Hot to Trot

by M C Beaton

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Raisin.” Cornish winked a sparkling blue eye at Agatha. “I’m round here most days. I’ll look after her.”

  * * *

  The tale of the ghostly gardener kept everyone at Raisin Investigations amused over the following days. There was a spate of practical jokes, mostly aimed at Toni, Agatha not being well renowned for tolerating jokes at her expense: spring-loaded spooks popping out of her desk drawers and eerie messages from the spirit world appearing on her computer screen. The pranks, Agatha knew, were perpetrated by Simon, but he appeared to have cleared up the phantom dumper case, promising to have his report ready for the next catch-up meeting, and was throwing himself into whatever other work came his way, so she allowed the fun to run its course. She had Toni find out about Mrs. Jessop’s circumstances, and since she appeared to be a woman of means, she ordered a bill to be prepared for their time. “Business is business,” she reminded herself, although somehow she never quite got round to sending the bill to Mrs. Jessop.

  Agatha had spent the morning at home, sifting through paperwork at the kitchen table and mulling over yet another conversation she had had with James the previous evening about rekindling their relationship. She knew that she was leading him, having been the one who had first raised the matter, but he didn’t seem at all reluctant to follow. But what, she thought, do I really want? Is this thing with James just a reaction to what Charles has done? What would Charles have to say about it? She could practically hear his voice.

  “Hello, Aggie.”

  She could hear his voice! She looked up to see the lithe figure of Sir Charles Fraith standing in her kitchen. He was, as always, immaculately dressed. His crisp pale-yellow short-sleeved shirt showed off his sun-bronzed face and arms and his fine fair hair had taken on golden Mediterranean highlights. At one time the sight of him looking as handsome as he did at that moment might have set Agatha’s pulse racing. She was strangely disappointed that all she now felt was mild annoyance at the intrusion.

  “How did you get in?” she demanded.

  “Keys,” he said, holding up the spare set Agatha had given him sometime in the distant past.

  “Aren’t you on your honeymoon?”

  “Got back last night.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Look, after all that’s happened, I can understand you feeling a bit frosty towards me, sweetie—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “All right, all right. I just wanted to say how sorry I am for everything—and to apologise for Mary coming round here before we left. I heard about the fracas you had. I would promise that it won’t happen again, but I really have no control over her whatsoever. Quite frankly, she is driving me mad.”

  “I can imagine,” said Agatha, watching him run his hand through his hair. That was a bad sign—a telltale Fraith trait that meant he was feeling particularly stressed, anxious and upset. “Sit down.” She sighed. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  They were sitting with glasses of gin and tonic, beginning to relax into each other’s company, Charles relating ever more disturbing stories of his young wife’s outrageous behaviour, when the doorbell rang. Agatha opened the front door to find Chris Firkin standing on the step.

  “Chris!” she said. “You’re back.”

  “I am indeed.” He grinned. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Go?” Agatha asked. “Go where?”

  “Lunch—I promised you lunch as soon as I got back and…” The smile faded from his face when he spotted Charles standing in the hallway.

  “Hello, Chris.” Charles nodded. Agatha sensed a distinct awkwardness between the two men. “Don’t mind me, old chap. I was just leaving.”

  He brushed past Agatha and Chris, pausing on the garden path for a moment.

  “Thank you for listening, Aggie,” he said. “Let’s stay in touch.”

  “What was all that about?” Chris asked, stepping into the hall.

  “Oh, nothing,” Agatha said. “He’s just having a few problems with—”

  “His tenants? That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve just been hit with a massive rent increase for the workshop I rent on his estate.”

  “I think that’s more to do with his wife than with Charles.”

  “Whatever. It’s all part of the decision that I’ve made to—”

  “Agatha, darling, are you there? It’s about last night.” James had skipped over the garden fence and appeared in the doorway. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you had company. I’ll talk to you some other time.”

  James made himself scarce and Agatha turned to Chris again.

  “You were saying?” she asked. “What decision?”

