Dishing the Dirt (22 page)

But worried Mrs. Bloxby noticed that the well-manicured hands holding the cardboard container of coffee trembled a little.

*   *   *

After two weeks, and on Agatha’s last day in hospital, Bill Wong called to say that the body of the supposed Anthony had been exhumed and it had been established that it was in fact the sister, Lavender, who had perished and that Anthony had taken her identity.

“I’m surprised there was enough left to get DNA,” said Agatha.

“Enough in a surviving molar,” said Bill.

No one had told Agatha that her police guard had been told not to allow Roy Silver admittance, everyone being annoyed that he had arrived as soon as the attempt on Agatha’s life had reached the newspapers, because he had held press conferences on the steps of the hospital, bragging about how he helped Agatha with her cases. All her detectives had called daily with their reports. Charles and Mrs. Bloxby would have liked to keep them away but Agatha insisted on being kept up to date.

*   *   *

When she got home, Doris Simpson was waiting with her cats and watched anxiously as Agatha petted them and then burst into tears.

“Now, now, my love,” said Doris. “You’ve got to take it easy.”

“Sure,” said Agatha, mopping her eyes. “I’ll be all right in a day or two.”

“That wicked man won’t dare to come near you,” said Doris.

“I hope not,” said Agatha. “I suppose he didn’t bump me off at the beginning because he thought I was a fool. He must have told Jill Davent something and she tried to blackmail him and set all the murders in motion. They do say that after the first murder, the others come easy.”

*   *   *

Charles was hosting the annual village fete on the grounds of his estate. He felt his face stiff with smiling and he was bored to tears. At the end of the day, he retreated into his house and into his study while Gustav brought him a beer. He put his feet up and then remembered he had bought a lottery scratch card for a pound. He fished it out of his pocket along with a coin and began to scratch busily. He could hardly believe his eyes. It appeared he had won seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Found money, he thought. This demands a special treat.

Then he thought of Agatha. She badly needed a holiday. What if he bought her one? What kind of holiday would she feel compelled to take? But the elderly aunt who lived with him and Gustav should have something. He called them in.

Gustav wanted a new motorbike and his aunt wanted a big donation to a cancer society. When Gustav had left to pore over catalogues, Charles asked his aunt, “I’d like to send Agatha Raisin on holiday, a holiday she can’t refuse. Any ideas?”

“Oh, that Miss Marple of yours. What about the
Orient Express
to Venice?”

“Brilliant!”

*   *   *

It almost didn’t happen because the day after, Charles’s stinginess took over. The upkeep of the estate swallowed money and he was already regretting his generosity. But he could hardly tell his aunt or Gustav that he had changed his mind. The
Orient Express
would be expensive. On the other hand, he thought Agatha was a nervous wreck, and he wanted the old Agatha back to amuse him. Still, he thought hopefully, maybe she’ll turn it down.

Epilogue

At long last, after a month, Agatha decided to accept Charles’s offer and, for once, all her friends were glad to see her go. She had been snappish and irritable, throwing herself into her work, slaving away long hours, and refusing all social invitations. Bill Wong had pleaded with her to go to Victim Support, which got the furious reply, “There is nothing up with me.”

It was almost as if Agatha felt that living in some sort of perpetual rage might keep her fear of Anthony Tweedy coming back to murder her at bay.

Concerned for her welfare, Charles had hired a limo driver, an ex-member of the police force, Dave Tapping, to take her to Victoria Station in London. He was a powerful-looking man and Charles felt reassured that Agatha would have a bodyguard as well as a driver.

On the road to London, Dave talked amiably about the family holiday he had just returned from in Florida with his wife, Zoe, and his two children, Harry and Hannah. He broke off as Agatha began to cry and handed her a pile of tissues. Agatha had suddenly been overwhelmed with regret that she had never managed to get married to some sensible man and have children.

“George Clooney’s getting married in Venice,” said Dave, trying to cheer her up. “Is that why you’re crying?”

Agatha gave a reluctant laugh. “Not one of my fantasies,” she said.

At Victoria, she asked Dave if he would mind parking the car and walking her to the Pullman train, which was to be her transport for the first part of her journey. She was to join the
Orient Express
at Calais.

