by M C Beaton
“Fran’s dead.”
“Did she poison herself?”
“No, she died of a massive heart attack.”
“Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha. She had been regretting letting Bill take all the credit and was looking forward to her day in court.
“I’ll settle up my bill with you,” said Alison.
“Mrs Freedman’s gone home. I’ll get it sent to you tomorrow. Do you know, Phil Marshall got me to consult a police psychiatrist, a retired one, and the old boy told me Phyllis had committed suicide in such a way as to bring misery on her children. He’s just sent me his bill. Eight hundred pounds. Cheeky old sod. He can sue me for it.”
Next day, Toni arrived outside her flat to find George Pyson waiting for her. “Thought you might like to come for a drink,” he said.
Toni agreed nervously. He must be keen on me, she thought. He hasn’t made a move, but if he does, then what do I do? I owe him so much.
But George was his usual amiable self. It turned out he wanted to know all about Fran.
Toni told him all that Agatha had described to her in the office after Fran was arrested.
“It was on the news,” said George. “Fran had a massive heart attack and died.”
“Pity,” said Toni. “I know Agatha was looking forward to her day in court.”
“Why?”
“She let Bill Wong take all the credit but it would have come out in the evidence in court that it was she who solved the whole thing.”
“Strange woman,” mused George. “Agatha, I mean. The way she crashes around, one wouldn’t credit her with having one intuitive thought.”
“She’s very kind and generous. She’s done a lot for me. You’ve done a lot for me. I don’t know how I can ever thank you, George.”
“You can thank me by forgetting about the whole thing. Managing things is my job and my weakness is managing other people’s affairs.”
A youth stopped at their table. He had gelled hair, a weak white face and was dressed in a denim jacket and torn jeans. “Hiya, Tone,” he said.
“This is Pete Ericson,” said Toni, introducing him to George. “We were at school together.”
“How you doin’, Tone,” said Pete. “I hear you’re a tec.”
“Right, Pete,” said Toni desperately, “and I’m on a case.”
“Okay.” Pete slouched off.
“Ashamed of me, Toni?” asked George.
“I never liked him and it was the easiest way to get rid of him,” said Toni, feeling caught between two worlds. She wondered what Pete had been doing frequenting one of the smarter watering holes in Mircester.
They were not to be left alone. A hard-faced woman, elegantly dressed and expensively blonded, rushed up to their table and air-kissed George. “Darling, where have you been?” she screamed above the noise of the pub. “And who’s this? Your niece?”
“This is Toni Gilmour, a friend of mine. Toni, Deborah Hasard.”
“Pleased to meet you,” mumbled Toni.
“I’ve left my drink on the bar. I’ll just get it and join you,” said Deborah. The minute her back was turned, George hissed, “Let’s go before she comes back.”
They hurried to the door and out on to the street. “Old girlfriend of yours?” asked Toni.
“No, just a terrible bore. I’ll get you home. How’s the new car?”
“I love it. I take it for runs in the country, just like a dog.”
“Perhaps you’ll give me a run one day?”
“Sure. Here’s my flat. Goodnight,” said Toni firmly, “and thank you for the drink.”
Later that evening, Toni looked down from her window and saw a group of her ex-school friends, chattering and laughing and obviously heading for the disco at the end of the street.
I’ve left them behind, thought Toni, and yet I feel I don’t belong anywhere now. And what am I going to do about George?
Mrs Bloxby called on Agatha that evening. “I really feel you should take a rest after all you’ve been through, Mrs Raisin.”
“No, I’m all right. I wonder if the Tamworthys will ever sell that estate. I think they were born unlucky and that they’re doomed to be unlucky.”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“There was a little bit in the local paper. I brought it along.” Mrs Bloxby fished a newspaper out of her capacious handbag. “Here we are. Olde English Theme Parks are making an offer. They want to turn it into a theme park.”
“What? Roundabouts and roller coasters and things like that?”