  “The decision to go,” Chris explained. “This is what I’ve been trying to talk to you about. You know I’ve been doing all this work with electric cars? Well, I’ve been offered the chance to work with some of the best engineers in the field. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “That’s wonderful, Chris!” Agatha congratulated him.

  “It’s like a dream come true for me,” he said, “and I want you to be part of it. Come with me, Agatha. Come with me to California.”

  “California? Are you serious?”

  “Never more so.” He clasped Agatha’s hands. “This is a chance for both of us to start a whole new life. Please say you’ll think about it.”

  “I don’t need to think about it.”

  “So it’s a yes?” Chris’s eyes were bright with jubilation.

  “No, Chris,” said Agatha. “It’s a no. You are a lovely man and I am very fond of you, but I don’t need to start a whole new life. I did that when I left London. My life is here now. I have responsibilities and—”

  “James and Charles,” Chris interrupted, crestfallen. “I should have known I couldn’t compete with them.”

  “You don’t need to compete with them, Chris. I’m here because I chose to be here, not because of either of them. Maybe, now and then, I still have the odd doubt about whether I belong here, and I don’t know if I will ever truly fit in, but I will never give up trying. This is my home. California is not for me.” She put her arms round him and held him tight, whispering, “I’m so sorry.”

  He looked into her eyes and smiled. “That’s it then,” he said, and walked off down the garden path. He did not look back, and she knew she would never see him again.

  She sauntered back into the kitchen. She and Charles had not finished their drinks. She was about to pour them away when she shrugged, combined both in one glass and sat down at the table. Why, when what she so regularly longed for was a settled life with a decent man, did she now have three knocking on her door in one day? She took a swig from the glass. Men had such poor timing. Her phone rang. It was Gustav. Typical, thought Agatha—the prince of poor timing, right on cue.

  “Has Sir Charles visited you today?”

  “Yes, he left some time ago. Why?”

  “Did he mention the party?”

  “I guess he didn’t get round to it. What party?”

  “It’s that bloody woman again. She’s throwing a huge party here at the house. A masked ball, would you believe? She’s celebrating her birthday with a three-day event—a restaurant binge in London, followed by a day’s shooting here and then a masked ball with the theme ‘Versailles.’”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Fun? Are you insane? We are to be having two dozen guests for the shoot. There’s nothing in season at the moment, so they’ll be shooting clays, and you know what a mess that makes. They’ll be staying here for two nights, with a further seventy attending the party. And she didn’t say a word about it to me! A hundred guests at a damn-fool costume-and-mask fiasco!”

  “Party pooper,” said Agatha, taking another swig. “When’s it all happening?”

  “This weekend! There are decorators here now, pimping up the ballroom, and the caterers have started delivering their gear already.”

  “I doubt I’ll
get an invitation,” Agatha reasoned, “but it would be a shame to miss it. Could be a good chance to check out some of her friends. Can you get me in?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. We’ll talk later in the week.”

  As soon as Agatha hung up on Gustav, she poured the remains of her drink down the sink and phoned Toni at the office.

  “What are you doing on Saturday? No plans? Good—keep it that way. Meet me in the King Charles opposite the office in half an hour. There’s a theatrical costume hire place in Steventon. We need to pop down and have a chat with them.”

  * * *

  On the day of the party, Toni arrived at Agatha’s cottage in the late afternoon. Their visit to the costume outfitters earlier in the week had been enormously entertaining but also a valuable learning experience. They knew that they would not be able to get into their imitation seventeenth-century gowns without each other’s help. Having wrestled with buttons, zips, fasteners and ties to get dressed, they retreated to separate bedrooms to work on their make-up and finishing touches.

