M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

Agatha decided to spend another couple of weeks making sure the agency was running smoothly and then say she was going on holiday.

But someone really ought to know where she was and why she was going. It was dark when she drove down into Carsely. The church was illuminated, shining with a golden light, welcoming her home.

She decided if Charles was in her cottage, she would tell him and maybe persuade him to go with her. But her cottage was dark and silent, with only the patter of the cats’ feet as they came to investigate.

Agatha desperately wanted to find out something all by herself, to prove to herself and others that she really was a good detective.

Agatha sat in an open-air café on the Ramblas in Barcelona and watched the crowds go up and down. She wondered if that’s what most of them did on Saturday – walk up one way and then down to the port the other way. Earlier that morning, she had located Calle Miro, but it was a narrow street leading off the Ramblas, with tall apartment buildings on either side. She did not have a house number and there was no café where she could sit and look to see if Sylvan appeared, so she had settled on the Ramblas. If Sylvan – if he were alive – had bought a new boat, then surely he would head from his apartment down the Ramblas to the port.

Her eyes grew tired with watching the moving crowd. At last, she decided it might be better to go down to the port herself and study the yachts. With her sore hip seeming to make the walk very long, she pushed her way through throngs of people gathered around the living statues. She stopped to watch a man posing as a statue of Julius Caesar, wondering how he could manage to remain so motionless.

The sun was warm as she reached her goal and strolled along looking at all the yachts and motor cruisers.

By early evening, Agatha was beginning to feel tired, hungry and defeated. She found a restaurant and ordered a small jug of red wine and a plate of roast rabbit, noticing with pleasure the large glass ashtray on the table in front of her. Unlike the French and British, the Catalans were happy to flout the cigarette ban.

She decided to stay just one more day. Then she would take Olivia’s scrawled note back to the police, although she would need to think up a good reason as to why she had kept it so long.

Fortified by a good dinner, she decided to take a taxi back up to the Calle Miro and have one last look around.

The tall buildings reared up on either side of the narrow street. It was hopeless, she decided after half an hour of gazing up at windows.

She turned away towards the Ramblas and was passing a dark alley when she was suddenly grabbed and a pad of something was thrust over her mouth. She kicked and struggled, feeling herself losing consciousness.

When Agatha came to, she opened her eyes cautiously. Her hands were bound behind her back with duct tape and her ankles were bound as well and she was wearing a bathing suit.

So this is it, thought Agatha, trying not to cry. I’m to be dumped at sea.

She was lying on her side. Apart from the bed on which she had been placed, there was only one hard chair and on the wall, a badly executed painting of the Virgin Mary.

Agatha felt nausea rising in her throat and rolled over to the edge of the bed and vomited violently on the floor.

The door opened and a woman came in. She had a gypsy appearance: swarthy skin, large brown eyes and masses of coarse dark hair.

She muttered something and came back with a bucket and mop and began to clean the floor. ‘Help me,’ croaked Agatha.

The woman continued mopping. Agatha stared at the painting and said desperately, ‘Madre de Dios.’

The woman started, crossed herself, but left the room, carrying the bucket and mop with her.

Agatha drifted off into unconsciousness again. When she recovered, the room was dark. A solitary candle burned under the portrait of the Virgin. Agatha’s face was stinging and burning. Chloroform, she thought bitterly. My face will be a mass of sores.

A light French voice sounded from the next room. ‘You know what to do, Maria. See to her.’

Maria, the woman from before, came in carrying a syringe. She knelt before the Virgin and then approached the bed. ‘Please,’ whispered Agatha. ‘Por favor.’

Maria put a finger to her lips and jabbed the syringe into the mattress and emptied it. She ripped the tape from Agatha’s wrists and ankles. Then she gently closed Agatha eyes. ‘Dead,’ she whispered. ‘Like dead.’

Agatha nodded.

Half an hour passed. Then she heard two men entering the room. She was lifted up and heaved over one man’s shoulder. Then she heard Sylvan’s voice. ‘The bitch weighs a ton.’

‘Get her out of here.’ George Bross! Surely that was George’s voice.

Agatha found playing dead very hard as she was bundled into a sack and carried down a staircase, her legs bumping against the banister.

‘Into the boot with her,’ ordered Sylvan.

She was thrown in and heard the boot lid slam down.

The car jolted and rumbled over cobbles. The journey did not seem to take very long. Then the boot was lifted and she smelled salt air.

Sylvan threw her over his shoulder again. ‘Is this the best you could manage?’ she heard George say.

‘We needed a cheap, anonymous-looking boat. This is it. Now take her out to sea, get her out of the sack and dump her. She’ll be dead to the world for another few hours. I’ll wait for you here.’

Agatha felt the dip and sway as she was carried aboard a boat. Then down the stairs to the cabin, banging her head and feet as she was hauled down.

She was thrown on some sort of bunk, the sack was dragged off her and then she heard George retreating.

Agatha opened her eyes. She was lying in a squalid, smelly cabin. The engine started up. Agatha realized she was very weak and would have to get up on deck and jump over the side as soon as possible.

Terror was giving her strength. She staggered to her feet and lurched to the companionway George was at the wheel and the roar of the engine stopped him from hearing her creeping up the stairs.

Agatha moved quietly away from him to the stern of the boat. Then she wondered whether she might be in danger of being caught up in the propeller. She moved back a bit and, summoning up all her courage, threw herself over the side.

She gasped as she went down and took in a gulp of salt water. She kicked and surfaced. Her heart sank. The lights of the port seemed very far away and she did not think she had enough strength left to swim that far.

And then the water was lit up with one mighty explosion. The boat with George in charge had exploded in a ball of flame.

Agatha realized that Sylvan had planned to get rid of both of them. A police launch came racing out from the port, its strong headlight shining across the sea. Agatha waved frantically, treading water.

The launch curved round Agatha and soon strong hands were helping her on board. A policeman who spoke English was hurried forward to her. Agatha gasped and explained briefly what had happened and that Sylvan Dubois, wanted by Interpol, was alive.

And then, for the first time in her life, the redoubtable Agatha Raisin passed out.

Agatha awoke in a hospital bed in a private room. She struggled up against the pillows. Two Spanish detectives were sitting beside her bed. One said in English, ‘You must tell us quickly, what happened? We found the apartment in the Calle Miro but there was no one there.’

Agatha wearily began at the beginning of her story, of how Olivia had given her the street name in Barcelona. She said she decided to investigate the matter herself. But she called Maria ‘Carmen’, the only Spanish name she could think of, and gave the police a false description. She explained how she was supposed to be drugged and dumped at sea so that it would look like a swimming accident, or rather, that was what George Bross had been led to believe. Sylvan had really meant to kill them both. She was suddenly frightened that Sylvan might already be heading to England to deal with Olivia, but the detectives assured her that Olivia was now being guarded.