by M C Beaton
She left the car outside Mircester and bought a bicycle and then began to cycle towards Carsely through the back roads heavy with autumn foliage.
PC Boyd stretched out his long legs. The day had turned sunny again. He felt very sleepy, full of tea, home-made scones and cake.
A slim young woman wearing a business suit and with a silk scarf over her head, approached him.
“I wonder if you would like to try some of my home-made wine,” she said. “Agatha’s sent me from the office to pick up some papers for her. I have the keys.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Do have a glass. I’m very proud of it.”
“Maybe just one. Don’t tell anyone. I’m not supposed to drink on duty.”
“I’ve brought a glass.” The bottle had a screw top. She unscrewed it and poured him a glass.
Boyd watched as she unlocked the door and switched off the burglar alarm. Then, when the door had closed, he smelt the glass of wine. It smelt terribly sweet. He didn’t want to offend her, so he poured the contents off into a bed of winter pansies and settled back in his chair. The sun was warm, he was full of home-made goodies and in no time at all, he fell asleep.
He did not hear the door behind him open a little and then close.
Felicity Felliet went back into the kitchen and sat down to wait. She had put a heavy drug into that wine. She was glad Jeremy had left the keys to Agatha’s cottage with her. The man he had hired to gas Agatha had got two sets cut, sending one to Jeremy for safekeeping in case the first attempt failed. And the silly bitch had forgotten to change her alarm code.
The cats were staring at her. Felicity opened the garden door and they ran out. She had tailed Agatha and had noticed her going into the village store. Wouldn’t be long now. “I’m doing this for you, Jeremy, you loser, and to get rid of that bitch who made me lose my home,” she muttered.
Agatha left the village stores carrying two cans of cat food. Her pampered cats preferred real food, but they would need to make do this one time with the commercial stuff. Agatha was tired after answering more and more questions. She suddenly decided to go and visit Mrs. Bloxby and tell her everything that had happened. The vicar’s wife listened in amazement to Agatha’s story.
“I always thought that intuition of yours was a gift from God, Mrs. Raisin.”
Agatha looked uncomfortable, as she always did when God was mentioned.
“Felicity Felliet is still out there.”
“I think you’ll be safe as long as the police keep a guard on you. Where can she run to?”
“Anywhere,” said Agatha gloomily. “I bet you that one has six passports.”
Emma had stopped to buy a hunting knife. Her brain felt amazingly clear and logical. But as she left the bicycle at the top of the road down into Carsely and began to walk, she could feel nagging little voices at the back of her brain. One of them belonged to her late husband. “You are a frump, Emma,” he was saying. “Haven’t you anything else to wear?”
She ignored the voices and walked doggedly on. She planned to stab Agatha with one of the tranquillizer syringes and then slowly cut her up. When she turned into Lilac Lane, she stopped short at the sight of the policeman, but he appeared to be asleep. She walked forwards and edged past him.
Emma was about to ring the bell, but she decided to try the door first. To her delight it opened. Agatha was at home.
She walked through to the kitchen.
A strange blonde young woman was sitting at the kitchen table.
Felicity looked at Emma and Emma looked at Felicity. Felicity had only seen grainy newspaper photographs of Agatha on the microfiche in the library. This woman with the hunting knife in her hand must be her prey.
Emma sprang towards her and Felicity shot her in the chest. After Emma had fallen, she coolly fired two bullets into Emma’s head.
PC Boyd awoke with a start. A voice on his radio was calling him. “Yes?” he asked.
“Be on the look-out. Emma Comfrey’s escaped.”
“When?”
“About an hour and a half ago.” “Roger.”
And then Boyd heard shots from inside the house. The door was standing open. He rushed in. He saw the woman who had given him the wine standing over a body on the floor. He flung himself on her as she fired and the shot went wild. He pinned her down and got the handcuffs on her.
Then he radioed for help.
As he went outside, his legs were shaking. He was in deep trouble. They would ask how both women had got past him and he would need to say he had been asleep. He pulled a photograph out of his pocket. The woman with the gun was Felicity Felliet and he hadn’t recognized her. But, wait a bit, she had that scarf over her head. I bet that wine was drugged, he thought. Please let it be drugged. Of course it was.
The police could not keep Agatha out of the papers after that. All those attempts on her life were headline news. Agatha’s first thought was to flee to some hotel and wait till the fuss died down, but then she thought publicity was just what the agency needed, and so she bragged about her prowess on television, on the radio and in the newspapers.
Reading the accounts, Roy and Charles found no mention of their names.
First Charles phoned up and sarcastically asked how it felt to have done it all on her own. Flustered, Agatha began to reply, but then he hung up on her.
Then came Roy at his most waspish. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in PR, you old hag,” he said. “Any publicity helps. You seem to want your friends just when you need them and otherwise you’re not prepared to help or go out of your way. You’re a disgrace!”
Agatha fumed for days. They were both being ridiculous. After all, the solution had been her idea. Anyway, she couldn’t spare any time to worry about them. The detective agency was so busy she was having to turn down clients.
Bill Wong called one evening. “Well, it’s all sewn up. Felicity was simply using Jeremy and told us all we need to know about him and his operations.”