“No, they plan to turn it into an old English village with the locals dressed up in Georgian dress. The manor house will be demodernized and will serve old English teas. The great thing for the villagers is that they will live rent-free and be paid by the company to do things like spin wool and shoe horses.”
“That jammy lot,” howled Agatha. “They don’t deserve it.”
“Even Jimmy Tamworthy’s shop is to be turned into an old–fashioned store.”
“I wonder if those poxy villagers realize they have to be nice to the tourists.”
“Maybe the tourists will think their sour faces are in period.”
“Well, I never want to see any of them again. Anyway, I’ve got more important things on my mind.”
“Such as?”
“Christmas.”
Chapter Twelve
Agatha’s Christmas dinner was to be held on the eighteenth of December. In the days leading up to it, Toni had been taken off detective duties to prowl the shops with Agatha picking out Christmas decorations and choosing the perfect tree.
Mindful of the fact that her cats loved real trees but shied away from fake ones, Agatha reluctantly settled on a fake Douglas fir.
Then there was a trip to a shop in London which made fake holly that looked exactly like the real thing.
The seating plan caused Agatha a lot of headaches. She would put James on her left and Charles on her right. Then she changed her mind. Charles might do something to irritate James. She would give Patrick the honour of sitting next to her. Would the women of the Carsely Ladies’ Society mind be relegated to the far end of the table in the sitting room? Mrs Bloxby must have pride of place in the dining room. Agatha hoped her husband, the vicar, would not be too sour. Then would Doris Simpson not expect a good place, and if she didn’t get one, think it was because she was only a cleaner?
“Why don’t you sort out the important people,” suggested Toni, who was seated at the kitchen table with Agatha, helping her with the plans. “You could put Charles in the hall to host that table and Mr and Mrs Bloxby in the sitting room. Put Doris and her husband next to Charles. Is your ex going to turn up?”
“He sent me a letter. I got it last week. He said he would arrive on time. What about you, Toni? After all your work, I feel you should get to choose your place. Next to George?”
Toni hesitated. “Is there going to be anyone young there?”
“There’s Miss Simms. But you want a man. I’ve got it. I’ve invited my ex-detective, Harry Beam. You’ll like him and he’s not that much older than you.”
“Then you could put both of us in the hall with Charles and Doris and her husband and that would get rid of the least favourite place. You’re going to have trouble with the fires.”
“Why? I want one log fire in the dining room and one in the sitting room.”
“But there’s not much space once the tables are set up and whoever is sitting with their back to the fire is going to get scorched.”
“Rats! I’m beginning to regret the whole thing.”
“You could get those fake logs and have them burning when the guests arrive and by the time they have their welcome drinks, they’ll have burned down.”
“Fake this, fake that. It’s not really the way I imagined it. I must have real mistletoe. Where should I hang it?”
Well away from me and George, thought Toni. “Why not above your chair at the head
of the table?”
“Good idea. That’ll stop me being kissed by a lot of odds and sods.”
“What are you going to wear?” asked Toni.
“Something sexy.”
Toni blinked. She thought women of Agatha’s age should be past wanting to be sexy.
Toni said suddenly, “But that table across the hall means they will have to edge round it to leave their coats, and then if they are going to stand around with their drinks before dinner, there won’t be any room.”
“That’s the curse of these small cottages,” mourned Agatha. “I will not be defeated. I know: I’ll have a marquee in the garden.”
“Won’t that be cold?”
“No, not these days. They put in heaters. I’ll have clothes rails for the coats and a bar. They can’t go through the kitchen. I’ll have some sort of canvas tunnel up the side of the house which will lead straight into the marquee.”
“This is all going to cost you a fortune,” said Toni. “You could have hired a suite at the Hilton for less.”
“It’s going to be Christmas in my home, and that’s that.”
George Pyson was, at that moment, pacing up and down his mother’s drawing room. “Out with it,” she said at last.
