by M C Beaton
“That was a spectacular Marilyn Monroe impression at the foot of the stairs,” Jen grinned.
“Just as well you have good legs,” added Claudette. Agatha felt her face begin to flush.
“And knickers every bit as nice as the ones poking out of your suitcase!” The two women burst into laughter. Agatha scowled and tensed. She was not used to being teased. In fact, she positively loathed people poking fun at her. Yet here she was, flying in a private plane to Bordeaux with two of the nicest women she had met in a long time. They laughed a lot. They were happy. She felt some of the stress of the past few months beginning to ebb. Relaxing her shoulders, she permitted herself a smile and joined in the laughter. The three of them then talked like old friends for the entire two-hour flight while the Colonel sat several seats away, engrossed in his green-ledger laptop.
* * *
Bordeaux airport was a far grander affair than London Oxford. Agatha peered out of her window at the gleaming white control tower and the rooflines of the modern terminal buildings that curved, swooped and soared as though they were ready to take off with the airliners nestling patiently in their allotted berths. She and her travel companions were swiftly processed through the arrivals formalities and headed for the car park, the Colonel steering a trolley piled with their baggage.
“My turn to drive,” Claudette announced cheerily, popping open the tailgate of a burgundy Range Rover and helping the Colonel load the bags.
The airport lay to the west of Bordeaux and they avoided the city, Claudette taking a road heading north into the flat plain of the Gironde, the area where the Dordogne and Garonne rivers combined on their long journey to the Bay of Biscay. She did not go that far, driving for around forty minutes, most of which was through endless fields of vines. Unlike the undulating farmland that Agatha was used to in the low hills of the Cotswolds, here the fields ran away from the road as a flat carpet of vines, planted in rows perfectly straight enough to gain even James’s seal of approval. Small copses of trees grew here and there, breaking the beautifully geometric monotony of the vines.
Eventually Claudette turned onto a narrow road that led through the vines and into a cluster of trees before emerging into an area of formal lawned gardens, at the centre of which stood a breathtaking chateau.
“Looks amazing, doesn’t it?” said Jen, sitting in the back of the car beside Agatha.
“It’s like … it’s like what I would have drawn as my dream castle when I was a little girl,” Agatha replied.
“Yes,” Jen giggled. “I know exactly what you mean.”
The stone walls appeared almost white in the sunshine beneath the roofs of blue-grey slate. Tall pointed roofs topped the round towers at the front of the building, while triangular roofs behind them ran towards the back of the building, flanking the largest section above the central structure. There were three floors of tall, elegant windows and a pair of curving staircases that swept up towards the main entrance. The chateau was not as big as Barfield House, which was good, and a hundred times more beautiful, which was even better. It was not, Agatha realised, a building of any historical significance. It was a fantasy house conjured up by a nineteenth-century architect in a flourish of romantic fervour, built to impress and continuing to achieve that purpose two hundred years later.
“You are in your usual room, of course,” Claudette informed Jen and the Colonel, abandoning the car near the staircase. “Come on, Agatha. I will show you your room. Leave the bags. Pierre will bring them. Bonjour, Pierre!” She waved to a middle-aged man who was approaching the car. He waved back and smiled. So much more welcoming than Gustav, thought Agatha. So much more relaxed.
Claudette linked her arm through Agatha’s. She is so excitable, Agatha mused, so full of life. She still has the youthful exuberance of a child. She has not let the years taint her with cynicism or burden her with the worries of an adult. She’s like Peter Pan. Agatha shuddered. She’d always hated Peter Pan. She’d have cut short his crowing far more effectively than Captain Hook. In the meantime, however, Claudette was a breath of fresh air, and Agatha decided to enjoy her company, at least until the air grew stale.
