M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

The large electronic gates to the Bross-Tilkingtons’ house were closed. Agatha groaned when she saw the press gathered outside.

‘Reverse fast,’ she ordered Toni.

When they were once more outside the village, Agatha phoned Olivia Bross-Tilkington and asked if there was a back way into the property. Then she turned the phone over to Toni, who scribbled down instructions.

By approaching the village from a different angle, they found themselves outside a small lodge house where a man was waiting by the gates. He studied their car and then opened the gates.

‘Odd, very odd,’ said Agatha as the car bumped up a narrow road leading to the back of the house. ‘Why all this security?’

‘Yeah,’ said Toni. ‘I wonder if they were afraid of something even before the murder.’

GEORGE BROSS-TILKINGTON WAS waiting for them when they arrived. He was a thickset man with a pugnacious tanned face under a thatch of grey hair.

‘I don’t want you here!’ he said.

‘But your wife -’ began Agatha.

‘I don’t care what my wife says. Shove off!’

Olivia appeared behind him. ‘I invited Mrs Raisin,’ she said. ‘I told you. She has the reputation of being a good detective and I want to know who killed our daughter!’

‘The police -’

‘I am not waiting for the local plods. Besides, Sylvan agrees with me.’

‘He what?’

‘Talking about me?’ Sylvan strolled into the hall. Agatha’s heart beat a little faster. Then she remembered the humiliation of that phone call to Paris.

‘I encouraged Olivia to call in the services of Agatha,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ mocked Sylvan. ‘One would think you did not want the identity of the murderer to be discovered.’

‘Oh, do what you like,’ said George and stomped off.

‘I’m so sorry about that,’ said Olivia. ‘Poor George is grieving and so he covers it up by getting angry.’ Her eyes were puffy with weeping. ‘First, I’ll show you to your room. I was only expecting you, Mrs Raisin.’

‘Call me Agatha. This is another detective, Toni Gilmour, who is going to assist me. But I think it would be better if we both continued to stay in Hewes. That way we can take a more objective view of things.’

‘Very well. Let’s go into the lounge and discuss the matter.’

Toni looked around the drawing room, or lounge, as Olivia had called it. It certainly looked more like a hotel lounge than a room in a private house. There were little islands made up of polished tables and tapestry-upholstered chairs embellished with gilt paint on the woodwork. There was no fire burning on the hearth. Instead the grate was decorated with orange crinkled paper. On a table by the french windows stood a large vase of silk flowers. A polished yacht wheel emblazoned with the name CYNTHIA in gold letters hung over the fireplace. In one corner was a padded leather bar with glass shelves behind it full of all those odd bottles of drink that people usually collect on package holidays, and the shelves were illuminated with pink strip lighting.

Sylvan, Agatha, Toni and Olivia sat down round one of the tables. Toni took out her notebook.

‘Why is there a ship’s wheel over the fireplace?’ asked Toni.

‘That was my husband’s first boat. Cynthia was his first wife.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She died of cancer.’

Agatha was painfully aware of Sylvan Dubois. He was every bit as attractive as she remembered, with his thick fair hair going slightly grey, his hooded eyes and his slim figure.

‘Now, about your daughter,’ said Agatha. ‘Did she have any enemies you can think of?’

‘Everybody adored her.’

‘Had she been married?’

‘No.’

‘But she was very beautiful,’ said Toni. ‘Surely she must have had a lot of offers.’

‘Of course.’

‘So was there a rejected man who might have wanted to kill her?’ asked Agatha.

‘It was the other way round,’ said Sylvan, his French accent light and mocking.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Toni.

‘She was what you call a dumpee.’

‘And what does that expression mean exactly?’ demanded Agatha.

‘It means she was engaged two times and two times the fellow called the engagement off.’

‘Sylvan,’ said Olivia, beginning to cry, ‘if you were not a friend of my husband’s I would ask you to leave.’

‘How did you come to be a friend of James Lacey?’ asked Agatha.

‘I spilt some beer over him in a brasserie by accident. I apologized and we got talking. I gave him my card and said if he was ever in Paris again to look me up and I would buy him dinner. He did. I told him I was going to a friend’s party and took him along. That was where he met Felicity.’

Olivia dried her eyes. ‘It was love at first sight,’ she said.

‘How do you know the Bross-Tilkingtons?’ asked Toni.

‘I was on holiday in Cannes. I met them there – oh – ten years ago and we’ve been friends ever since.’

‘What does Mr Bross-Tilkington do for a living?’ pursued Toni.

‘George is retired,’ said Olivia. ‘He dealt in real estate. Foreign properties, mostly.’

‘In Spain?’ asked Agatha.

‘Yes, Spain and other countries.’

‘A lot of angry people have lost their homes in Spain. They’ve found out that the properties their flats were in had been built on agricultural land and after they had invested their life savings, the local Spanish council came along and bulldozed the buildings. A lot of them claim they had been tricked. The estate agents would say, “Don’t worry about a solicitor. We’ll supply one.” And so they never found out about the danger until it was too late.’

‘None of that was going on when my George was selling houses,’ said Olivia angrily. ‘May I remind you it was my dear daughter who was killed?’

‘I thought that maybe,’ said Agatha cautiously, ‘someone might have wanted revenge on the family by killing the daughter.’

‘Nonsense!’

All right. Sylvan, are you sure that Felicity’s two previous engagements were broken off by the men?’

‘So I was led to believe.’

‘Have you their names and addresses?’ Agatha asked Olivia.

‘I’ll get them for you.’ Olivia hurried out of the room. Then they all heard the doorbell and a voice saying, ‘We are sorry to trouble you, Mrs Bross-Tilkington, but my forensic team would like another look at your daughter’s room. And if you are up to it today, we have some more questions to ask you and your husband. Oh, don’t leave, Mr Dubois. You as well.’

When Olivia and Sylvan had left the room, Agatha whispered to Toni, ‘Let’s get out of here. See if that kennel man knows anything.’

They went out through the french windows. The rain had stopped but the lawn was spongy under their feet.

‘I hope he’s got the dogs safely locked up,’ said Agatha uneasily.

‘Yes, I can see them prowling about behind the fence,’ replied Toni as they drew nearer to the kennels.

‘There’s that little shed over there,’ said Agatha.

As they approached the shed, a small burly man came out and stared at them.

He wore a flat tweed cap, sports jacket, worn corduroy trousers and large battered black leather boots. His gnarled face had a squashed look, as if someone had put a heavy weight at some time on top of his head.

‘What do you want?’ he called.

Agatha approached him. ‘Just a word,’ she said. ‘Mrs Bross-Tilkington has asked me to investigate her daughter’s murder. Have you worked for the family long?’

‘Five years.’

‘May I know your name?’

‘Jerry Carton.’

‘I am Agatha Raisin and this is my assistant, Toni Gilmour. Can you suggest any reason why Felicity was murdered?’