As she settled in the dining car, Agatha thought bitterly that she must face up to the fact that she had lost her nerve and that her days of detecting were over.

But the smooth rolling of the train and a superb meal slowly roused her spirits.

At Folkstone, the passengers were met by a traditional jazz band. One matron, carried away, was bopping to the music. Oh dear, thought Agatha, Middle England out to play.

Then they were informed that because of a French rail strike, they were all to board buses to take them across the Channel by the tunnel and on to Arras, halfway to Paris. The bus was one of those with tables to seat four without enough leg room.

By the time Agatha got to Arras, she was feeling tired and grumpy but was mothered by an efficient French steward into her little cabin on the
Orient Express
. She settled for the late dinner at ten in the evening and began to unpack a few things, including a black velvet dress for dinner because formal dress was mandatory. It was a beautiful train, all shining wood and inlaid marquetry. The lavatory was at the end of the corridor, a large room and the toilet had an old-fashioned pump.

When she reached the dining room that evening, she wished she had gone for an earlier meal because the liquored-up pseuds were out in force, talking in loud baying voices, trying to outposh each other. But the food, even to Agatha’s not very sophisticated palate, seemed to be the best she had ever tasted. For the first time, she began to relax and hard on the heels of that relaxation came the guilty feeling that she had been rude to her helpful friends and had not thanked Charles enough.

In her compartment was a little pile of free postcards with an instruction just to hand them to the steward for posting. Before she went to bed, Agatha wrote to Charles, Mrs. Bloxby and her detectives, thanking them all for their concern and saying she missed them.

*   *   *

In the morning, she raised the blind. Outside was a panorama of the Swiss Alps and Lake Geneva, benign in the sun. Agatha’s heart rose and with it her hopes. Perhaps in Venice she might meet some handsome man. She settled down to enjoy the rest of the journey.

At Venice, an
Orient Express
helper led them off the train and there was a long wait while all the luggage and passengers going to all the different hotels were sorted. It was warm for late September. Then she was led to a launch to take her to her hotel on the Grand Canal, and the whole magnificent glory that is Venice burst before her eyes.

The launch cruised up the canal, past the old palaces, past the gondolas, past boats loaded with paparazzi because of George Clooney’s wedding to Amal Alamuddin, and stopped at the hotel landing stage. Charles had booked a room with a balcony overlooking the canal in the hope that Agatha would have a place to smoke, but the window only opened a few inches.

She had heard the Piazza San Marco was near the hotel, so after she had unpacked and put on a summer dress, she walked out of the back of the hotel, through several alleys, over a bridge, through a shopping area and arrived at the square. She found a table at Florian’s in the sun, ordered a gin and tonic and felt as if she were coming alive again. She wished Charles had come with her. They had been on holiday together before. But she was only in Venice for four days—Charles’s generosity having limits—before getting the train back. The orchestra was playing old-fashioned favourites like “La Paloma,” the tourists came and went and Agatha could feel every tensed up muscle in her body beginning to ease.

She returned slowly to her room, suddenly tired, and went to bed, plunging down into a deep healing sleep.

*   *   *

Charles was trying to settle down in his study to read a detective story, but he was distracted by Gustav who, overcome with gratitude by his present of a motorbike, had decided to take on extra work, which meant clearing the bookcase and dusting the books.

“Oh, leave it alone!” complained Charles. “I want some peace. Sod off on your damned bike somewhere.”

Gustav sulkily jammed the books back on the shelves, and as he did so, a small, shiny square black object fell onto the floor. “This yours, sir?” he asked, handing it to Charles.

Charles stared at it in horror. “It’s a tape recorder. Who put it there?”

“Blessed if I know,” said Gustav.

“But who could get into the house?”

“Don’t let anyone. Oh, except at the fete. Some old lady wanted the loo.”

Shocked to the core, Charles told Gustav to phone the police and set off for Gatwick airport.

*   *   *

On the last day of her visit, Agatha felt tired, “touristed-out” as she thought of it, having diligently visited all the sites up and down the canal. She had found that smoking was allowed in an open-air bar on a platform overlooking the canal.