“The thing that puzzles me,” said Agatha, “is why he should send a death threat to the daughter he was so fond of?”
“Felicity told us he was prepared to give Cassandra a scare. He said once her mother was shot, she’d soon get over it. I think Jeremy was obsessed with Felicity. When he wound up his import/export agency, he decided it would be better if Felicity took a job abroad so that there would be no connection between the two of them.”
“But the police checked out his business. They surely heard about the blonde secretary and wanted to contact her.”
“Felicity had been working under an assumed name and papers. She was working under the name of Susan Fremantle.The real Susan Fremantle died last year in a car crash and her home was burgled during the funeral. Jeremy probably bought the papers for Felicity from some villain or other. I’m not quite clear why you managed to jump to the idea that Jeremy had got someone to stand in for him.”
“It was one little word—reunion. That’s what the French call their AA meetings. The fake Jeremy told the desk clerk that he was going to a reunion. A friend of mine had been talking about some handsome man who had sobered up and from the description it sounded like Jeremy. But it wasn’t. I knew Jeremy wasn’t an alcoholic, I mean at his age it would have shown on his face and figure.”
“You’ve had all the luck of the amateur,” said Bill.
“I,” said Agatha Raisin stiffly, “am a professional now.”
It was only when the dark days of November began to draw to a close that she began to badly miss Charles and Roy. Business had suddenly gone quiet, as if everyone had decided to save for Christmas, and all the lucrative would-be divorcees planned to leave finding out about their adulterous spouses until after the festive season.
Miss Simms had handed in her notice, saying she was better off at home with her baby daughter because she didn’t like leaving her with a baby-sitter the whole time.
Patrick Mullen had suggested Agatha hire a woman detect
ive, Sally Fleming, who had already worked for two other agencies. Sally was small, neat and dark and highly efficient. Instead of the succession of temps, Agatha had also hired a Mrs. Edie Frint as secretary, a widow with impeccable qualifications.
For the first time since she had set up the agency, Agatha had time on her hands and began to mourn her lost friends.
At least there were still Mrs. Bloxby and Bill Wong.
Agatha went along to the vicarage one gusty black November day. She had not told Mrs. Bloxby about the disaffection of Charles and Roy, but now she sought her advice.
“I don’t know what to do,” wailed Agatha in the comfortable vicarage sitting-room. The log fire crackled and the wind howled around the gravestones in the churchyard. “I thought either of them would have phoned by now.”
“Have you tried phoning them?”
“It’s no use phoning Charles because that wretched manservant of his is going to say he’s not at home even when he is. I tried phoning Roy once, and I could hear his voice in the background, but then his secretary said he was in a meeting.”
“Oh dear. Let me think. Are you giving your staff a Christmas party?”
“I thought of a little do in the office, champagne and twiddly bits to eat.”
“What about a Christmas dinner at your home? I don’t think you’ve used that dining-room of yours at all. And if you held it, say, two weeks before Christmas, there’s a chance both of them might be free of social engagements.”
“But why would they come?”
“There’s something about the idea of a Christmas dinner that mellows everyone. And I will help you with the cooking.”
“That’s kind of you. But I’ll do it all myself”
“Mrs. Raisin, can you roast a turkey?”
“Any idiot can roast a turkey.”
“Not really. We’ll talk about it some more. And don’t forget to ask Miss Simms.”
“All right. But she’s not working for me any more.” “But Patrick Mullen is.” “What’s that to do with it?”
“Patrick Mullen is Miss Simms’s new gentleman friend.”
“The sly old dog. Let me see. There’ll be Sammy and Douglas, Patrick and Miss Simms, Sally and Edie, Charles and Roy, you and your husband …”
“Aren’t Sammy and Douglas married?”
“No, neither.”
“Ell help you. But it’s a terribly busy time of year for Alf and he won’t be able to come.” Mrs. Bloxby meant her husband would refuse to come.
“Well, that’ll be eight, ten including you and me, if you can make it. But this time I am going to do all the cooking.”
“And what about Bill Wong?”
“Oh dear.” Agatha actually blushed with embarrassment. “What’s happening to me? I won’t have a friend left if I go on like this.”
“Are you really sure you can cope with cooking for all these people?”
“Definitely. It will be a Christmas dinner to remember.”
EPILOGUE
AGATHA had special invitation cards in red and gold and green printed, asking each recipient to RSVP.
She heaved a sigh of relief when first Roy accepted and then Charles. She had travelled to a turkey farm to choose the largest bird and ordered it to be killed, plucked and hung for several days before delivery.
After studying various recipes for Christmas pudding, she decided it would be safer to buy one. The starter would be simple, smoked salmon wrapped round prawns with a Marie Rose sauce.
The turkey must have all the trimmings—cranberry sauce, sprouts, sweet corn, stuffed mushrooms and gravy. The dining room must be decorated. She must buy really good Christmas crackers. Then should she buy a small present for each guest? Was that going too far? She decided she might as well go the whole hog.
If only the shops weren’t so busy. If only that damned Christmas music would stop belting out over the harassed customers. She felt if she heard another rendering of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” she would scream. The song sounded in her ears like a sneer.