  Agatha was ready first and waited for Toni downstairs in the living room. She took a look at herself in the mirror above the fireplace. Her hair, actually a wig that fitted like a guardsman’s helmet, was a cascade of brown curls sitting on top of her head and making her appear nearly a foot taller. Her face was powdered almost white, with dark liner accentuating her eyes and lipstick of a shockingly vibrant red that she would never normally dream of wearing. The pale make-up faded gently on her neck, around which she wore a triple string of fake pearls. A flourish of white lace trimmed the long sleeves and neckline of her tight royal-blue bodice, which was cut square and low, pushing her breasts into a daring display of cleavage. Below the bodice, layer upon layer of gold skirt, etched with a flower pattern, descended to trail the floor at her feet. She gave herself a nod of approval, noting with satisfaction that the wig gripped her head tightly enough not to wobble. She hitched her bosom up slightly and turned just as her assistant walked into the room.

  Toni had arranged her long blonde hair in golden ringlets that swept her shoulders. She had naturally pale skin and wore little make-up save for a light-pink lipstick and a stick-on mole on her upper lip. Agatha touched a tentative finger to her own upper lip, still tender from the vicious waxing she had given it earlier in the day. At her age, she had to pay a painful price for a smooth complexion, and wondered if that was something Toni could ever understand, gifted as she was with alabaster skin and a hair-free face. Toni’s gown was similar to Agatha’s but in contrasting tones of pink. She looks like a true princess, thought Agatha, while I look like a pantomime dame!

  “Wow! You look brilliant!” said Toni, glancing down at her chest. “I’m really not as well equipped to wear these dresses as you are…”

  “Not at all,” said Agatha, buoyed by the compliment. “You look sensational. That mole will come off again, won’t it? We need to wear these as well, of course. Can’t afford to be recognised.” She handed Toni a sequinned eye mask. Their masks tied behind their heads with silk ribbons. Others, she knew, might have masks mounted on slim sticks that could be held in front of the face or whisked aside as the wearer chose, but the clandestine nature of their party intrusion meant that they needed permanent disguises.

  * * *

  As their taxi pulled up near the grand entrance to Barfield House, they could see a line of guests queuing patiently on the stone steps to be admitted. Most of the ladies were dressed in a similar fashion to Agatha and Toni. The men sported long wigs of waves and curls, and flamboyant coats that reached almost to their knees with lace cuffs that hung even lower. Knee breeches, stockings and fancy shoes were the order of the day and most wore outfits perfectly suited to the occasion. Agatha did spot a couple of Elizabethans, who were slightly out of time, and even a pirate, but all the guests could be given credit for entering into the spirit of things.

  “Gustav is on the door, checking the invitations, just as he said he would be,” said Toni in a hushed voice.

  “You sent him our photo,” said Agatha, “so he’ll recognise us. Watch for his signal.”

  They approached the queue and could immediately hear the cause of the hold-up. A distraught young woman was searching her handbag for her invitation and pleading with Gustav to fetch Mary, who would vouch for the fact that she was a bona fide guest. Gustav was taking fiendish delight in refusing to do so and barring her entrance. He spotted Agatha and Toni about to join the end of the queue and nodded to the side. Agatha gave him a surreptitious thumbs-up.

  “Let’s take a walk in the grounds until all that fuss dies down,” she said in a loud voice, leading Toni off towards the side of the house. “The butler’s pantry,” she added softly. “Gustav has left the door unlocked for us.”

  Having come through the butler’s pantry to the rear of the hall, they entered the ballroom through the smaller side door. Mary was greeting her guests at the double doors approached from the main part of the hall. Her outfit was far grander than either Agatha’s or Toni’s, her hairpiece decorated with costume jewellery, her purple bodice studded with glittering fake gems and trimmed with silvery silk, the skirt a sea of rolling purple silk waves. Charles was standing close by, dressed more like a footman than the lord of the manor. Mary’s father was also in attendance, his long dark wig, gold coat, gold breeches, white stockings and white shoes decorated with gold bows far outshining his son-in-law. Behind his mask, Charles looked achingly awkward. Agatha tried not to smile at his obvious discomfort and the way that Darell had positioned himself to deny him the opportunity to slope off and sulk in his beloved library. She had to try harder to spot Mary’s mother, but eventually recognised her drifting elegantly among the other guests.

