by M C Beaton
‘Please do.
‘I feel perhaps neither of us are really country people.’
‘You’re from town?’
‘Not London. Manchester. I read about the case of that Frenchman in the newspapers. That must have been scary. Tell me about it.’
So Agatha did, without her usual exaggerations and embellishments.
‘How frightening,’ he said when she had finished. ‘You must be scared someone else will come after you.’
Agatha eyed him narrowly. ‘Could be you.’
‘My cottage is full of dreary old photographs of me with various pupils and colleagues. You are welcome to see them any time. It’s a new line when you think of it. Instead of saying, come and see my etchings, I can say, come and see a lot of faded old school photographs. So what do you plan to do with the rest of the day?’
‘I’m supposed to be thinking up a fund-raiser for that regiment,’ said Agatha, ‘but I can’t really get interested in good works.’
‘You don’t need to worry. I was speaking to one of the soldiers who came yesterday to collect the box from the village shop before putting down a new one. The adjutant has arranged a big parade in Mircester with people going around collecting donations. I don’t really think you need to bother.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘We could go into Oxford and take a punt out on the river.’
Agatha hesitated. She hadn’t had time to check him out. But the day stretched out before her, long and empty.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You’re on.’
It was to be the first of many dates. Agatha and Bob seemed to be inseparable. Mrs Bloxby was anxious and yet could not find any fault in Bob Jenkins, and Agatha looked more relaxed and happy than she could remember ever seeing her.
And then two months after Agatha had first met Bob, she called in at the vicarage with a sparkling diamond ring on her engagement finger.
‘So you are really going to get married?’ asked Mrs Bloxby, after Agatha had described the proposal and how happy she was.
‘We’re really going to see if we suit first,’ laughed Agatha. ‘We’ve taken a self-catering place in Normandy. We’re going away for a couple of weeks.’
‘Do be careful, Mrs Raisin. It all seems to have happened so fast.’
The village of Saint Claire in Normandy was off the beaten track. It was far from the sea and stuck in the middle of acres of farmland.
When they had unpacked their luggage, Agatha asked, ‘Do you speak French, Bob?’
‘Yes, fairly well.’
‘Good, we’ll get in some groceries and find some woman to clean.’
‘Agatha, that will not be necessary. We can clean the place ourselves.’
‘Then let’s find a café and have something to eat.’
He laughed. ‘We’ll find a grocery shop and cook our meals ourselves. I am sure you are a good cook.’
‘Bob, I have plenty of euros. There is no need to scrimp and save.’
‘Sit down, my dear, and listen to me. When you are my wife, you will need to do all the things a wife does. So why not start now?’
‘Because we’re on holiday!’ howled Agatha.
‘There, now. You’re tired after the journey. We’ll talk about this later.’
‘I tell you what,’ said Agatha desperately, ‘I’ll do the shopping myself. You just relax.’
‘Can you speak French?’
‘I can point at things in English.’
Agatha seized her handbag and shot out of the door.
She walked into the village and straight into the central brasserie. It was full of men in working clothes, who all turned and stared at her. She retreated and sat at a table outside and lit a cigarette.
When a waiter came out, she ordered a Calvados and coffee and fretted about Bob. What had come over him? And what was she to do about cooking?
What had his wife died of? Boredom? Why had she plunged into this engagement? Maybe because the women of the ladies’ society had been so jealous. Maybe it was because she wanted to prove to herself that she still had pulling power.
When her drink and coffee arrived, she drank them slowly and then went inside to pay for them. Newspapers were hanging up on a rack beside the bar. Sylvan’s face stared out at her from one of the front pages.
She took it down and shouted, ‘Can anyone here speak English?’
A small man came up to her and said in English, ‘Can I help you?’
Agatha pointed to the writing under Sylvan’s photograph. ‘Can you tell me what this story says?’
He read carefully and then in strongly accented English, he said, ‘The murderer and smuggler Sylvan Dubois was knifed to death in prison in London. Police are searching for the culprit.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Agatha breathlessly. ‘You don’t need to read any more.’
She paid for her drinks and walked out of the bar, feeling weak with relief. She went to a grocery store and bought bread, cheese, ham and a bottle of wine and carried them back.
Bob looked at her purchases with disfavour. ‘I like a hot meal,’ he said.
‘Oh, never mind that,’ cried Agatha. ‘Sylvan Dubois is dead. It was in a newspaper in the bar.’
‘This is a small village, Agatha. I don’t think it is quite the thing to go into a bar by yourself.’
Agatha sat down and studied him. ‘Bob, what happened to all the fun we had together? Have you drunk something, like Dr Jekyll, and turned into an old-fashioned household tyrant?’
‘This is real life, Agatha. The whole point of coming to this place is to see how we will really get on together once we are married.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Bob, lighten up. Have some bread and cheese, have some wine. We can drive somewhere nice this evening for dinner.’
That evening, they drove to the coast and had an excellent meal in a fish restaurant, but Bob’s sudden surly mood would not lighten. He refused anything to drink, pointing out that he was driving.
