Beating About the Bush

by M C Beaton

  Hodge and Boswell ambushed her as soon as she walked into the kitchen. She stroked them playfully and set food in their bowls. The microwave stood patiently waiting, but she could find nothing to tempt her amongst her stock of frozen ready meals. She decided to take a walk to catch some fresh air while the day still held some light.

  A few minutes later, she was strolling past the church and the vicarage. Margaret Bloxby was raking an early fall of leaves in the garden.

  “Hello, Agatha,” she called. “I saw you on the news earlier. You looked very glamorous on TV.”

  “Kind of you to say so,” said Agatha, “but I don’t think it was exactly my finest hour.”

  “I shudder to think,” said the vicar’s wife, “what I would have said if I had been in your shoes. Would you like to come in for a sherry? That’s not what I would have said, I mean…”

  “I’d love to,” said Agatha.

  “It’s Mrs. Raisin, Alf,” Mrs Bloxby called to her husband, pulling off her gardening gloves and making her way up the hall. Agatha could see Alf Bloxby scribbling at a pad of paper in his study. “He’s working, as usual.” Mrs. Bloxby smiled at her. “We’ll be in the drawing room, Alf!”

  “I suppose everyone will have seen the TV thing by now,” said Agatha as they clinked glasses, comfortably ensconced in armchairs by the window.

  “Probably,” agreed Mrs. Bloxby, “but it will soon be forgotten. Surely you don’t regret having launched the campaign to save the donkey?”

  “No, I don’t regret that,” Agatha admitted. “I don’t have any regrets. Well, maybe a couple.”

  “Such as Sir Charles Fraith?”

  “Perhaps,” said Agatha. “You know he has become engaged? I was so angry with him for not telling me. So angry because…”

  “Because it wasn’t you?”

  “I don’t think that would ever have worked for us. I don’t want to think about it. I have to try to move forward.”

  “We have no choice but to move forward,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “That is how life works. We must live our lives looking forward, but we can only truly know ourselves by looking back. We are defined by everything that we have done in the past, but our only hope of change lies in the future.”

  “That is very … profound,” said Agatha. “Is it part of one of Alf’s sermons?”

  “Not yet,” said Mrs Bloxby, craning her neck to try to see through into her husband’s study, “but if he overheard it, it will be by Sunday!”

  They both laughed, clinked glasses, and sipped their sherry.

  “Are you still convinced that poor Mrs. Dinwiddy was murdered?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

  “More than ever,” Agatha replied. “Proving it is not going to be easy, but I am determined not to give up.”

  “When have you ever given up? That’s not what you do, Agatha. You don’t give up, and you shouldn’t give up on Sir Charles, either. You still have roles to play in each other’s lives. Anyone can see that you two are special to one another.”

  “Anyone except us, it would seem,” Agatha said.

  They chatted until Agatha felt it was time to leave, and then she made her way back along the high street to Lilac Lane. Two local boys whizzed past on their bicycles, yelling “Hee-haw! Hee-haw!” Agatha blew them the loudest raspberry she could muster.

  Tomorrow, she thought, I will put murder on hold for a morning. I will go to the country sports bash at Charles’s house and face up to the future.

  Chapter Eight

  What did one wear to a country sports association fair? It would be mostly outdoors, so Agatha guessed that lots of people would dress for inclement weather. Waterproofs? She shuddered at the thought of an anorak. Did she even own such a thing? Maybe she had bought one on a wet day in a moment of weakness. She made a mental note to check when she had the time, and if she found one, to take it straight to the nearest charity shop.

  The weather was fair but cool, so she picked out a tweed skirt, matching it with a cashmere sweater and a russet-and-gold patterned silk pashmina scarf. Then she considered gravity. Sir Thingummy Newton, she mused, may have claimed to have discovered it, but women of a certain age had certainly known about it years before when they realised that everything was heading for the floor. High heels were the answer for Agatha. They gave her the lift and shape she wanted in her calves, thighs, and bottom, but heels were a nightmare for walking on grass, which she would certainly have to do at the fair. She chose shoes with wedge heels—high enough to defy gravity but never in danger of sinking into soft turf. She took a look in the mirror. Colourful and sophisticated, with a country flavour—just right. To hell with that damned donkey. Agatha Raisin was ready to take on the world again.

