There Goes The Bride (21 page)

‘The trouble is,’ said Olvia, ‘the police still can’t figure out how he did it. He had a perfect alibi.’

‘Do you think your daughter knew about the smuggling and said something – like, she would tell her new husband?’

‘My daughter was an innocent, through and through. Just a child, really. My husband and I had separate bedrooms and sometimes she would come into my bedroom at night and ask me to read her a story, just like she used to do when she was little. The police think Sylvan hired someone to kill her.’

‘What I can’t understand, Olivia,’ said Agatha, ‘is how you could possibly not suspect something criminal was going on?’

‘How could I? George made so much money from real estate in Spain. He said he loved his boat. I get seasick, so I was happy when he went off on his own or with Sylvan. Sylvan! I still find it hard to believe. We were both dazzled by him. Felicity wanted to get married. A white wedding was her great dream. She was quite childlike. The headmistress at her school said she was a trifle retarded. But she was so sweet. She cost George a fortune getting her whole appearance altered. Liposuction, the best plastic surgeon in California, personal trainer, everything of the best. Sylvan said men never noticed a woman had no brains provided she was beautiful.’

James flushed dark red. ‘Sylvan said an older man was just what she needed. When I think of it, all he did was pull the strings like a puppet master,’ said Olivia. ‘I’ve cried and cried until I can’t cry any more. Do you think they will ever find Sylvan?’

‘I hope so,’ said Agatha. ‘My great fear is that he’ll find me first. Do you miss your husband?’

‘I don’t know. He became such a bully. I got so used to being shouted at and ordered around, it feels strange – empty, somehow. I can’t really think of him. I’m sorry he had to die so terribly but to think he was still consorting with the man who may have got my daughter killed . . .’

Harriet came into the room and said gruffly, ‘You’d better leave.’

‘I feel that was a wasted journey,’ said James, as they took the long road home.

‘Not really,’ said Agatha. ‘I don’t think Olivia is any sort of actress. I think she’s a bit simple herself. I feel a loose end has been tied up.’

‘What about dinner when we get back?’ suggested James.

‘All right. But just the pub will do.’

‘You can’t smoke, you know.’

‘Oh, yes, I can. He’s got patio heaters.’

Charles turned up and joined them for dinner. It was an easy, companionable meal. What on earth would today’s feminists make of me? thought Agatha. They would point out that I have a successful business and friends. Why do I need a man? Sex. Well, they would point out, sex is easily come by. But it’s love I want, thought Agatha. It’s love that causes the high and fills up the brain with golden thoughts so that one feels invulnerable. It’s love that makes all the tiresome maintenance of a middle-aged woman easy.

But one thing she had learned the hard way: no more dating agencies.

After a few weeks, Agatha received a letter with the heavily embossed heading
ARISTO DATING
. They said they had taken over the premises of the Diamond agency. Diamond had sold them their list of clients. Would Agatha like her details erased? If not, they could introduce her to some very suitable men. There would be no fee unless she found someone she liked.

Hope again sprang in Agatha’s bosom, although a voice of common sense was telling her to forget it. But Christmas was slowly approaching. She did not want to be alone. She conjured up a vision of a tall handsome man who owned a pleasant country mansion with dogs and wood fires. They would go for long walks and return in the evening to a companionable dinner. And then later, they would walk up the stairs to the master bedroom hand in hand, and he would say . . .

‘I’ve finished, Agatha,’ called her cleaner, Doris Simpson. The bubble of Agatha’s dream burst as she went to pay Doris. But the dream came back during the day.

She finally e-mailed the agency and said any man they considered suitable should e-mail her along with a photograph.

A reply came the following day. His name was Geoffrey Camden. He was tall and rangy with thick grey hair. He was standing on the steps of a country mansion with two gun dogs at his heels. He wrote that he was a widower who liked shooting, fishing and visits to the London theatres. He had seen her photograph and read her details.