“It’s this girl.” George ran his hands through his thick hair. “I’m keen on her but she’s very young.”
“How young?”
“Just newly eighteen.”
“That is an age difference. Now if you were forty-five and she was thirty, it really wouldn’t matter. But eighteen! What’s her name?”
“Toni Gilmour.”
“Antonia Gilmour. Is she one of the Guiting Power Gilmours?”
“No, she is one of the council estate in Mircester Gilmours and I’ll bet she was actually christened Toni.”
“Does she work?”
“As a detective for Agatha Raisin.”
“That woman who gets herself into the newspapers? What’s she like, this Raisin woman?”
“Tough, pushy, good hair, good legs, small eyes.”
“American?”
“British.”
Mrs Pyson studied her son with a worried crease between her brows. She was a small, dainty woman with thick white hair and a neat figure.
“The point is this,” she said. “If by any chance she is in love with you –”
“She’s not. But she could be.”
“The fact is that the person one loves at eighteen is hardly the person one is going to be in love with at twenty-four.”
“I think she’s old for her years.”
“She won’t be a virgin, not these days.”
“I think she is, Mother. She has that untouched look.”
“That untouched look could simply mean, “Don’t touch me, George.””
“I should never have told you. I should have known you wouldn’t approve.”
“Is she by any chance related to that young man who hanged himself?”
“That was her brother.”
“Oh, George!”
Bill Wong had romantic troubles as well. He had covered a burglary at a lingerie shop called Naughties in Mircester. A pretty sales assistant called Jade had taken his fancy. They had been out together a couple of times since the burglary.
Agatha had told Bill he could bring a girlfriend to her dinner and so he had invited Jade. He wondered uneasily what Agatha would make of her. She had dyed red hair of a violent colour and wore the minimum of clothes, even on cold days. She chewed bubble gum a lot. Her bubble gum was colour-coordinated to suit whatever she was wearing. If Jade was wearing purple, then she chewed purple bubble gum; if red, red bubble gum and so on. But she had large blue eyes and a perfect complexion and very long legs.
There’ll be such a crowd, Agatha won’t even notice her, Bill reassured himself. She’ll be so taken up with James Lacey she won’t, in fact, notice anyone else.
The next day, Agatha was returning to the office with Phil when she saw Alison on the other side of the street and hailed her. Alison crossed to meet her.
“I hear you’ve sold the place at last,” said Agatha. “Congratulations.”
“May I talk to you?”
“Of course. We’ll go for a coffee. I won’t be long, Phil.”
Over coffee, Alison said, “It’s weird. We’ve all dreamed so long of the freedom that money would bring us, but we’re all still huddled together at the manor, waiting there until the builders arrive and we’ll be forced to leave. Jimmy sits surrounded by travel brochures but he never books anything. Bert drinks and smokes a lot and plays games on his computer. He barely talks to me.”
Alison’s eyes were red-rimmed with recent crying.
“Any of you thought of therapy?”
“No, I hate that idea.”
“Why don’t you go away yourself? You’ve got your own money. Go off, say, for a week, somewhere sunny.”
“I couldn’t leave Bert.”
“If he’s drinking and playing computer games all day long, then he’s left you.”
“Maybe I’ll try that.”
They’ll never get rid of the dreadful Phyllis, thought Agatha, as she made her way up to her office. She put them all in an emotional prison and they don’t even want to get out.
Three days before Agatha’s Christmas dinner, Mrs Pyson heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the drive of her house. A young girl came into view driving a rental van.
Mrs Pyson went out to meet her.
The girl jumped down and held out her hand.
“I’m Toni Gilmour. I’m a friend of your son”
“And what can I do for you, Miss Gilmour?”
“George kindly gave me some pieces of furniture from your home. I don’t need them now. I’m buying my own stuff.”
“Leave them in the van and come inside. I’ll phone the village and get a couple of young men to put the stuff back in the attic.”
