.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Charles. He stretched and yawned. ‘I’m off to bed. Have they found the gun?’
‘Patrick says they found the bullet but not the gun. They estimate it came from a Smith & Wesson 686SSR. He says it’s got a stainless-steel cylinder, L-shaped, and can shoot from twenty-five yards. I’m off to bed. You do treat my cottage like a hotel,’ said Agatha crossly.
‘Admit it. You’re glad of the company.’