Claudette whisked her on a whirlwind tour of corridors and rooms dripping with ornate cornices and plasterwork, polished doors bordered with elaborate architraves, floors strewn with exquisite rugs, and rooms furnished in the elegant style demanded by a mini palace. Agatha’s room was everything she could have expected. She had her own en suite bathroom, a balcony looking out over the vineyards and a giant four-poster bed. Pierre had deposited her suitcase in the room and Agatha freshened up before joining the others on the terrace. There was the pop of a cork and a cheer just as she arrived.
“Champagne,” she said. “How lovely.”
“Not champagne,” Claudette corrected. “Crémant de Bordeaux. As good as most champagne, I think. I do not produce it here, but I like to stay loyal to the area.”
They chatted and sipped the sparkling wine in the sunshine before Claudette took Agatha out to view the vines.
“They are just beginning to grow now,” she explained. “I will not harvest the grapes until September. This is my part of the business. In different areas I have Cabernet Sauvignon grapes, Merlot and some Cabernet Franc. I even experimented with Petit Verdot, but that ripens too late in the season for me.”
“This is a huge area of land,” said Agatha, looking out over a sea of vines.
“It is, and very productive,” Claudette confirmed. “We shall try a little of the produce at dinner. I have some work to do, but you must relax. You can use the pool if you wish, or just enjoy the sunshine.”
* * *
Dinner was served on the terrace that evening, when the heat had gone from the sun. Agatha wore a dark-purple cotton dress that she hoped would be appropriate—making an effort without being too showy—and was pleased that Jen, Claudette and the Colonel had also dressed a couple of rungs short of formal evening wear.
Claudette’s wine was excellent, the food was delicious and the company was delightful, although the Colonel and Jen took themselves off to bed soon after dinner, ready for an early start in the morning.
“I too have an early start,” said Claudette, recharging Agatha’s glass and topping up her own, “so this will be my last glass of the evening. We will go to the event together tomorrow morning, yes? Then you can see how it all happens.”
“I need to ask,” said Agatha, “if you know anyone else who might harbour a grudge against Mary … anyone else whose horse she tried to nobble?”
“I think Mary argued with many people, but the only other rider I can think of who caught her in the act was a woman they call Cherry. I do not know her full name. She is not a friend.”
“Will she be there tomorrow?”
“I think so. She competes. She has many men who give her money, otherwise, well … this life is very expensive, no?”
“Will you be able to point her out to me?”
“Of course, but…” Claudette sighed and smiled, wagging a reproachful finger. “I thought for a moment that we had managed to make you relax, Agatha, but you are still on duty, still doing your job.”
“It’s not just my job,” Agatha explained. “I have to find the killer, otherwise there is a very real risk that Charles will be saddled with the blame.”
“I have heard of your Sir Charles. They say he is quite handsome.”
“He is.”
“And they say he is most charming.”
“He is.”
“And a wonderful lover.”
“He…” Agatha hesitated, then saw Claudette’s cheeky smile.
“Aha, Agatha.” She laughed. “He has stolen your heart, no?”
“He did once,” Agatha admitted, “but I reclaimed it some time ago. We are just friends.”
“This is good,” said Claudette, holding her glass aloft. “We should love our friends, and be friends with our lovers!”
Agatha joined in the toast, then finish
ed her drink and made her way to her room, feeling more than a little wine-sleepy and longing for the big four-poster.
Chapter Eight
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear over the Gironde vineyards. There were early signs of life at the chateau and Agatha heard a car heading off through the vineyard before her eyes were properly open. She blinked, looked up and froze. She was in a box. Why was she sleeping in a box? Then she realised that the box lid was not, in fact, a lid but the canopy over her magnificent four-poster bed.
She stood under the shower, letting the streams of water from the huge circular shower head pummel her body awake, then strolled around the bedroom, towelling herself dry. The room had a high ceiling and she counted fifteen paces to take her from the door of the en suite bathroom to the dressing table on the opposite wall. It was such a luxury to have so much space. I could fit my cottage bedroom into this room at least twice, she thought. Gazing up at the intricate fruit-and-flower plasterwork of the ceiling rose, she decided that she’d probably have space for another two of her own bedrooms up above.