  Approaching Barfield House, it was clear that some sort of event was in progress. The trees and sweeping lawns that formed the park surrounding the house were normally a haven of tranquillity. Nothing disturbed the peace here. Nothing moved save for the birds, a few excitable squirrels, and the occasional deer. Today, however, there were white marquees, smaller tents with awnings, and colourful stalls arranged on one side of the driveway, and an area roped off for car parking on the other. A steward in a hi-vis jacket directed Agatha into the car park, where another pointed to the space where she should leave her car.

  She strolled towards the canvas village that had blossomed on the other side of the drive. She had seen events like this at Barfield before. Charles had always said that though he owned the house and the estate, it all actually belonged to the tenant farmers and the villagers—the local community. Hosting fêtes, charity events, and fairs like the one that was happening today were part of the burden of maintaining the place. The fact that most of those things also generated a bit of cash was an added bonus. That, Agatha knew, was what Charles’s engagement was all about. It was neither a match made in heaven nor a union of soulmates; it was a business transaction. Charles, always struggling for money, was clearly deep in the financial mire once again.

  The first tented stall she came to was selling hideously overpriced Wellington boots and outrageously expensive waxed jackets—anoraks masquerading as country fashion. Whoever thought that an anorak could have any style or allure?

  “Anything I can get you?” asked the perky young man on the stall with a practised smile.

  “A flame-thrower, maybe,” said Agatha and walked on.

  In the centre of the collection of tents and marquees was an area that had been turned into an arena, where posters announced that there would be displays by gundogs, sheep dogs, and performing ponies. Crossing this open area also gave the best view of Barfield House.

  The kindest thing you could say about Barfield House was that it was big. That had never been of any great concern to Charles, except when it came to the horrendous expense of repairing and maintaining bits of the building that he scarcely remembered were even there. Agatha wondered how many times she had heard the phrase “size doesn’t matter.” It was a small man’s mantra. To the Brown-Fields, she had no doubt, size would definitely matter. She imagined that Mary Darlinda Brown-Field’s father would drive a large car, drink large whiskies, and smoke large cigars. He would have a large villa near Marbella with a large swimming pool and he would make sure that his wife wore large jewels.

  Oh yes, she mused. I know the type. Large means success. Large means you have made it. Conspicuous consumption was what they called it, wasn’t it? Spend lots of money on things that everyone can see cost lots of money so that the whole world knows you’re a big shot. Well, Barfield House would suit them down to the ground. It was an ugly building with lots of mullioned windows. Agatha had tried to count them all once but had become bored with that very quickly. It had been built in a kind of fake-medieval style at a time when wealthy landowners were moving entire villages in order to landscape the countryside and create perfect vistas that Mother Nature had somehow neglected to provide. Tasteful it was not, but the house could be seen from a great distance. That would suit the Brown-Fields dow
n to the ground.

  Agatha was surprised by the number of people milling around. The fair had attracted a lot of visitors, and judging by the fancy motors in the car park, they were the sort of people with plenty of money to spend. She gave a start when she heard the sudden crack of gunfire.

  “Clay pigeon shooting, my dear,” said a man with an unfeasibly large moustache. He was standing in front of a tent displaying the wares of a company that sold and serviced shotguns. “Down by the copse. Would you like to give it a try? I think my gun would be a good fit for you, if you know what I mean?” He raised an eyebrow suggestively. That side of his moustache followed suit, as though attached by an invisible thread. Agatha gave him a look that was pure scorn and said: “Drop dead.”

  “Hello, fancy meeting you here!” came a voice from behind her. Agatha recognised it straight away.

  “Chris!” she said, turning to face him. “I didn’t realise that you would be here.”

