by M C Beaton
“I really couldn’t say,” Toni replied.
There came a light clatter of latch metal from behind Agatha, and the loose box door swung ominously open. Wizz-Wazz stepped forward out of the shadows.
“Look out, Agatha!” Toni squealed. “It’s got out again!”
Running in smooth-soled boots with one heel missing was not an option, and neither, Agatha suddenly felt, was it at all necessary. She calmly stood her ground as Wizz-Wazz sidled up to her. The donkey gently tucked her head under Agatha’s arm and gave a contented chuckle.
“It seems to like you,” said Toni.
“I can’t think why,” Agatha grimaced, turning her face away from the almost overpowering and peculiarly dry smell of donkey. “Apart from the fact that I gave her a rather nice, rather expensive coat.” Looking at the jacket in daylight, she could see that amongst its once luxurious red fur there now nestled a carpet of straw fragments and assorted other debris, most of which she chose not to try to identify. It was revolting. “And I think she can keep it.”
“So what’s the plan for today?” Toni asked.
“Well, I’m really rather bored with this place,” said Agatha, absent-mindedly stroking Wizz-Wazz’s ears. “They’re keeping too close an eye on us for us to turn up anything here. Let’s go and see the grease monkey Charles was talking about. Come on, you,” she added, leading Wizz-Wazz towards her stall. “Back inside.”
Toni fell in beside Agatha as she click-flopped out of the stable yard.
“I’d say you were getting to like that donkey,” she said, “if I didn’t know you better.”
“You will never know me better, dear,” said Agatha. “I am a woman of infinite mystery.”
“What happened to your boot?”
“That’s another of my mysteries.”
Agatha reached back and gently ran her hand across her aching behind. There was definitely going to be bruising.
* * *
Sir Charles Fraith’s estate extended to over a thousand acres of arable land, mainly worked by tenant farmers. Toni knew exactly where the old ford was. A narrow lane to the south of the estate was bisected by a stream with neither bridge for the road nor tunnel for the water. Splashing through the ford had been fun with a buzz of risk thrown in. What if the car conked out? It hadn’t, but that relationship inevitably had. Another failed romance.
“Cheer up, Toni!” said Agatha. “Look—the sun’s coming out. We haven’t seen much sunshine for days. It makes everything feel better, doesn’t it?” Except, perhaps, my bottom, she thought, as the car bounced over a pothole.
“I think this is it,” Toni said, pulling the car off the lane by a collection of old farm buildings. The wide doors of one of the barns stood open and a man in oil-stained grey overalls emerged. Agatha hopped out of the car and hobbled round to meet him.
“Good morning, ladies.” The man smiled. “What can I do for you?” He was of medium height, with a slim build and a shock of dark wavy hair, going slightly grey at the sides. Agatha swiftly assessed him at mid- to late-forties. He had a strong jaw and his smile etched comfortable creases into his handsome face. All of that she captured in one glimpse, but she could not drag her gaze away from the man’s eyes. They were the most astonishing, vibrant blue. She was captivated.
“We are looking for Chris … something-or-other.” She beamed her brightest smile at him.
“Firkin.”
“What?”
“Chris Firkin,” said the man. “That’s me. You must be Agatha. Sir Charles phoned to say you were coming.” He snapped off a blue latex glove and held out his hand. Agatha reached to shake it. It was a strong hand, and quite the cleanest she had ever seen attached to a mechanic. Whenever she had needed to have any work done on her car, the garage staff appeared to have years of oil and grime embedded in the skin on their hands. And their fingernails—mechanics must be born with black fingernails. It was the only explanation. Chris Firkin’s hand, however, was unsullied by even the hint of an oily blemish.
Firkin politely shook hands with Toni and then turned back to Agatha, noting her lopsided stance. He looked down at her heel-less boot.
“What’s happened to you?” he asked.
“That? A bit of a wardrobe malfunction,” Agatha laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing.”