Wrapping her towel into a turban around her wet hair, she flung open the shutters and squinted against the sudden blaze of sunlight. Stepping to the left, she stood in front of a full-length mirror and cast a critical eye over herself. There’s no escaping it, she told herself, I have the body of a middle-aged woman. She smoothed her hands over her neck to pull the skin tight, then prodded herself in the waist. It was getting thicker, but there was still hope. Turning slightly to the side, she pushed her shoulders back, sucked her stomach in and stretched one leg slightly forward, the way models did in the fashion pages. That’s better, she thought. Mind you, I can’t stand around stark naked all day at a gymkhana. So what am I going to wear?
She heard the clink of coffee cups from the terrace and the sound of Claudette and Jen laughing. Do they never stop laughing? she wondered. Surely it’s far too early in the morning for that? Only those maniacs on radio breakfast shows laugh this early, and I can switch them off. How can I decide what to wear with them howling away? Hang on … I wonder what they’re wearing.
She looked towards the open balcony doors and the stone balustrade beyond. Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled out onto the balcony and peeked over the balustrade down to the left. Claudette had her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing a white blouse, cream jodhpurs and gleaming black riding boots. She looked fantastic, but that was no help at all to Agatha. Claudette was a competitor and Agatha would be a mere spectator. Jen was better. A simple floral dress, elegant and summery. That was more like it.
“Morning, Agatha!”
The Colonel strode past below on the right. Agatha squeezed her eyes shut tight, as if to make him disappear, then gave a little wave and quickly crawled backwards into the bedroom. How much did he see? No matter. The Colonel was a gentleman. He wouldn’t say anything. A burst of laughter echoed up from the terrace. Gentleman my arse!
Agatha dried her hair at the dressing table, applied her make-up, then retrieved a yellow linen shift dress from the bathroom. Linen had a tendency to crumple, but the dress had survived being packed in the suitcase reasonably well. The steamy bathroom had helped to disperse any slight creases. She had picked it off a rack in one of her favourite Mircester stores because she liked the look of the V neck and the cap sleeves. She had almost put it back when the tag described it as perfect for “apple-shaped women.” Agatha was not prepared to admit that she was apple-shaped, but the darts below the bust cinched the waist slightly, allowing the dress to hang so well on her when she tried it, the hemline just above the knee, that she couldn’t resist it. She held it against herself and checked it in the mirror. It would be perfect for today. She dressed quickly and joined the others on the terrace for a light breakfast.
Claudette drove them all to the event in her Range Rover. They headed towards the Bay of Biscay coast, where they arrived at a showground that was already buzzing with activity. A queue of cars tailed back from the entrance onto the main road, but Claudette turned towards a side gate, the competitors’ entrance, where there was no queue. She showed a pass and was waved through after a friendly chat.
“We have a good spot,” she said. “I was here with the Colonel earlier this morning. I talked to Pierre and to Poppy, my horse. She is in good shape. I am hoping for a good result today!”
“We’ll be cheering you on, won’t we, Agatha?” said Jen.
“Of course,” said Agatha. “Good heavens—this place is enormous!”
The showground was a vast flat area with two large white-painted grandstands looking out over competition arenas. The flags of many nations fluttered weakly in a whisper of breeze. Scores of spectators strolled along avenues of parked cars, exchanging lively greetings with others picnicking under open tailgates. There were vans where food vendors offered crêpes and ice creams, marquees where corporate sponsors were entertaining important clients, and event marshals patrolling in high-visibility green jackets. The whole place was buzzing with activity.
“Exciting, isn’t it?” said Jen, patting Agatha’s thigh. “You’re going to love this—we’ll have a gorgeous lunch later. This is such a fun day out!”
“Our area is just over there,” said Claudette, steering the car past a knot of people. “I don’t like to drive the horse transporter. Too big for me. Pierre has everything ready.”