Agatha thought that Mrs Bloxby would probably tell her to forget the whole thing, but she felt she had to talk to someone. It was Sunday evening. She phoned the vicar’s wife who said immediately that she would call round. ‘Alf is always like a bear with a sore head by Sunday evening,’ she said. Alf was her husband and Agatha felt that by Sunday evening, the vicar should have been feeling spiritually uplifted.

Mrs Bloxby sank down gratefully on the soft feather cushions of Agatha’s sofa, accepted a glass of sherry, and asked, ‘What’s been happening?’

Agatha had printed off the e-mail. She showed it to her.

‘I think you had better check up on him first and find out if he is who he says he is,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘If he’s got a mansion, he might be in
Who’s Who.
Do you have a copy?’

‘It’s about five years old. Wait. I’ll get it.’

Agatha came back with the book and searched the pages. ‘Well, I’m blessed. Here it is. Retired army major. Widower. Address, The Grange, Abton Parva, Shropshire. Hobbies – just like the ones in the e-mail. Age fifty-five.’

‘Maybe you should go up to London first and check out this agency. Sniff out if they’re competent.’

‘I think I’ll continue to e-mail him for a bit. I didn’t put down “detective” in my CV for the last agency. I’ll tell him and if that doesn’t put him off, maybe I’ll take a chance.’

By the end of two weeks of e-mails, Agatha felt she knew this Geoffrey very well. He described his country life, talking about the people in the nearby village, about his occasional clashes with the vicar, and mentioned that he planned to go up to London soon.

In the last e-mail, he suggested they meet in London for dinner.

Agatha agreed. To her surprise, he suggested that restaurant in Chinatown where she had met her previous date. Agatha said she would prefer somewhere else.

Three days passed without a reply. Agatha could hardly concentrate on her work. Then finally an e-mail arrived suggesting a rendezvous at a restaurant called The Lifeboat in Saint Katharine’s Dock at eight o’clock on Saturday evening.

Agatha cheerfully e-mailed an acceptance and phoned Mrs Bloxby with the good news. She then made appointments with the beautician and hairdresser for Saturday morning.

Mrs Bloxby was sitting in a dentist’s waiting room on Saturday afternoon. A filling had fallen out of a tooth. She felt she was lucky to get an appointment because most dentists shut down for the weekend. It was a private dentist and Mrs Bloxby hoped the treatment would not turn out to be too expensive. The woman who had gone in before her seemed to have been in the treatment room for ages. Mrs Bloxby wished she had brought a book.

Mrs Bloxby flicked through the pages of a copy of
Country Life.
She wished there were still magazines around with stories in them. She remembered when magazines like
Good Housekeeping
would serialize authors like Ruth Rendell.

And then she flicked it open at a double-page spread of photographs. Mrs Bloxby could hardly believe her eyes. It was a feature on the recent wedding of Geoffrey Camden. With shaking hands, she took out her mobile and asked directory inquiries for the number of Geoffrey Camden at The Grange in Shropshire. When she got the number, she asked to be connected. A woman answered the phone. Mrs Bloxby asked to speak to Mr Camden.

‘This is Mrs Camden,’ said the woman. ‘Geoffrey’s up in London to see an old friend. He won’t be back until tomorrow.’

Agatha must be warned. Mrs Bloxby dialled Agatha’s mobile. It was switched off.

Then she wondered if Geoffrey Camden, so recently married, would be the type of man to cheat on his wife – through a dating agency, of all things.

And fast on that came one dreadful thought – Sylvan.

What if Sylvan were tricking Agatha? Desperately she phoned Toni and explained the situation. Toni said she would phone Bill Wong and get up to London herself. Bill listened carefully but said he could hardly alert Scotland Yard on such a far-fetched theory. With the whole of Interpol still looking for Sylvan, he would hardly dare put in an appearance, but Bill would go up to London with Toni.

On the road to London, Toni phoned James and Charles and then phoned Roy Silver. But Roy was out. She left a message for him telling him to get down to Saint Katharine’s Dock and warn Agatha.