“I think we can do something about that,” he said, kneeling at her feet to inspect the damaged boot. “Do you have the broken heel? Hold on a second.” He hurried back into the barn and returned an instant later carrying a pair of pristine white tennis shoes.
“You mustn’t walk on those boots,” he said, kneeling at her feet once again. “You’ll damage them both. Try these.” He grasped Agatha first by one knee and ankle and then the other, gently supporting her while he slipped her boots off and planted her feet in his own tennis shoes.
“Those will do you for the moment,” he said, examining the broken heel. “Yes, we can soon sort this out. It will take a little while for the glue to dry, though.”
No sooner had he turned his back than Agatha had slipped out of her raincoat and reapplied her lipstick in what seemed like one fluid movement. Toni reckoned that any stage conjuror would have been impressed. Where had the lipstick suddenly appeared from?
“Well, Toni,” said Agatha in a voice loud enough for Firkin to hear. “I don’t think you need wait around. Why don’t you go back to the office and organise the troops for a case conference tomorrow morning?” Then she added in a whisper, “How do I look?”
Toni grinned at her boss standing in the sunshine in a bright red Preen dress with perfectly matching lipstick, her raincoat folded neatly over one arm and massive white tennis shoes on her feet. Agatha Raisin on the make was a sight to be admired.
“You look amazing.” She nodded. “See you tomorrow.”
Agatha shuffled off towards the barn, following Firkin. Inside was an entire workshop, lit by a low-hanging neon light. A forest of tools lined the walls, hanging in neat rows, each in its own space. For what most of them might be used, Agatha could scarcely guess, although some had the look of instruments of torture. In the centre of the space stood an old Volkswagen camper van. Its immaculate paintwork was a gleaming ruby red below a swoop of white that ran from the front up onto the roof all the way to the rear. Agatha made her way the length of the vehicle. At the back, where she was fairly certain there should be an engine, there was a gaping hole.
“Unfinished electric conversion,” explained Firkin, applying glue to Agatha’s boot. “It’s what I do. Turn knackered old classic cars into modern electric vehicles.”
“Ah,” said Agatha. “That’s why Charles recommended that I meet you.” She leant casually against the camper, slid off its glossy paintwork and quickly readjusted her stance.
“Yes,” said Firkin, setting the boot to one side. “I did some consultancy work for Morrison’s. It will be extraordinary if they can get that battery pack to work.”
“You don’t think they can?”
“They are having problems. Fancy a coffee?”
From a storeroom he brought a car’s rear bench seat and set it in the sunshine outside his workshop. He and Agatha sat down with mugs of fresh coffee.
“Why won’t they get it to work?” asked Agatha.
“Basically,” Firkin began, “their battery is what everyone wants. It would give an electric car the same range as a petrol car. But a petrol car can be quickly refuelled, and in the past an electric car has taken hours to recharge. Nobody wants to have to wait around for ages while their battery recharges. So we now have rapid chargers appearing at filling stations and supermarkets that can do the job in a little over half an hour. You can recharge while you have a coffee or do your shopping. The big problem is that Morrison’s battery pack can’t cope with rapid charging.”
“What do you mean, it can’t cope?”
“Remember a few years ago when the airlines banned certain mobile phones because the batteries overheated and c
aused a fire hazard? That’s what happens to the Morrison’s pack on a rapid charger.”
“You mean it could burst into flames?”
“Not just could. It did. Frequently.”
“So was that what caused the fire that gutted the R&D department?”
“I was no longer working for the company at that time,” said Firkin, “but I’m pretty sure that’s what must have happened.”
So it wasn’t saboteurs, Agatha thought. The fire was started by Morrison’s dodgy battery pack.
“Now,” he said. “What about a spot of lunch?” He stood and stripped off his overalls. Underneath he was wearing neat blue chinos and a white polo shirt with a crest on the left breast.
“I’m not properly dressed for going out.” Agatha smiled, waggling her feet in the tennis shoes.
