M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

‘But think! All that security around the house! Maybe they were smuggling something like drugs or arms in.’

She phoned Patrick again. They all fell silent until Agatha had finished her call.

‘Evidently both Sean or whatever his name was and George both had their boats practically taken apart. Nothing there. And that Jerry dog minder hasn’t even got a criminal record.’

‘Someone told me that you’ve been saying to the press that you are offering a reward.’

‘I thought that might stir something up.’

‘Agatha,’ said Bill sternly, ‘I should think you’ve enough work on your hands at the moment. I assume you’ve got Toni’s cases to clear up as well as your own. Just let the police get on with their job.’

‘Ha, bloody ha.’

‘I’m serious. Leave it alone.’

Agatha did find that all her energy in the following six weeks had to be poured into the work of the agency. Sharon proved bright and willing, although Agatha felt she would never get used to the girl’s appearance. Although chubby, Sharon favoured very tight jeans and boob tubes. Her masses of hair had recently been dyed black with blonde streaks.

There was no James next door. He had received permission to go off on his travels. With James out of the picture, Charles was no longer interested in detecting anything, finally feeling, in his lazy way, he had done his bit finding Betty.

Agatha found she was not looking forward to a lonely weekend. Toni was going with Sharon to a rock concert. She did not want to impose her company on Mrs Bloxby, knowing that lady was overburdened with parish affairs. Even though she was sure of a great welcome at the pub, where the new smoking section had been set up outside, thanks to generous donations and to the free services offered by local builders and carpenters, she did not want to go on her own.

So she received with pleasure a phone call from Roy Silver, asking to visit for the weekend.

Roy was delighted with his welcome but surprised that nothing had been happening about Felicity’s murder. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘this may be the very first time you’ve been unsuccessful.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Agatha. ‘If it were anywhere in the Cotswolds I might have better luck, but if I go back to Downboys, the Hewes police will resent the very sight of me.’

The phone rang. Agatha went to answer it. She hoped it might be Sylvan. She had forgotten he was a philanderer and at the back of her mind there was always the hope that he might ring her up.

But it was Bert Trymp on the phone. ‘Remember me?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course. You work at the garage in Downboys.’

‘There was something in the papers about a reward.’

‘Yes, there was,’ said Agatha cautiously.

‘How much?’

‘If the news is worth it, five thousand.’

There was a silence. Then Bert said, ‘You’d best meet me down here. On my boat. I live on it. It’s called the Southern Flyer. It’s an old fishing boat in the harbour at Hewes.’

‘Let me see,’ said Agatha. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. I could get down there around lunchtime. How can I find your boat?’

‘You know the one where that fellow was murdered?’

‘Could never forget it.’

‘I’m five boats along to the right o’ that. It’s an old fishing boat,’ he repeated.

‘I’ll be there,’ said Agatha.

She told Roy. ‘I’m not going to bother Patrick or Phil,’ she said. ‘There might be nothing in it. But the weather’s lovely. Like to come?’

Roy looked anxious. ‘I haven’t anything nautical to wear.’

‘Don’t even think about it. Any clothes will do.’

THEY LEFT THE Cotswolds in blazing sunshine with shafts of golden light shining through the green tunnels of trees covering the road out of Carsely.

But as they drove steadily on, a bank of grey cloud rose up on the horizon and soon rain began to smear the windscreen. ‘I’m not really dressed for this,’ complained Roy, who had dug a striped French fisherman’s sweater out of his capacious luggage.

‘We brought our coats. They’re in the boot with the rest of the luggage,’ said Agatha reassuringly. ‘We won’t freeze.’

To Agatha’s relief, the skies began to clear as they drove down to the harbour at Hewes. ‘It’s a river!’ exclaimed Roy. ‘I thought we were going to the sea.’

‘It leads down to the sea,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s get out and look for Bert’s boat. It’s an old fishing boat.’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Roy, getting a coat out of the car boot. ‘I never could tell one boat from another except the ones with sails are yachts. Anyway, he’s probably dead.’

‘What on earth makes you think that?’

‘Well, it’s like in books and movies. Someone says, “The name of the murderer is… aargh.” They always get bumped off

‘I don’t believe it. We’ll find him.’ How irritating not to be in the police but always poking around on the outside of any investigation.

‘I think that must be it,’ she said. ‘It’s the shabbiest of the lot and it does look like a small fishing boat. Yes, I can make out the name. It’s the Southern Flyer.’

The deck and wheelhouse were deserted. ‘We’d best go aboard,’ said Agatha.

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 -’