Agatha was ten minutes early when she arrived at the restaurant. The restaurant was very dark. Behind her a waiter asked her if she would like something to drink. Agatha ordered a Campari and soda. When it arrived, she sipped it as she studied the menu. It was one of those twee menus she hated so much: the Captain’s Table Special for two, Dirty Dick’s shrimp cocktail, Captain Hook’s battered cod and so on.

She began to feel slightly dizzy. She pulled out her mobile phone and switched it on in case he was going to be late and had been trying to contact her.

Toni’s voice came on the phone. ‘Get out of there, Agatha. It’s a trick. It could be Sylvan.’

Agatha stumbled to her feet, staggered and almost fell. A smooth French voice said, ‘I’m afraid the lady has had too much to drink. I’ll help her outside.’

Agatha opened her mouth to scream but the restaurant swirled around her and something seemed to have happened to her voice. It was like one of those nightmares where you tried to scream and only whimpering little squeaks came out.

She had only taken a sip of the Campari and soda, thinking it a sophisticated drink, although it was one she did not like very much.

The air outside revived her and she began to struggle weakly. ‘There is a gun in your ribs,’ said Sylvan. ‘One squawk out of you and you’re dead.’

Bill, followed by Toni, rushed into the restaurant. The first thing Toni’s eyes spotted was Agatha’s handbag resting on a chair. ‘Where is the lady who belongs to this?’ she shouted. The manager came forward. ‘The lady had a dizzy turn and one of our waiters took her outside for some fresh air.’

‘Was he French?’

‘Yes, he was filling in for one of our waiters who was taken ill suddenly.’

Bill took out his phone and called Scotland Yard while Toni rushed out to the dock. Saint Katharine’s Dock is punnily named The Berth of London. Cruisers and yachts bobbed at anchor. Toni went up to an old man who was watching the boats.

‘Did a boat just leave here?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She was a big powerful motor cruiser.’

‘Name.’

‘What?’

‘The name of the boat?’ shouted Toni.

‘Versales.
’

‘Versailles?’

‘Could be. Never could get my tongue round them French names.’

Bill came to join her. ‘The River Police will be with us in a minute. We’ve got to catch him before he throws her overboard.’

Agatha stared bleakly at Sylvan, who was sitting across from her in the boat’s cabin. ‘I see your old friend, Jerry Carton, is driving us. What are you going to do with me?’

‘Get you out to sea and chuck you overboard. The water’s nice and cold this time of year.’

‘But they’ll know it was you.’

He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘They haven’t caught me yet.’

‘Why? Why do you want to kill me?’

‘Revenge, pure and simple. To think I even encouraged Olivia to hire you! I thought that would make me look innocent, but then I realized your poking about was becoming a threat. You fouled up my nice lucrative business.’

‘But why shoot Felicity?’

‘Ah, I did not do that. That was George.’

‘Her own father!’

‘Remember, he wasn’t her father. He’d been having sex with her since she was fourteen. She promised him that they could carry on after she was married. She was, after all, sex-obsessed. But the wedding went to her head. She told him she wouldn’t have anything to do with him after the wedding. He tried to force her. She said she was going to tell Olivia, her mother, everything. So he put on – how you call it? – a boiler suit, gloves, plastic boots, the lot, and shot her through the window to make it look as if some outsider had done it. He shoved the boiler suit and everything in the furnace.’

‘And the gun?’ asked Agatha.

‘Ah, the local police of course never thought to search any of us. George simply pushed it into the waistband of his trousers under his morning coat, called the police, followed them to the church and slipped it to me.’

‘And what did you do with it?’

‘Threw it in the river at the first opportunity.’

‘Where in the river?’

‘There is no point in telling you because you are not going to escape me this time.’

Desperate to keep him talking, Agatha asked, ‘Why did you kill George?’

‘He’d become dangerously sentimental, mourning Felicity, and he was beginning to drink too much.
Hélas,
he had to go.’