“Your boots will be ready now.” He disappeared inside to collect them. “I know an excellent little pub just the other side of Chipping Norton. Good food.”
Agatha slipped on her boots and cocked her head towards the camper.
“Your van thing doesn’t have an engine,” she said.
“We’re not going in that,” said Firkin, locking the workshop doors. “We’ll take the one round the corner.”
Agatha’s face fell as she walked round to where he had parked his VW Beetle. It had none of the glamour of the shiny camper. Its paint was a dull grey and it had been stripped of all its chrome trim. Inside, there were no carpets and a lot of the same dull grey metal. But it was remarkably clean.
“Don’t worry, it’s perfectly sound and roadworthy,” said Firkin. “It just needs a little finishing, that’s all.”
Agatha eased herself slowly into the passenger seat, hiding a slight wince when her bruised backside achieved touchdown, and they set off, gliding out into the lane in total silence.
“I thought these cars made a kind of noisy spluttering,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
“Electric motor.” Firkin grinned. “Smooth and quiet.”
“And it’s all very neat in here,” said Agatha. “My cars tend to be an extension of my…”
“Glamorous personality?” offered Firkin. “Elegant good looks?”
“… handbag.”
They were stopped at traffic lights towards the outskirts of Chipping Norton when Agatha became aware of a balding man in a red sports car sitting alongside them. She watched him appraise the Beetle with a sneer, and then he waggled his eyebrows at her. Her immediate reaction was to hoist a finger at him, but she managed to stop herself just in time. Firkin saw what was happening and laughed.
“Shall we teach him a lesson?” he said.
The lights changed to green and the Beetle shot forward. Agatha’s head snapped back and she could feel her body being pushed into the back of the seat. The electric motor made a high-pitched hum, like a TV spaceship. The fancy sports car was left grumbling in their wake.
“You see,” said Firkin. “He has to go through his gears and hit the right revs to achieve maximum torque for top acceleration. Whereas an electric motor produces maximum torque all the time and—”
“Enough torque talk,” said Agatha, holding up a hand. “This is just quicker. Electric quick.”
“Spot-on,” nodded Firkin, laughing.
* * *
In the pub, they settled at a cosy table by the window and enjoyed the last of the fast-fading warmth of the sun through the glass. They ate excellent fish and chips, flaky cod cooked in a delicate beer batter that started off crispy then simply melted in the mouth. Agatha washed it down with several glasses of dry white wine, while Firkin, as driver, limited himself to one.
They lingered far too long, whiling away most of the afternoon. Agatha questioned Firkin mercilessly about his entire life. He had been in the Royal Navy, in submarines. He had been married, but as he put it, “Being away so much made things difficult. We grew apart. Absence does not always make the heart grow fonder.”
It was beginning to get dark by the time the little electric car cruised noiselessly along Lilac Lane to Agatha’s cottage. Firkin stopped, as directed, at the gate.
“That was fun,” she said. “We must do it again.”
“Definitely,” he agreed. “How about Friday? Dinner?”
“It’s a date.” She smiled, and leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek, but he turned his head and their lips met instead.
“That was a fast move,” she said, pulling away.
“Electric quick,” said Firkin.
She moved closer and kissed him again, more slowly, a lingering, passionate kiss.
“That was a slow move,” he said. “I liked it better. I will pick you up on Friday evening.”
Agatha skipped up her garden path with a spring in her step. Today, she thought, had turned into a very successful day. Roll on Friday.
Chapter Five
The following morning, having given the cats their breakfast, Agatha sat at her kitchen table, savouring a cup of delicious coffee without her customary cigarette. Romance was in the air and today, she decided, was a good day to start afresh and kick the habit. She smiled at the way the cats’ tails formed big fluffy question marks when they were happy. If I had a tail, she thought, I would be doing the same with it right now. Instead, I’ve got a bottom that’s turning black and blue. That would never happen to Hodge or Boswell. If ever they did anything as undignified as falling from the back of the sofa or the garden fence, they always managed to land on their feet and act as if they meant it all along.