Then there was the Christmas tree which she lugged home, only to find it too tall for the low-beamed ceiling of the dining-room. She sawed the top off and it looked exactly like a Christmas tree with the top sawn off She threw it into the garden and went and bought another and then spent a whole evening decorating it with golden bows and pretty glass balls. She woke during the night to the tinkle of breaking glass and rushed down to the dining-room.
Hodge and Boswell were happily baiting the ornaments with their paws and watching as they dropped to the ground and shattered. She shouted at both of them and the alarmed cats ran up the tree, which keeled over and fell with a crash to the floor.
The next day, Agatha had to go out and buy new ornaments and enlist Doris Simpson’s help in cleaning up the mess the cats had made. Then Agatha began to sense—an unusual sensitivity in her case—that Doris was hurt that she had not been invited to the dinner.
Agatha darted through to her desk, where she had fortunately two spare invitations, and quickly penned in Doris’s and her husband’s names.
“Oh, Doris,” she said. “I am so sorry. I forgot to put these in the post!” And she handed Doris the cards.
Doris’s face lit up with delight. “That’s ever so kind of you. Of course we’ll come.”
Once the tree was redecorated, with green and silver and red chains decorating the rest of the room, Agatha thought the rest of the house looked bare in comparison. Back to the shops for more decorations.
The turkey was delivered. It was too large to go in the fridge, so Agatha hung it outside the back door. It did not cross her mind that if it was too large for the fridge, it might be too large for her oven.
That was a fact she discovered only on the morning of the dinner party.
She could go and buy another smaller one from the supermarket, but this one was free-range and good quality.
Then she remembered there was a large oven in the kitchen in the village hall. She phoned up Harry Blythe, the chairman of the parish council, and he said, yes, she could use it.
She stuffed the bird, which seemed to take an enormous amount of sausage stuffing. Then she covered the breast with strips of streaky bacon. Finally it was done. She put it in the car and drove to the village hall.
The gas taps on the oven were worn with age and she could not gauge the temperature, so she took a guess.
Agatha slammed the oven door shut just as her mobile phone rang. It was Charles. “Oh, Charles,” said Agatha, “I’m so glad you are coming. I thought you’d never speak to me again.”
“How many are going to be there?”
“About thirteen of us.”
“I hope no one’s superstitious. Getting a caterer in?” “I’m doing all the cooking myself.” “Aggie, are you going to microwave thirteen Christmas dinners?”
“Not a bit of it,” said Agatha proudly. “I’ve this great big fresh turkey. It’s so big I had to put it in the oven in the village hall.”
“Look, would you like me to come early and help?”
“Thanks, but I can cope.”
Agatha returned home and set about preparing the starters on her best china. She had caved in and bought the sauce, so she found the preparation no problem at all. She had already cooked the sprouts, thinking she could heat them up in the microwave. She baked the stuffed mushrooms and then set them aside. They could be warmed up as well.
The kitchen was beginning to look a mess, with dirty dishes and pots and pans.
Agatha decided to go upstairs and change. She put on a long red velvet gown with a slit on one side and very high heels. A gold necklace was the finishing touch.
She went back to the kitchen and tied a long apron over her dress. Surely time to sit down and have a drink. She was feeling exhausted.
Agatha poured herself a large gin and tonic. Then she heard the sound of a siren racing through the village. She stiffened and then relaxed. Everyone who might have threatened h
er was now dead or locked up.
The phone rang. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I just called to make sure you were coping all right.”
“Fine,” said Agatha proudly. “Got everything in hand. The bird was too big for my oven, so I took it up to the oven at the village hall.”
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin. Someone just called me and said there was a fire engine at the hall and smoke pouring out of the building.”
“Got to go.”
Agatha rushed out to her car and drove to the village hall. Harry Blythe was standing outside, looking furious.
He hailed her with “You turned the gas jet too high and that bird of yours began to burn up. The smoke alarms went off and I phoned the fire brigade. It’s only smoke, I grant you, but the smoke damage is awful. The walls will all need to be repainted.”
“I’ll get the decorators in,” said Agatha desperately. “What about my bird?”
A fireman emerged from the smoke carrying a roasting pan in his gloved hands. It held a large blackened mound.
Agatha was desperate. She had to stand there and explain herself to the fire chief. She had to mollify Harry Blythe by promising to get decorators in the very next day. Harry began to look almost cheerful. The village hall had been badly in need of redecorating anyway.
“Do you want this?” asked the fireman, holding out the charred turkey.
“No, thank you,” said Agatha bleakly. “Throw the damn thing away.”
She glanced at her watch. Her guests were due to arrive in an hour.
She went to the delicatessen counter at the general stores and bought up all their sliced turkey. Then she hurried back to her cottage.
She opened the door to the sound of the smoke alarm in the kitchen. The pan of giblets she’d been cooking to make gravy had boiled dry and the stuff was beginning to smoke.
She opened the back door and threw the whole pot out into the garden.
There came a ring at the doorbell. When Agatha opened it,Charles was standing there. She threw herself into his arms.
“I came early because I thought you’d be making a pig’s breakfast of everything. You never could cook.”
