M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

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?

AGATHA 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?’