“But you two don’t have to wear high heels, do you?” she said out loud, laughing as the cats looked up at her with big eyes, apparently aghast at the very thought. Just then there was a knock at the door. “Who could that be, guys? Early-morning visitors two days in a row?”
She covered the tiny hallway in a few strides and opened the door to find Doris Simpson, her trusty cleaning lady, standing there.
“You’re a bit early today, aren’t you, Doris?” she said, stepping aside to let the cleaner in. “And it’s Saturday. This isn’t your day.”
“Ah, yes, sorry about that,” Doris apologised, “but my cousin Rita has put her back out and I need to get over to Evesham to stay with her for a couple of days, so I thought I’d ask if you wouldn’t mind me doing you today instead of Monday.”
“I suppose that’s okay. You should have just let yourself in.” Agatha returned to the kitchen and her morning coffee. “You have keys.”
“Well, I weren’t sure,” said Doris, “whether you might be entertaining your new gentleman friend.”
Agatha’s eyebrows climbed up her forehead. Chris had brought her home as it was getting dark in a car that didn’t make a sound, and Doris knew about it by the very next morning. MI5 could take a few tips from the way the Carsely village spy network gleaned information. Obviously the real reason she had turned up early was to try to catch a glimpse of Agatha’s “new man.” The first person to have a description of him would be in possession of a gossip gold card.
“But as you can see,” Agatha said, indicating the single coffee cup on the table, “I’m not. Tell me, Doris, do you know anyone who works at Morrison’s?”
“Not really,” said Doris. “Not a very big place, is it? Batteries or something, I think. My husband’s cousin’s girl Tracey was there for a while but she packed it in. Too many people there that she didn’t like.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Agatha. “Did she know Josie, the receptionist?”
“Oh, she knew her all right.” Doris laughed. “Everyone knew Josie and what she got up to with that Albert Morrison. Tracey has some stories to tell about that.”
“What happened to Josie?”
“She walked out one day saying she were never coming back. Tracey said she saw her with her handbag stuffed full of cash. Said Josie was obsessed with that film South Pacific. She watched it over and over. Even went to see the stage show up in London. She told Tracey she was off to discover paradise, then trashed the
reception desk, and danced out the front door singing ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair’.”
Just then there came another knock at the door. Agatha took one last sip of her coffee and made for the hall once again.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, finding Toni on the doorstep. “I wasn’t expecting you this morning. I thought we’d meet at the office.”
“I know,” said Toni, stepping into the hall, “but I thought you might like a lift … and I wanted to talk to you about something before we got to the office. It’s, well … How did things go yesterday?”
“I had a very nice, very informative afternoon,” said Agatha, “but you didn’t have to come here to ask me about—”
There was yet another knock. Unbelievable, thought Agatha. Who on earth was it this time? This time it was Bill Wong, accompanied by Alice Peterson.
“Morning, Agatha,” he said. “Mind if we come in?”
“Why not?” said Agatha. “Everyone else has.”
The cramped hall of her cottage left little room for manoeuvre, especially when Doris appeared with the vacuum cleaner.
“Living room,” said Agatha, waving Alice and Bill through the door. “Doris, you can start upstairs. Toni, would you be a dear and make us all some fresh coffee?”
Bill and Alice sat down on Agatha’s sofa while she perched on the arm of a chair. She had things to do today and she was anxious to give the impression that they were not settling in for very long. She winced as her bruised bottom complained about the hard chair arm and gently lowered herself into the cushion instead.
“Did you find anything on the hoof?” she asked Bill.
“Not a thing,” he said. “It had recently been scrubbed with chemical cleaners. There were no fingerprints on it, nothing that could be used in evidence.”
“Except the fact that it had been scrubbed,” said Agatha. “Why had that hoof been cleaned so well and not the other one?”
“According to Bream at the factory,” said Alice, “it was given a good clean because someone had been smoking and used it. You, I think.”
