M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

Before she set out on Monday morning, after announcing to her staff that she was leaving Toni in charge, Agatha was tempted to phone Charles. But she quickly rejected the idea. If anything were to be found out about this case, then she would find it herself.

She booked herself into The Jolly Farmer and then wondered where to start. Downboys was such a small village. Perhaps if she parked somewhere along the road leading from Downboys to Hewes, she might see Olivia driving past. The countryside, basking in the Indian summer that was also blessing the Cotswolds, looked much friendlier and less threatening than she remembered. She parked a little way outside Downboys under a stand of trees and waited.

The hours dragged by. She probably shops in the village, thought Agatha, stifling a yawn. By late afternoon, she returned to Hewes, deciding to drive up to Downboys after dark and see if there were any lights on in the house. It would be silly to waste any more time if Olivia and George were not at home.

After dark she drove slowly past the house. Lights were on at the downstairs windows.

Now what to do? wondered Agatha.

She drove a little farther and came to a stop again. She wondered if she phoned whether Olivia would answer. But if she called and George answered and she hung up, he might check to find out who had been phoning, recognize her number from before and then start chasing her all around Hewes, shouting at her not to interfere.

Still, she had come all the way to Downboys to see if she could stir something up. She took out her mobile after checking the phone number and dialled.

To her relief, Olivia answered. ‘This is Agatha Raisin here,’ said Agatha quickly. ‘Remember me? I just wondered how you were getting on.’

‘I have to speak to you,’ whispered Olivia.

‘We can meet,’ said Agatha urgently. ‘I’m at The Jolly Farmer in Hewes.’

‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ said Olivia and rang off.

I might get something here at last, thought Agatha cheerfully. If Olivia is sure that Sylvan killed Felicity, then I’ll be able to get back to Mircester and stop fretting about the whole thing.

Agatha waited the next morning. Ten o’clock came and went. She had been waiting in the hotel lounge but she went out into the street and waited there, looking anxiously to left and right.

By noon, she finally decided that something had happened. She got in her car and drove slowly in the direction of Downboys, studying approaching cars in case Olivia passed her on the road.

An ambulance raced past her heading in the Hewes direction. I hope that’s got nothing to do with Olivia, thought Agatha.

She drove up to the house. The gates were shut. With Jerry Carton gone, she wondered if the other entrance would still be guarded. She drove round there. No one tried to stop her.

Agatha crossed the lawn towards the french windows, looking nervously to right and left in case the dogs were still around. She saw a woman pushing a vacuum cleaner in the sitting room. The windows were open.

The woman saw Agatha, switched off the machine, and asked, ‘What do you want?’

‘Are you Mrs Fellows?’ asked Agatha, remembering the name of one of the cleaners Toni had interviewed.

‘No, I’m Mrs Dimity. There’s nobody home. Mr Bross has gone to the hospital with his wife.’

‘What happened?’ asked Agatha.

‘Poor lady fell down them stairs out in the hall and broke her jaw on the banisters.’

‘Do you know which hospital she is in?’

‘Hewes General, I should suppose.’

Agatha hurried back to where she had left her car. Did Olivia slip or was she pushed? She had to get in to see her.

At The Jolly Farmer, she wrote down instructions to the hospital. She found a medical supplies shop and bought herself a white lab coat and a stethoscope.

She drove to the hospital and parked. She struggled into the white coat. Luckily, she had a name tag in her handbag left over from a conference she had attended as part of a former case. She pinned the white plastic name tag to the lab coat, slipped her phone into one of the pockets, and then locked her handbag in the boot of the car.

With the stethoscope dangling around her neck, she made her way into the hospital. Agatha guessed that Olivia had probably been put into a private room. The trouble was, in order to look like an authentic member of staff, Agatha had to walk briskly up and down, all the time fearing she would be challenged.

At last, at the end of a corridor, she saw George coming out of a room. Agatha hurriedly backed into the nearest room.

‘And about time, too,’ said a querulous old voice. ‘I’ve been ringing and ringing for that bedpan. Hurry up about it. I don’t want wet sheets.’

An elderly lady with sparse silver hair and a withered face was lying glaring at her. Agatha went into the bathroom and reluctantly picked up a bedpan. If she told the old lady it wasn’t her job, then the old dear would start ringing that bell again.

Agatha went back into the room, pulled back the covers and slipped the bedpan under the old lady. It seemed to take forever and then a dreadful smell rose up. Agatha remembered seeing some moist tissue wipes in the bathroom. She came back with a bundle, eased the patient up and cleaned her, then carried the bedpan back to the bathroom. Shuddering, Agatha tipped the contents down the toilet, poured some disinfectant into the pan, and then hurriedly made her escape.

That’s what’s waiting for us all when we get old, thought Agatha. She walked along to the room she had seen George leaving and opened the door and went in.

Olivia was lying in bed with her eyes closed. Her jaw had been wired shut.

Agatha softly approached the bed. ‘Olivia,’ she whispered. ‘It’s me. Agatha.’

Olivia’s eyes opened and she stared at Agatha in fright. One hand appeared from under the bedclothes and made shooing motions.

Agatha saw a pad of paper and a pen on the table beside the bed. She was about to write, ‘What happened?’ but instead she wrote, ‘Where is Sylvan?’

And then George’s voice could be clearly heard coming back along the corridor. ‘I’ll just have a last look-in on my wife and see if she’s comfortable.’

Agatha darted into the bathroom and closed the door. The door did not have a lock but there was a stool for the elderly and infirm to use when sitting under the shower. She jammed it under the door handle and then pressed her ear to the door.

She heard a voice say, ‘I would leave your wife to sleep, Mr Bross-Tilkington. She’s had a bad shock and needs rest. I’m just going to give her a shot of sedative.’

‘Good idea. Make sure she has no visitors. Got it? Not one.’

‘Certainly. I will give instructions to the desk.’

Agatha waited until she was sure they had gone, removed the stool, and went back into the hospital room. Olivia’s eyes were closed but tears were running down her cheeks. ‘I can help you,’ whispered Agatha. She gave her the pad. ‘Quickly. Before the sedative kicks in.’

With a great effort, Olivia wrote something and then fell back on the pillows.

Agatha ripped off the sheet of paper and hurried out. When she finally got into her car, she heaved a sigh of relief. She took the piece of paper out of her pocket and studied it. The spidery writing straggled across the page. Olivia had written, ‘Calle Miro, Ramblas, Barcelon…’

Agatha frowned. Was Sylvan still alive? She had always been sure he had escaped. It was no use going to the police with this information. George would say they spent their honeymoon in Barcelona. He would get Agatha charged with something or other.

She would need to go herself. She would tell her staff she needed a break. Toni would be left in charge to make up for her, Agatha’s, lousy treatment of the girl. If it all turned out to be a load of rubbish which led nowhere, then everyone would believe she had simply been in Spain on holiday.