M Beaton: There Goes The Bride

‘You are one nasty bastard,’ said Agatha. ‘You are lower than whale shit.’

‘But you, chérie, are nearly dead, so why not shut up and say your prayers. You’re about to go to sleep anyway.’

Keeping the gun on her, with his other hand he opened a box and took out a syringe. ‘Don’t want you swimming around getting help from any passing boat,’ said Sylvan.

‘Why don’t you just shoot me?’

‘In this tiny space, the bullet might either ricochet or make a hole in my nice new boat.’ The table was between them. Agatha made a lunge for the gun, but he snatched it before she could get to it. He struck her on the side of the head with the butt and Agatha slumped back.

‘Why didn’t I think of that before?’ he muttered. ‘Now you are nice and quiet.’

Through a red haze, Agatha watched him fill the syringe. Then, with all her remaining strength, she dived across the table and seized the syringe and plunged it into his neck. He scrabbled for the gun and then fired just as Agatha fell under the table.

There was a long silence. Agatha eased herself up. Jerry, she thought. I’ve got to deal with Jerry. Sylvan was out cold.

Holding the gun, Agatha dragged herself upstairs. She rammed the muzzle into Jerry’s neck and said, ‘Turn the boat around.’

He drove his elbow into her stomach and she went flying backwards and the gun flew out of her grasp and skittered across the cockpit.

Jerry cut the engine and turned round with a gun in his hand. Just as the shot went off, Agatha forced herself backwards and fell down the companionway.

She shut her eyes, bruised and battered, thinking that she could no longer escape death.

A stentorian voice shouted, ‘Police!’ and floodlight shone in the cabin windows.

Agatha hunched herself into the fetal position. She heard a splash and a voice shouting, ‘Get him. He’s in the water.’

Then she heard feet above her landing on the deck. The first policeman came clattering down the steps. ‘Mrs Raisin? Are you Mrs Agatha Raisin?’

Agatha croaked, ‘Yes.’

More men came down and helped her up. ‘That’s Sylvan Dubois,’ said Agatha, swaying in their arms. ‘I stabbed him with his own hypodermic.’

‘Let’s get you to hospital. That’s a nasty bash on the head,’ said one.

For the first time since Sylvan had struck her, Agatha became aware of blood running down the side of her head.

She was helped tenderly on to the nearest police launch. There were three, and in one of them she could see Jerry being dragged out of the water and handcuffed.

‘It’s over at last,’ said Agatha, and burying her face in the chest of the nearest policeman, she burst into tears.

Agatha was welcomed at Saint Katharine’s Dock by Toni, Bill, Charles, James and Roy. James hugged her and Toni demanded to know if they’d got Sylvan.

An inspector with the River Police said sternly, ‘Mrs Raisin will need to be taken to hospital. Leave your questions until later.’ Agatha was helped into a waiting ambulance.

‘Here comes Sylvan,’ shouted Toni. ‘Is he dead?’

Agatha turned round, one foot on the step of the ambulance. ‘Just drugged. I stabbed him with his own syringe.’

AGATHA WAS SEDATED after her head had been examined. She was told she had received a nasty blow and was slightly concussed but otherwise she was all right.

She awoke the next day to find two Special Branch detectives beside her bed. She was questioned for an hour until a doctor interrupted and said that she needed more rest.

It was to be the beginning of days of questioning. Toni arrived with a present of a bottle of French perfume. Then there was James bearing chocolates and Charles with nothing, although he ate half the box of chocolates. Roy came in carrying a palm tree in a pot, deaf to the shouts of the nurses that no flowers were allowed. ‘It’s not flowers,’ complained Roy sulkily. ‘It’s a tree.’ But the palm was taken away from him and he was told he could collect it on his way out.

Then the reassuring presence of Mrs Bloxby arrived. She had got Doris Simpson to search Agatha’s bedroom for the prettiest nightdress and the bathroom for a supply of make-up along with a suitcase of her clothes. Agatha listened as she heard for the first time how Mrs Bloxby had found out that her date was a fake by seeing Geoffrey Camden’s marriage in the pages of Country Life.

‘I’m surprised the press have not been to see me,’ said Agatha.

‘Oh, they’re all camped outside.’

‘Is Toni still around? She was here this morning.’

‘She is very fond of you. I believe she is staying in London and plans to run you home.’

Agatha scowled. ‘Has she said anything to the press?’

‘She just says “No comment”, like the rest of us.’

Agatha picked up the phone beside her bed and dialled Toni’s number. ‘Toni, dear,’ Mrs Bloxby heard Agatha say, ‘there’s no need to hang around for me. Could you get back to the office and make sure things are running smoothly? No, it’s all right. James will be running me back.’

‘And is he?’ asked Mrs Bloxby when Agatha had rung off.

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Agatha.

Mrs Bloxby repressed a smile. Agatha wanted her moment of glory with the press and without pretty Toni around to take away the limelight.

‘Actually, I drove up,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Did you come by car?’

‘No, I came by train. My car’s at the station in Moreton. I feel fighting fit. I wonder if they’d let me leave today.’

‘You could ask and I could drive you home.’

‘That would be great. I think the police have winkled every bit of information out of me they can.’

The doctor was summoned and said that provided she was not going to drive herself, she was free to go.

Agatha retreated to the bathroom with the suitcase of clothes and make-up bag and changed. She washed, dried her hair and brushed it until it shone. The perks of being a heroine were that she had a private hospital room and a bathroom all to herself.

Mrs Bloxby tactfully hung back as Agatha emerged from the hospital to face a battery of press and television. Mindful of police warnings not to say anything that might jeopardize the trial, she made a short statement and then posed for pictures. Something was jabbing at her conscience and she suddenly realized what it was. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Bloxby, then she, Agatha, would surely be dead.

But if she brought Mrs Bloxby forward to the press, they would learn that she had been trying to find a man through a dating agency.

It would all come out in court, but Agatha meanly decided it could wait until then.

Agatha was worried about her age. She felt she was becoming more fragile. It seemed to take a long time to get over the shock of her near death. Mrs Bloxby suggested counselling, Bill Wong suggested victim support, but Agatha did not want to talk to any therapist or psychiatrist about her inner thoughts, mostly because half the time she did not know what they were anyway, and found life easier if she just ploughed on.

The weather was dismal. Heavy rain caused flooding and the river Avon in Evesham was rising dangerously again. But mostly there was plenty of work to keep her occupied. Quite often she worked late, not wanting to go back to her empty cottage, until she remembered her cats and dragged herself off home.

She spent Christmas at Bill’s home, even though the dinner was foul and his parents seemed to dislike her as much as ever – although Agatha comforted herself with the thought that they didn’t really seem to like anyone apart from their adored son.

January brought in some brisk, clear, sunny, frosty days and Agatha regained her spirits and self-confidence and began to feel like her old self again.