Hot to Trot

by M C Beaton

  “We have to stop these devils, Mrs. Raisin!” Gustav’s hands clenched into fists. “When I think of that hideous creature Sir Charles is about to marry, it makes me so angry. She struts around the house making notes about changes she will make. Oak panels to be ripped out. Furniture and rugs to be discarded. I could slap her stupid face!”

  “There’s a lot to slap.”

  “Without doubt. A chin like a sideboard.”

  “With the bottom drawer open.”

  “Honestly, I wake at night having dreamt about wringing her neck.” He made a strangling motion with his hands. “We must rid Sir Charles of these utter scumbags, but I am at a loss to know how.”

  “Well, I doubt we can stop the wedding at this stage,” said Agatha, “but marriages don’t last forever.” She handed Gustav her business card. “Here’s my number. Keep in touch. Don’t do anything silly and go riding off on that motorbike of yours.”

  “I won’t,” said Gustav, calming himself. His prized Harley-Davidson had been a gift from Charles. Agatha wanted to remind him that his years of devotion to the Fraith family were appreciated and had been rewarded. She needed to use that loyalty to stop him from doing anything rash. He had once run off to work briefly in Switzerland when Charles had become engaged to some poor girl of whom he did not approve. How he had managed to keep himself under control this time was a miracle.

  “I need you here,” said Agatha, rising to leave. “I need you as my eyes and ears in this house. If we work together, maybe we can find a way to drag Charles out of this mess.”

  “Very well.” Gustav directed her to a small door that led to a courtyard at the side of the house. “You had best leave this way. Less chance of you being spotted.”

  Once back in her car, Agatha drove past the big top and on down the avenue of trees, slowing to a halt by the main gates. She scrabbled in her bag for her mobile phone.

  * * *

  Roy Silver was sitting in his office at Pedman PR, idly gazing out of the window at the London traffic grumbling in gridlocked paralysis three storeys below. He sipped lapsang souchong from a china cup, enjoying the smoky pine flavour of the tea and contemplating the misery of joining the turmoil of commuters to make his way home. The warm spring weather was overheating the city, and if it continued, as it was forecast to do, the fumes and dust in the streets would become unbearable.

  His phone rang and he reached a languorous arm across the desk.

  “Roy, it’s me,” came the voice of Agatha Raisin. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Aggie, darling!” trilled Roy. “How lovely to hear from you. Are you enjoying the weather up there in the Cotswolds? It’s becoming horribly oppressive in the city. It’s playing havoc with my sinuses and it doesn’t help that I am absolutely rushed off my poor little feet.”

  “Cut the crap, Roy. You’ve never done a proper day’s work in your life.”

  “Oh, times have changed, my dear,” said Roy with a forced laugh. “Since you so kindly brought me in to handle Wizz-Wazz the Donkey, I have hardly had a moment to myself.”

  “I doubt that very much. I know you have an entire team working on that account and that you will be raking in a fine profit from it. So you owe me, and it’s payback time.”

  “Well, I may be able to spare a few moments. What’s it all about?” Roy sighed, then suddenly perked up. “Not another juicy murder, is it?”

  “No. I want you to use every London contact you have to find out what hold the Brown-Fields have over Sir Charles Fraith.”

  “But Aggie,” complained Roy, “we’ve been into all of that already. The old blimps at his club and those buzzards at the banks are giving nothing away.”

  “Try harder, Roy. There is a contract of some sort. Tempt some young lawyer out for a drink and ply him with tequila. Tell people that you’re looking to instruct new lawyers or accountants for your business and pump them for information. Twist a few arms. Cheat. Lie. Blackmail. The gloves are off. We have to know.”

  “That all sounds terribly serious,” Roy said, his voice laced with delight at the thought of the intrigue. “I’ll get on to it straight away.”