She certainly looks presentable enough, thought Mrs Pyson. Toni had let her long hair grow and it was now swept back in a French pleat. She was wearing corduroy trousers, a leather jacket, halfboots and a cashmere sweater she had found in a thrift shop.
“Would you like some tea?” asked Mrs Pyson after she had telephoned for help to move the furniture.
Toni looked trapped but she murmured, “Yes, thank you. Can I help you?”
“No, I have help.” Mrs Pyson rang a bell on the table beside her. A tall girl with Slavic cheekbones came into the room.
“Tea,” said Mrs Pyson. “And some of those biscuits, Svetlana, that I bought the other day at the church sale.”
When Svetlana had left, Mrs Pyson said, “I never really approved of the European Union, but I must say, with the influx of immigrants from Eastern Europe one can get all the help one needs these days. I believe you are a detective. How did you meet my son?”
As Toni talked, Mrs Pyson studied her. Clear voice. Practically no accent at all. Such a pity she was so young.
The tea arrived. “What do you plan to do with your life?” asked Mrs Pyson. “I am sure all young girls want to get married.”
“I shall never marry,” said Toni.
“Nonsense. Why?”
“Careers last. Men don’t.”
“So young and so cynical! So what do you plan to do?”
“It’s difficult,” said Toni. “Mrs Raisin gave me a break. She got me a flat, a car and she is paying me a good wage. And yet…”
“And yet?”
“I feel awfully grateful to her and to George”
“And it is weighing you down?”
Toni looked at her gratefully. “You see, I’ve been thinking how nice it would be to be a real detective.”
“Aren’t you one already?”
“Yes, but I mean join the police force. It’s awful knocking on doors and asking questions when I don’t really have any authority.”
“Is that why you are returning the furniture? Because you do not want to be grateful to my son?”
Toni coloured up. “Something like that.”
“Well, you must do what you want. I see two young men have arrived. We’d better go out and supervise the unloading.”
When Toni had left, Mrs Pyson sat down again, feeling sad. “Poor George,” she said. “Why couldn’t he pick on someone his own age?”
Agatha left Patrick, Phil, Toni and Mrs Freedman to run the agency just before the day of her Christmas dinner. She was already feeling exhausted. So many trips to get just the right stuff. Up to London again to find Christmas crackers that had interesting things inside them instead of the usual paper hats and plastic toys.
Then, what to wear? Black was flattering to her middle-aged figure but surely too funereal. Tiny little skirts were in fashion and her legs were good. But women like herself dressed in too youthful a style ended up looking older. She settled at last on a black velvet skirt with slits up both sides and a cherry-red silk blouse with a plunging neckline. The skirt demanded high heels and her hip was getting worse.
But this one night must be the best and everything must be sacrificed for it. She bought a pair of high-heeled sandals in black patent leather.
Miss Simms, Carsely’s unmarried mother, was in a quandary. Her latest ‘gentleman friend’ had just told her he was going back to his wife. Miss Simms had told Agatha she was bringing him along. She desperately needed an escort. She chewed nervously at her false nails, remembered what they had cost and poured herself a stiff vodka and Red Bull instead.
There was a knock at the door. Miss Simms opened it. One of those young men who sell dusters and other household stuff round the doors started his spiel: “Here is my card. I am unemployed.”
Miss Simms didn’t listen. Instead she eyed him up and down. He was well built with thick brown hair and a square pleasant face. She interrupted him. “Come in for a drink. I’ve got a suggestion to make.”
Mrs Bloxby and her husband did not often row. But on the eve of Agatha’s dinner party they found themselves shouting at each other. “I’ve told you and told you,” yelled the vicar, “that I will not go to the Raisin female’s party and that’s that. I have promised to lead the carol service at Ancombe.”
“You knew all about this party,” said Mrs Bloxby. “You only took on this carol service to get out of it.”
