M Beaton: There Goes The Bride

Roy met her clutching a spare set of Agatha’s proposals, by which time he had convinced himself they had all been his own idea. But he had phoned Agatha before he left for dinner to thank her. She warned him severely to dress conservatively.

At the Ivy, Roy basked in the praise of Sarah Andrews. He was in a part of the restaurant which was cut off from the main room by a glass-and-wood screen. A couple on the other side were chattering in rapid French. When Sarah left to go to the toilet, Roy, always on the lookout for celebrities, peered round the screen and then drew back. The couple speaking in rapid French were Charlotte and some man.

He returned to his chair, his mind working furiously. Agatha and Charlotte had told him how they had met. When Sarah returned, she teased him about seeming abstracted and Roy said he couldn’t stop thinking up new ideas for Duluxe.

Roy returned to his flat after dinner feeling worried. He should have spoken to Charlotte. He wondered if Agatha was being set up by a friend of Sylvan’s. It seemed very far-fetched.

He phoned Agatha, who listened to him carefully and then said, ‘But you don’t speak French.’

‘I know a few words,’ said Roy huffily. ‘And she was rattling along like a native.’

‘Why didn’t you speak to her?’

‘I got worried. I thought Sylvan might have got someone on the outside to get to you.’

‘Rubbish! Oh, well, I’ll do some research. I’ve got a week.’

Agatha went to her computer, switched it on, and Googled Charlotte Rother, not really expecting anything to come up. To her surprise, there were three news stories featured. She opened one. Charlotte Rother had made the papers when she had obtained a divorce settlement of five million pounds from her entrepreneur husband, John Rother. There was a photograph of her leaving court. She had put a hand up to shield her face, but the blonde hair, the clothes and the mink coat worn open were all the same as her Charlotte’s.

Agatha tried the other two stories. All pretty much the same, but one had a clear photo of Charlotte. She looked strained and had obviously been crying, but it was the Charlotte Agatha knew. She phoned Roy back in triumph.

‘Now I feel silly,’ he said. ‘But be careful all the same.’

But Roy somehow couldn’t let the matter go. He phoned Toni and suggested it would do no harm if one of them could check up on this woman without letting Agatha know.

Toni decided that as her photograph and Sharon’s had been in the newspapers, she’d better see if someone else at the agency might like to find out a few things.

Early next morning, she called on Phil Marshall. He listened to her carefully and then said, ‘But Agatha seems to have checked her out very well. I mean, what if she does speak French? Lots of rich cosmopolitan people do. Oh, well. I’ll tell Agatha I want a few days off and I’ll see what I can dig up.’

Phil went first to the offices of the Cotswolds Journal and painstakingly began to read through the property advertisements in the back numbers. At last, after almost a whole day of searching, he found an advertisement for the bungalow in Ancombe.

He went to the estate agent’s and asked when the sale had gone through. ‘Just three weeks ago,’ said the agent. ‘With the market being so bad, we thought we would never shift it. In fact, it’s difficult to sell anything. Mrs Rother paid the asking price provided the furnishings were thrown in as well. It belonged to a middle-aged lady who died last year and her daughter lives abroad and didn’t want the job of clearing the house and asked us if we could find a buyer who would take everything.’

‘Did she pay by cheque?’ asked Phil.

‘Of course.’

That seemed to be that. He phoned Toni.

But somehow, a nagging doubt would not leave Toni. Identities could be pinched. She Googled the divorce case and took a note of Mr John Rother’s office address. She phoned, and reverting to her original Gloucestershire accent, which she had ‘poshed up’ after working for Agatha, said that she had been cleaning for Mrs Rother, who wanted her services again but she did not have an address for her.

Toni was lucky in that Mr Rother’s secretary loathed the ex-Mrs Rother and saw no need to protect her address. ‘It’s fifty-one Alexandria Mews, Kensington,’ she said.

Toni found the telephone number was ex-directory and resolved to go up to town the following Saturday. Why should Charlotte Rother still have the London address and yet want some undistinguished bungalow in Ancombe?

Agatha had invited Charlotte around to her cottage for lunch on Saturday. Charlotte made flattering comments on the beauty of the old cottage. But she ignored Agatha’s cats and they ignored her in turn. Agatha felt obscurely like a mother whose children have been insulted and then chided herself for being weird.

They had a pleasant lunch. Charlotte complimented Agatha on her cooking and Agatha hoped that the empty packets of Marks & Spencer meals were carefully hidden.

After lunch, Charlotte said, ‘It’s a lovely day. I’ve always wanted to see Warwick Castle.’

‘It’s not far,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll drive you.’

‘No, I’ll drive. After all your hard work preparing lunch, it’s the least I can do.’

Agatha’s phone rang just as they were leaving. It was Toni. ‘I wondered how you were getting on,’ said Toni.

‘Fine,’ replied Agatha. ‘Can’t speak. Just off to Warwick Castle.’

Toni found the address in Alexandria Mews and rang the bell. There was no reply. Well, that figures, thought Toni. If she is who she says she is, then she’ll be down in the Cotswolds.

But she knelt down and looked through the letter box. A sports car roared past behind her. Then there was relative silence. Toni thought she could hear something. She pressed her ear to the letter box. There were faint sounds like, ‘Mmmph. Mmmph.’

Toni thought quickly. She took out her mobile and called the police and waited anxiously until ten minutes later, and with agonizing slowness, a police car cruised into the mews.

A large beefy police sergeant got out. ‘What is all this then about someone trapped inside?’

‘I can hear sounds from inside but she doesn’t answer the door,’ said Toni. ‘Put your ear to the letter box.’

He bent down. His colleague stood behind him, grinning.

Then the sergeant straightened up. ‘Can’t hear a thing.’

‘But I heard something,’ pleaded Toni.

‘Like what?’

‘Sort of muffled, strangled noises.’

The sergeant rang the bell. A neighbour came out of the next mews cottage and stared at them curiously. ‘What’s the person’s name?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Mrs Charlotte Rother.’

‘That’s that woman who was divorced recently,’ said his colleague.

The neighbour came up to them. ‘What’s going on?’

‘This little lady,’ said the sergeant, ‘thinks she can hear sinister noises from inside. Have you seen Mrs Rother lately?’

‘Not for a couple of weeks or something like that.’

‘There’s a pane of glass on the door,’ said Toni. ‘You could smash that and maybe get in.’

‘Here now, Miss…’

‘Toni Gilmour.’

‘Miss Gilmour. We don’t go around breaking into property just like that. What’s your business with her?’

‘I’m a private detective and I think someone may have stolen her identity.’

‘And why would she do that?’

Fighting for patience, Toni explained about Sylvan Dubois and how he might have sent an impostor after Agatha.

The sergeant said heavily, ‘We’ll go back to the station and make some phone calls.’

‘But it may be too late!’

He gave her a cynical look, nodded to his colleague and both got back in the car and drove off. The neighbour went back indoors.