Claudette showed her pass at the entrance to the competitors’ enclosure and the nature of the parked vehicles changed from everyday cars to horse boxes, four-wheel drives of every variety and horse transporters the size of commercial trucks. Claudette pulled in beside one of the gargantuan transporters, which was patriotically painted in the red, white and blue of the French tricolour. Pierre was there waiting for them. He handed a sheaf of papers to Claudette. The Colonel disappeared to attend to official duties.
“There is paperwork—formalities.” Claudette smiled, handing Agatha and Jen lanyards with credit-card-sized passes. “Your jewellery for today.” She laughed. “It will not suit your dress, Agatha, but you must not lose it. Okay, I must go.”
“Where might I find the woman you mentioned?” Agatha asked. “The woman called Cherry?”
“I think she has the big silver transporter down there,” said Claudette, pointing. “She will not be there right now. You should try later. Now I must go to see Poppy.”
Claudette hurried off and Jen suggested that she and Agatha take a stroll to find their bearings. They walked past dozens of transporters, some with horses hanging their heads out of open windows, eyeing them curiously. Everywhere, with no wind to disperse it, the scent of horses hung ripe in the air. In some places the smell was so thick you could almost taste it. Agatha held her nose. Jen giggled.
“You get used to it after a while,” she said. “Come on, let’s see where Claudette will be riding.”
They found the show-jumping arena in front of one of the white grandstands. A contest for juvenile riders was under way. Children, faces set in grim concentration, pounded the sandy surface of the course on ponies that flew over brush-hedge fences, red-and-white-painted gates and walls made from hollow plywood bricks. Like the wooden bars of the gates and fences, the bricks were intended to be knocked over if the horse hit the obstacle. Agatha saw a number of fences collapse and several walls destroyed. There were tears from the losers, jubilation and rosettes for the winners, cheers and applause for everyone.
Back at the transporter, Claudette had returned and was sipping a coffee.
“Everything is ready,” she said, sounding nervous. “I ride shortly. Agatha, I have seen Cherry and her friends at her transporter.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha. “I will try to have a quick word with her now.”
Leaving Jen quietly soothing Claudette’s nerves, Agatha wandered off in the direction of the silver transporter. It stood in a line of vehicles, their backs towards a sheltering thicket of trees. There were no signs of life at the front, but a strong, ha
ndsome black horse stood calmly at the side, tethered in the shade. Female English voices in lively conversation came from the rear. Agatha approached the open tailgate. Three women were inside the transporter. Two were casually dressed, one leaning against a saddle slung over a low trestle and one passing a silver hip flask to the third, who was the only one in the competition uniform of boots, jodhpurs and jacket. She had her back to the tailgate.
“What do you want?” called one of the women, spotting Agatha.
“I’m looking for Cherry…” Agatha replied, then stopped as the figure in the black jacket turned to face her. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun and her make-up was, Agatha judged, a trifle heavy, but immaculate. She had a familiar thin smile on her face and an even more familiar jewelled horse brooch on her jacket.
“So, not Cherry,” said Agatha. “Sherry—Sheraton Chadwick.”
“Agatha Raisin,” said Chadwick. “I’ve been wondering when you might turn up. I wasn’t expecting you here, though.”
“Oh, I’m full of surprises,” said Agatha.
“Come in,” Chadwick invited, offering the hip flask. “Have a drink.”
“Not for me, thanks,” said Agatha, stepping into the transporter. “I was hoping to have a word with you about—”
“Her Royal Highness Queen Mary Darlinda Brown-Field Fraith, deceased.” Chadwick smirked. “You’ve been making a nuisance of yourself pestering everyone about her, haven’t you?”
“It’s important that I—”
“It’s not important. Mary wasn’t important. You’re not important—so nothing that you do is important, Mrs. Private Detective.”
“Is this her?” one of the other women snorted. “Is this the private eye? Not much to look at, is she?”
Agatha shot her a look. “You must have been born at home,” she said. “That’s where most accidents happen.”