When they got back to the villa they had rented, Bob said curtly that he would sleep in the spare room. Agatha felt hurt and bewildered.
But the following day his mood had turned as sunny as the day outside. Agatha demanded to know what had happened to him and he told her he suffered from headaches. They passed a leisurely day with Bob in high spirits. He seemed inclined to find everything funny and his humour was infectious.
By evening, however, he suddenly said he was tired and would prefer to sleep alone.
‘What on earth is up with you now?’ demanded Agatha.
‘Mind your own business for once in your nosy life!’ he said viciously.
She sat alone in the kitchen staring into space. Then she pulled out her mobile and phoned Charles. ‘How’s the married lady?’ asked Charles.
‘I’m not married and I don’t think I’m going to be,’ whispered Agatha. ‘He’s turned into some sort of old-fashioned household monster. I think he’s bipolar or just plain nuts.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In some godforsaken Normandy village called Saint Claire.’
‘Then jump in your car and get the hell out.’
‘I can’t. It’s his car.’
‘Hang on. I’ll get there somehow and pick you up. Give me directions to where you are in the village.’
‘It’s the first villa on the north side.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Charles, I love you.’
‘No, you don’t, thank goodness. The thought of the weight of an Agatha obsession terrifies me.’
The next day, Agatha wished she had not phoned Charles. Bob was his amusing, relaxing self again. They toured around the countryside, visiting old churches and eating delicious food. Several times, Agatha excused herself and in the privacy of some French toilet tried to phone Charles, without success.
After the last unsuccessful attempt, she went back into the restaurant to join Bob.
‘Were you sat there wondering what had become of me?’ she
asked.
‘Agatha, you’re a disgrace. The word is sitting – get that – sitting. I cannot bear the sloppy use of past participles.’
‘Okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist.’
‘And you can cut out that vulgarity for a start.’
‘For goodness’ sake, what’s come over you?’
‘Nothing has come over me. I dislike bad grammar intensely. For example, the verb is “sit”. The present tense is “sit”. The present participle is “sitting”. The past participle is “was sitting”. Get it?’
‘Don’t want it.’
‘Bad grammar is creeping in all over the place. Do you know that in books, for example, writers now put, say, in the description of a room, “there were a table and chair”, whereas it should read, “there was a table and a chair”, the conjunction standing for “and there was”.’
He really is bonkers, thought Agatha wildly.
‘Do you always have these mood swings?’ she asked.
‘What mood swings?’
‘We’ve been having a very pleasant time up until now.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Look, Bob, this is all a big mistake. I don’t think we are really suited.’
He stood up and walked straight out of the restaurant.
Agatha called the waiter over and asked him to order her a taxi and then paid the bill.
When she got back to the villa, it was in darkness. She tried the front door but it was locked. At that moment, Charles drove up and got out of his car. Agatha threw herself into his arms. ‘He’s locked me out!’
‘What about round the back?’
They crept around the side of the building and into the back garden. Agatha tried the kitchen door. ‘He’s forgotten to lock this one. He’ll be sleeping in the spare room, and as a precaution I’ve got most of my things packed.’
Fifteen minutes later, Agatha went quietly down the stairs carrying her suitcase. She took off her engagement ring and left it on the table. Then she joined Charles, who was waiting in the car outside.
After several miles, Agatha said, ‘We’re going south.’
‘So we are. Have a sleep and then take over the driving. We’re going to find somewhere sunny and have a fling. Are you on?’
‘Yes, I jolly well am,’ said Agatha.
Toni was worried about the agency. Everyone seemed to be slacking off. At first it had all been very relaxing without the domineering presence of Agatha Raisin around, but now she and Sharon seemed to be doing most of the work themselves. Even Phil and Patrick appeared to have grown lazy.
Now that Agatha was to be married, there seemed to be little hope of her coming back.
They met one Friday for the usual end-of-the-day briefing. Feeling young and inadequate, Toni prepared to rally them by saying they were starting to lose business. She had run her own agency successfully because they had all been young. The two relative newcomers, Paul Kenson and Fred Auster, treated her like a child.
Toni was opening her mouth to deliver another hopeless lecture when the door of the office crashed open and Agatha Raisin walked in. She had a light tan and her eyes were glowing. ‘I’ve decided to come back,’ she said. ‘Let’s get down to business.’
Mrs Bloxby had heard that Agatha had returned home. Bob Jenkins had put his cottage up for sale and had disappeared from the village.
Finally free of demanding parish duties, she called on Agatha one evening.
‘Come in,’ hailed Agatha. ‘Sherry?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ve been meaning to call on you sooner. I’ve brought you some presents from the south of France.’
‘I thought you were in Normandy.’
‘I was, until Charles rescued me. Here’s your drink. Wait till you hear this.’
She told Mrs Bloxby about Bob’s terrifying mood swings and about how Charles had come to rescue her. ‘So we decided to beetle off to the south of France and have a holiday,’ said Agatha.
The vicar’s wife studied Agatha’s glowing face. ‘You and Charles. You didn’t, did you?’
‘Didn’t what?’ said Agatha airily. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. More sherry?’
M C Beaton
***
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