It was late in the evening. The only other customer was a man in a panama hat, sitting by the rail of the bar. He turned and nodded to Agatha and smiled. Agatha, still on the alert, as if by some chance Anthony had followed her to Venice, stiffened and then relaxed and smiled back. He had a white beard, neatly trimmed and bright blue eyes. He was wearing a white linen suit over a striped shirt and silk tie and his build was medium, without the stockiness and burliness of Anthony.

The water flowed by. A late gondolier with a cargo of four tourists sailed past. Because of the strong current, the gondolas moved fast down the canal and then had to labour back up. Agatha had expected the canal to smell, but the only odour was from the cigar that the man in the panama hat had just lit. He rose and went to the rail at the edge of the canal. “Well, I’m blessed!” he exclaimed. “Look at that!”

Agatha joined him at the rail. “What? Where?”

“It must be my eyesight,” he said ruefully. “I’ll swear I saw some fool swimming in the canal.”

Agatha shrugged and sat back down and sipped her brandy. She began to feel a lethargy creeping over her body and decided it was time to go to bed. That was when she found she could not move. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out.

The man in the panama hat came down and sat next to her.

“It’s a wonder what plastic surgery, contact lenses, a beard and a strict diet can do,” he said. The only part of Agatha still working was her brain. What had happened to her famous intuition? This was Anthony Tweedy and he was going to kill her.

“I put a drug in your drink,” he said. “It paralyses you. I want to see you suffer before I shove an overdose of heroin into you, you interfering horrible woman. Yes. I went to see Jill Davent. She seemed so easy to talk to and I wanted to tell my secret to just one person. She tried to blackmail me! Me! It was a real pleasure to get that neck of hers and wind a scarf round it and pull it till she choked to death.

“You bothered me, although I felt sure that all the stories about your detective abilities had been wildly exaggerated. I knew who Tremund was because before I killed Jill, I watched to see who called on her and found out who they were. He met me down by the canal because I said I had the dirt on Jill, so goodbye to him. And goodbye to Bannister, Herythe and Dell. Getting bored? I’ll put an end to you soon. Oh, what is it?”

“Anything more to drink?” asked the waiter.

Agatha tried to signal something to him but even her eyeballs seemed frozen.

“No, we’re fine.” Anthony put his hand over Agatha’s.

The waiter left them and went to tell the other staff that the nice Englishwoman had found romance. Agatha was considered nice because she tipped generously.

Anthony stifled a yawn. “I’m tired. Let’s make an end of it before I bugger off to South America and forget you ever existed.”

He took a syringe out of his pocket. God, thought Agatha, get me out of this and I’ll give up smoking.

Anthony pulled Agatha’s limp arm towards him. “Nice bare arms. Makes it easy.”

At that moment, Charles, standing at the entrance to the bar, seized a champagne bottle from the drinks trolley and threw it with all the skill he had learnt playing village cricket with deadly accuracy. It struck Anthony on the head and he collapsed like a stone.

Horrified staff clustered in the doorway. “Ambulance!” yelled Charles. “Police!”

He gathered Agatha in his arms. “What has he done to you? Can’t you speak? Is that Anthony with a face change?”

He waited in agony until a police launch roared up to the landing stage, closely followed by the ambulance launch. Charles insisted on going to the hospital with Agatha and said he would make his statement there, but he was sure the man he had struck down was the murderer, Anthony Tweedy, wanted by Interpol.

Charles was relieved to find out at the hospital that Agatha had a strong pulse. The doctors said they would not know exactly what drug had been given her until they did tests. But he was puzzled when the police told him they had not been alerted to any danger to Agatha. Surely, before he had rushed to the airport, he had told Gustav to phone the police.

Anthony Tweedy had suffered a severe concussion but was going to live. He had been travelling under a fake passport, but his real passport had been found amongst his luggage, although the police were waiting for the results of DNA tests to make absolutely sure of his identity.

Anthony recovered consciousness but continued to fake being unconscious. He waited until a nurse came to give him a sponge bath and a policeman unlocked the padded chain that held him to the bed. Through half-closed eyes he saw that the policeman had retreated to his post outside the door. Then he was in luck. Another nurse popped her head round the door and shouted that George Clooney and his wife were coming down the canal in a launch.