  Agatha eased her car out onto the road and set off for her cottage in Carsely. She had promised herself time and time again that she would not involve herself in Charles’s affairs. He had let her down so badly. He hadn’t even told her about getting engaged. How could he have treated her like that? And Gustav and Charles’s aunt have snubbed me so many times, she told herself, that I really shouldn’t care about them either. Yet none of them deserves Darell and Linda Brown-Field, or Mary Darlinda. I mean—Darlinda! Really? I simply can’t abandon Charles, no matter what sort of trouble he’s in. I have to do something!

  Agatha smiled as she felt a warm glow in her chest. Now that she had committed herself, now that she was about to do battle, she felt more alive than she had done for months.

  * * *

  “I got us some sandwiches,” said Toni, offering Agatha a choice of two paper-wrapped parcels. “Coronation chicken or ham salad?”

  Agatha chose the ham salad with a nod of thanks. Bearing in mind their exchange earlier that day, she had been treading lightly ever since Toni had arrived to pick her up. She had kept the tone of her voice soft and tried to maintain a calm atmosphere in the car. They were parked on a tree-lined street, which, judging by the size of the houses and the expensive cars parked in their driveways, was in a solidly affluent area of Oxford. The building opposite which Toni had parked was newer than the larger, mainly Victorian homes farther down the street, part of a terrace of four recently built compact town houses on a spacious corner plot that must at one time, Agatha surmised, have been occupied by a single mansion house. Each was three storeys, with a wooden front door standing alongside a wide garage door.

  “It’s the one at the end,” said Toni, unwrapping her sandwich. She placed the digital camera with its long lens on the dashboard behind the steering wheel. “Patrick says the car that dropped the male visitor belongs to a local cab company. They pick up a Mr. Smith from the station, deliver him to this address and collect him later. He pays cash. I guess Smith is probably not his real name.”

  She tucked into her sandwich. Outside it was growing dark, and the harsh light from the street lamps was tempered only slightly by the tinted glass of the car windows. It was not a flattering light, Agatha decided, yet her young companion still managed to look amazing. How could anyone look that good in this light? How could anyone look that good while she was eating a coronation chicken sandwich? Not for the first time, Agatha felt a pang of jealousy. A couple of years ago, they could have walked into a room together and she knew she would easily have stolen Toni’s thunder. Now, she thought, I could diet for a week, have my hair and make-up done perfectly, wear killer heels, knockout diamonds and that sheer silk dress with the plunging neckline, and I would still be invisible next to Toni.

  Toni was wearing a simple black sweater and black jeans—practical attire for this sort of work. Agatha had intended to wear a pair of black cotton trousers, but over the past few weeks a series of microwaved lasagnas, more often than not with chips and half a bottle of Merlot, meant that no matter how hard she clenched her own teeth, the teeth of her trouser zip refused to come together. The black skirt she had chosen instead was only marginally less troublesome to fasten. She nibbled at the corner of her sandwich, feeling her waistband tighten with every swallow.

  “Toni,” she said softly, “about earlier today. I—”

  “Don’t,” Toni interrupted, turning to face her. “Your apologies always sound insincere.”

  “What do you mean, insincere?” Agatha bristled. “My apologies are never insincere! My apologies are amongst the best in the business!”

  “That’s much better.” Toni giggled. “That sounds more like the Agatha I know. I don’t want to work for a meek and mild Agatha Raisin. That would just be too boring.”

  “Well.” Agatha relaxed and smiled. “Le
t’s just say we both said some things and leave it at that. Friends?”

  “Friends,” said Toni. “Wait—look there! That’s the car!”

  She grabbed the camera as a blue saloon car drew up and disgorged a single passenger, clearly male, of average height and wearing a coat with a high collar turned up. He hurried up the three steps to the front door, which was opened to allow him entry without him even breaking stride.

  “That was smooth,” said Toni. “I’m not surprised Simon couldn’t get a photo. I’ve got nothing either.”

  “We can wait for him to come out,” said Agatha, “or we can try to get a look at what’s going on inside.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We could knock on the front door posing as market researchers,” Agatha said, producing an official-looking clipboard from the footwell, “though I doubt our man is going to come to the door.”