  “Nor I you.” He grinned. “I was sort of obliged to take a stand to show the world what I’m up to as one of Sir Charles’s tenants. Come and take a look.”

  Agatha slipped her arm into his and they walked together to the far side of the arena. She spotted the gleaming red camper van straight away. It looked even more highly polished, but had clearly arrived at the fair on a trailer, which was parked to one side.

  “Still no engine?” asked Agatha.

  “There’s no fooling a detective like you, is there?” He laughed. “The wiring is pretty much in place but I haven’t had time to finish that one off yet. Take a look at this, though.”

  On the other side of the camper was parked the old Beetle in which Chris had taken Agatha for lunch. Now, however, the dull grey paint was a deep, lustrous blue and the chrome trim glinted in the morning sunshine.

  “It looks very pretty,” Agatha said, admiring the cream leather interior. “It’s really lovely, Chris.” She wasn’t quite sure how to compliment a man on how his car looked. Motors weren’t something to which she usually paid much attention. A whole row of truck-like vehicles were parked in front of the next stand. “Your little electric car is far prettier than any of those,” she added, nodding at them.

  “Not everyone would agree,” said Chris. “Those are Land Rovers. The modern ones are more attractive, but most are built to be rugged and reliable rather than for good looks. They are the workhorses of farmers and the military.”

  “I met someone recently,” Agatha said, “who was driving a Land Rover that was blown to bits in Afghanistan.”

  “Was he badly hurt?”

  “Not a scratch on him as far as I know.”

  “Then he’s a very lucky lad. Most of the Land Rovers used in Afghanistan didn’t have the sort of armour that could protect anyone in them from a major explosion.”

  “Were you in Afghanistan?”

  “I worked in submarines.” He shrugged. “Afghanistan is a land-locked country. It has no sea ports, so we wouldn’t have been of much use there, unless we’d been tasked to launch missile strikes. I have a lot of friends in the Royal Marines, though, and they had some tough work to do on the ground in Helmand Province.”

  “Helmand?” said Agatha. “What were they doing there?”

  “Trying to bring the Taliban, local warlords, and drug barons under control. The drugs trade was the worst. There are huge amounts of money involved and massive areas of the countryside given over to growing opium poppies to produce heroin. My friend said he had never seen so many poppies. He reckoned there were two hundred and fifty thousand acres of poppy fields in Helmand.”

  “That sounds a lot,” Agatha admitted, “but to be honest, I have no idea what that means.”

  “Neither did I.” Chris laughed. “I didn’t realise how big an area that was until I came here and Sir Charles explained that his entire estate—which seems huge to me—is only one thousand acres. The heroin trade in Afghanistan is worth billions of pounds.”

  “Thank you, Chris,” said Agatha, turning the facts over in her mind. “That’s … interesting.”

  “It’s not a very romantic topic of conversation.”

  “I’m a private investigator.” Agatha smiled. “Information is my business.”

  “Well, I promise more interesting conversation when we go to dinner on Friday. We are still going to dinner, aren’t we?”

  “Definitely!” said Agatha. “I’m holding you to that—and the promise of something more interesting!”

  An announcement boomed out over the public address system.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! The official opening of today’s events is about to take place in the main marquee. Miss Mary Darlinda Brown-Field will say a few words of welcome.”

  “Ooh, I don’t want to miss that,” said Agatha. She set off for the main marquee alone, Chris having made his apologies when a potential customer began running an admiring eye over the Beetle.

  Inside the marquee, a small podium had been set up opposite the entrance. Agatha glanced to the left and right as she walked in. A preponderance of gentlemen in blazers or tweed jackets and ladies in hats confirmed that the county set was in attendance. She recognised some of the faces—minor gentry and lesser-known members of the aristocracy who, despite their relative anonymity, owned huge swathes of rural England. So, she thought, they have turned out in force to see this poor girl put on display for the first time. I almost pity her. They are all just waiting for her to fall flat on her face.