  The ballroom had, Agatha recalled, many mirrors and a fine Venetian crystal chandelier, but it had been dressed for the evening with printed drapes hanging like tapestries. The glass doors leading to the lawn were open but manned by the same black-suited security staff who had been in attendance at the wedding circus. Up in the minstrels’ gallery a small orchestra was playing, and down by the fireplace the catering staff were building a pyramid of coupe glasses for a champagne fountain beside a white-clothed table with a banner above it that read “Sun King Burger Bar.” Round tables and seats surrounded the main dance floor, with more tables outside on the patio.

  Agatha plucked two glasses of champagne from a tray carried by a passing flunkey and handed one to Toni.

  “We are here to have a bit of fun,” she said, raising her glass, “but we are also here to mix with Mary Darlinda’s friends and find out whatever we can that might possibly be of use to us. So don’t go dousing yourself in champagne and drawing attention to yourself.”

  “No, boss,” said Toni, clinking Agatha’s glass and saluting. “But you have to admit, this does look like fun. I’ve never been to a party like this before. It’s incredible.”

  “Like I say,” said Agatha. “Keep a low profile.”

  They mingled with other guests, exchanging pleasantries, the room slowly filling with a glittering array of fabulously dressed ladies and extravagantly attired gentlemen. Then the orchestra struck a chord and launched into a waltz. Agatha prided herself on being an excellent dancer and knew that the Strauss waltz being played by the orchestra was around a century too young for a Versailles party, although the dance itself could trace its roots back much farther. Mary and her father took to the floor, waltzing with more confidence than competence, and the other guests gradually joined in, most managing only a fair interpretation of a waltz.

  Suddenly a masked young man, tall and slim, was standing in front of Agatha. He took her hand and bowed, an invitation to dance. A young man was choosing her rather than Toni! Agatha handed her champagne to her assistant, grinned, stuck out her tongue and glided off onto the dance floor.

  Her partner danced reasonably well, managing to avoid tromping either on Agatha’s toes or on the bottom of her dress. She found that she w
as leading him rather than him being in charge, but she was enjoying herself nonetheless. He was wearing rather too much of an over-perfumed aftershave, as young men tended to do. Agatha thought that it might suit her more than it did him. Then Toni spun past in the arms of a man Agatha instantly recognised—Charles! He stopped, tapped the young man on the shoulder, and they exchanged partners.

  “How on earth did you two get in?” He laughed as they stepped and swirled around the crowded dance floor.

  “Easy,” said Agatha. “I managed to gatecrash the wedding. I certainly wasn’t going to miss out on this.”

  “Stop!” a voice screeched. “Stop!” The music stopped. The dancers stopped. A hand clawed at Agatha’s shoulder and spun her round. It was Mary.

  “It’s you!” she howled, reaching out and ripping off Agatha’s mask. “I knew it! I warned you to stay away!”

  “I invited her!” Charles lied.

  “Well I’m UN-inviting her!” Mary growled, stepping quickly forward and planting the heels of her hands in Agatha’s chest with a mighty thump. The shove sent Agatha stumbling backwards. She crashed into the champagne fountain just as the catering manager, standing on a ladder, was pouring champagne into the highest glass. Champagne glasses and champagne came raining down on her, soaking her wig and her dress.

  “BITCH!” she spluttered, struggling to her feet. She snatched plastic mustard and ketchup bottles off the Sun King Burger Bar and flung herself at Mary, spraying her red and yellow before landing a sharp kick straight to her shin. Mary squealed and clutched her leg. Charles and her father stepped between the two women.

  “Was that really necessary, Mary?” yelled Charles. “Honestly, I could cheerfully strangle you sometimes!”

  “Stop all this at once!” Darell howled. “What the hell is going on here?”

  A strand of Agatha’s champagne-sodden wig flopped down over her nose before the whole top-heavy headpiece toppled forward and hit the floor with a splodge. She ripped off the hairnet that had held her own hair flat and ruffled it into some sort of shape with her hands.