  “Mrs. Chadwick might,” said Toni, “but it’s not her we need to photograph.”

  “I’ve seen houses like these before,” Agatha reasoned, “and I know the layout. Ground floor is the garage, with a kitchen/diner and living room at the back opening onto a garden area. First floor has a small bedroom at the front, a couple of bathrooms, and master bedroom at the rear. Top floor has a couple of attic bedrooms and another bathroom.”

  “We can assume, then, that they’ll head for the master bedroom at the back.”

  “Let’s go take a look!”

  They walked up a service access path at the side of the building, picking their way through a scattering of builders’ rubble and broken, discarded tools, evidence of the houses’ recent completion. Toni led the way, using a carefully shielded torch to light the clutter at their feet. A high fence ran back from the rear of the building, and looking up, they could see that the only light at the back of the house was in the window of the master bedroom.

  “We can’t see a thing through that window from this angle,” whispered Toni.

  “No,” Agatha agreed, “but we could use that.” She pointed to a rickety ladder lying amid the builders’ rubbish. Making as little noise as possible, they dragged it to the side of the building and leaned it gently against the wall.

  “I’m going up,” said Agatha, slinging the camera strap over her shoulder. “If I can squint round the corner, I should be able to see something and get a shot.”

  “Be careful, Agatha. It doesn’t look very sturdy.”

  “It’ll be fine as long as you hold on to it and check where I’m putting my feet.”

  Agatha made her way steadily up the ladder, thankful that she had worn shoes with sensible, although not entirely flat, heels. Halfway up, with her feet higher than her head would normally be, she began feeling nervous and looked down. Toni was gazing out into the street.

  “Toni!” she hissed. “You’re supposed to be watching where I put my feet!”

  “But if I look up, I can see right up your skirt…”

  “You won’t see anything up there that you can’t see on a rack in Marks and Spencer!”

  “Yes, but on the rack it’s not quite so … animated!”

  Agatha tutted and climbed higher. Once she was level with the window, she gingerly poked her head round the corner. She had only a partial view of the room through the window, and through an open fanlight she could hear music playing—a country rock riff—and a plaintive voice singing “Saddle Up the Palomino.” Then Mrs. Sheraton Chadwick strode into view. She looked to be in her early thirties and was wearing a black velvet riding helmet, black jacket with a jewelled horse brooch, white jodhpurs and gleaming black leather riding boots. She was tapping a riding crop against her thigh, a thin smile on her face.

  Before Agatha lost sight of her, she distinctly heard the words, “Who’s been a naughty little pony then?” And the response: “Bring it on, baby—I’m hot to trot!”

  As she leaned farther over to try to see more, the ladder creaked and wobbled, and she felt the urgent need to have her feet firmly on solid ground. She made her way quickly back down and turned to talk to Toni just as the ladder toppled over sideways, landing with a mighty crash amongst the builders’ rubble.

  “What was that? Who’s out there?” Mrs. Chadwick had flung open a rear window. “George—fetch the shotgun!”

  “Snakes and bastards!” Agatha squeaked. “RUN!”

  They bolted for the car.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m sorry, Chris, I just don’t feel like going out to dinner tonight. I don’t think I would be very good with lots of people around … I know that, but you’ll have your friends there, and you’ll be back before you know it. We can do something then, I promise … Yes, lunch would be great. You can tell me all about it then. Have a good trip. Bye.” Agatha replaced the telephone handset in its cradle and slumped onto the sofa. Her two cats, Hodge and Bos-well, leapt up beside her and launched into a purring contest, competing for her attention. She gently stroked both of them and they curled up on either side of her.

  Chris Firkin was a very nice, kind, gentle man—and very good-looking. She was rather fond of him, and he was very keen on her. I may never find another one like him, she thought. What am I doing? He wanted to cheer me up, but I don’t really want cheering up. He wanted to talk to me, but I don’t really want to talk. He wanted to … well, one of his marathon stints in the bedroom was definitely out of the question. Gaspingly good under the right circumstances, but tonight was not the night. It was a shame that he was about to jet off on business, but Agatha simply couldn’t face the impromptu get-together with friends that night.