  She spotted Charles to one side of the podium. He was talking to a man about his own age with thinning black hair, a very prominent jutting jaw, and eyes that were just a little too far apart. Beside him was a pretty, very neat woman with dark bobbed hair. Those, Agatha decided, must be the Brown-Fields, father and mother of the bride-to-be, and there, next to her mother, was Mary. How sad for you, thought Agatha, that you take after your father rather than your mother. Your clothes are just fine—white jacket with black velvet trim and black trousers. French tailoring. You’ve been shopping in Paris on the Rue Saint-Honoré, if I’m not mistaken. Very chic. But that chin and those eyes—you’re definitely Daddy’s girl, aren’t you?

  She watched Charles run a hand through his hair while Mr. Brown-Field leaned in to speak quietly to him. She knew that the hand in the hair was a sign of exasperation. Charles did not seem happy at all. Then he stepped onto the podium to stand in front of the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to thank you all for coming today and, without further ado, to introduce the future Lady Fraith, my fiancée, Mary Darlinda Brown-Field.”

  There was a half-hearted stutter of applause, Charles stepped away from the microphone and Mary faced the audience. She held a couple of sheets of paper in one hand and adjusted the microphone with the other.

  “Thank you,” she smiled, “and thank you, Charles. I am so happy to welcome you all here today to what in the very near future will be my home. I feel privileged that…” The papers slipped from her hand. “Ooh MA GAWD…!”

  In the blink of an eye, the accent that had been practised for so long at one of England’s finest ladies’ colleges and perfected at one of Switzerland’s most exclusive finishing schools vanished completely. The Kensington cloud parted to let London’s East End come shining through. It was almost like, thought Agatha, Aphrodite Morrison losing her mystique when she spoke. Nerves had allowed Mary to drop her guard for a second. The big difference between Aphrodite and Mary was that when Aphrodite stopped speaking, she was beautiful. A few giggles in the audience were covered by light coughs, but Agatha could still hear the murmurs.

  “Too much for her, I fear.”

  “Not really up to it.”

  “Well, what can you expect?”

  And:

  “Isn’t that the donkey lady?”

  Mary pulled herself together, smiled at her audience, and apologised for the slight hiatus, her cut-glass accent restored to imitation crystal perfection. A lesser girl, thought Agatha, might have let that l
ittle slip upset her, but there was no trace of a tear in those widely spaced eyes, no faltering or stuttering, just a professional smile and a smooth performance. There might be more to Mary than anyone here realised.

  There was another polite, more sustained round of applause when she finished her address by wishing that everyone enjoy themselves and name-checking a few of the day’s major sponsors. Her parents’ products, Agatha noted, were not mentioned. Charles caught Agatha’s eye, waved and made his way over with Mary by his side. Agatha braced herself and fixed a smile on her face.

  “I’m very glad you came,” said Charles. “Mary, I must introduce you to—”

  “Mrs. Raisin.” Mary smiled. “I’m so happy to meet you at last. I have heard so much about you.”

  “Really.” Agatha forced a small laugh. “Charles, I do hope you haven’t been giving away all our little secrets.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “Oh, he has no secrets from me, Mrs. Raisin, do you, Charlie?”

  “I am happy that—”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t, Miss Brown-Field. Charles has always been one to look a girl straight in the eye.”

  Mary’s smile flickered but remained in place.

  “I simply must have a proper chat with you, Mrs. Raisin. Why don’t we go for a coffee tomorrow morning? There’s a delightful place in the high street, not far from your little cottage, isn’t there? Carsely is such a quaint village. Shall we say ten o’clock? I’ll meet you there. I must go now; there are so many important people to talk to.”

  “She appears to know rather a lot about where I live.” Agatha frowned as Mary strutted off into the crowd.

  “She knows rather a lot about lots of things.” Charles sighed.

  “Not quite what I was expecting, but you are full of surprises, aren’t you, Charlie?”

  “Sir Charles,” Gustav, who liked to think of himself as Charles’s butler but who was actually more of a domestic manager crossed with general handyman at Barfield House, marched towards them. “Ah,” he said, his black eyes darting towards Agatha, “it’s you.”