  She sat alone. It was early evening and growing dark, but her cosy cottage living room was lit by just one barely adequate table lamp. The gloom suited her mood. She was wearing a shocking-pink fluffy onesie. The one-piece pyjama garment had been bought in a post-lunch gin-fuelled shopping frenzy. Most of what she had bought, Agatha knew, would go to a charity shop after a single wearing, perhaps even box-fresh. The retail therapy had not helped to lift her spirits but the onesie was soft and comforting. She plucked at the cotton fabric of one sleeve and promised herself that she would bin it tomorrow.

  The doorbell rang. She decided to ignore it. Then came a tap at the front window and the handsome face of James Lacey, her next-door neighbour and ex-husband, peered in.

  “Come on, Aggie,” he called. “I know you’re in there. Thought you might like a bit of company.”

  He held up a bottle of Sancerre and two glasses.

  “I’ll be right there, James!” Agatha hopped off the sofa and the cats dashed out of the room towards the kitchen. She checked her make-up in the mirror above the mantelpiece and reapplied her lipstick. She might have been wearing a garment that she wouldn’t normally be seen dead in, but Agatha Raisin would never be seen—not even dead—without make-up. She crossed the cramped hallway and flung open the front door.

  “Wasn’t sure if I should use my key and … Good grief!” said James. “What on earth are you wearing?”

  “I know, I know,” said Agatha, walking back into the living room. “It’s not really me, but I haven’t been feeling much like me today.”

  They sat together on the sofa and James poured the wine.

  “Thought you might be feeling a bit down in the dumps this evening,” he said. “Can’t have that, can we?”

  They clinked glasses and Agatha snuggled into James. He was not, she well knew, the most affectionate or demonstrative of men, but he had a good heart.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “Not especially.”

  So they sat in comfortable silence, sipping their wine, Agatha with her head on his chest, listening to the beating of his good heart.

  “You know,” she said after a while, “I sometimes think the biggest mistake we made as a couple was getting divorced.”

  “You may well be right,” he agreed, “but it’s clearly tomorrow’s wedding that’s making you think about it.”

  “I guess so,” she
said. “I seem to have been thinking of little else lately.”

  “Then we need to think of a way to get it out of your system.”

  “Why do you always do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “That typical man thing—trying to find a solution to the problem. Sometimes there isn’t a practical answer. Some problems just don’t have solutions.”

  “Well, I don’t think that should stop us from trying to find them. Even if we never get to a solution, we will surely learn more about the problem.”

  “You sound like you’re delivering one of your lectures about your travel or military history books.” Agatha sat up and smiled, holding out her glass for a refill. “But thank you for trying.”

  “Do you still love him?”

  “Charles? No, that ship sailed a long time ago. It’s the whole wedding charade that I can’t get out of my head. I still care about what happens to him.”

  “Of course you do. So why don’t you go to the wedding? I shall come with you as your partner.”

  “Don’t be silly. We haven’t been invited.”

  “Now who’s being silly?” James laughed. “When did a little thing like the lack of an invitation ever stop Agatha Raisin from doing what she wanted?”

  Agatha sat up straight, her dark eyes glinting in the soft light. The Raisin brain, James realised, was ticking over.

  “You need to go home,” she said, trotting towards the stairs. “We don’t have much time. I need to make plans. I need to think about what I’m going to wear—we’re going to a wedding tomorrow!”

  * * *

  The path through the woods was soft underfoot, vindicating Agatha’s decision to wear the green Wellington boots that were normally kept by her back door, used only for an occasional potter around the garden. They looked utterly ridiculous with her dress, but that couldn’t be helped, and in any case she and James were highly unlikely to come across anyone on this woodland trail. Agatha carried shoes to change into. James was a couple of paces behind, following her through the dappled shade.