by M C Beaton
“Just wanted a word.”
“What about?”
“Can I come in?”
“All right. But the place is a mess.”
He shoved open a door leading to a parlour, which looked as if it were kept for “best.” There was a black horse hair sofa dominating the room. Stuffed birds and animals in glass cases stood on a long oak sideboard. A dark oil painting of a rural scene hung over the sealed-up fireplace. In the middle of the room stood a small table surrounded by four upright chairs. The room smelled of dust, disinfectant, and essence of Harry: urine, sweat and mothballs.
“Sit down,” ordered Harry, lowering himself painfully onto one of the chairs.
“Freda Pinch has decided to drop the case,” said Agatha.
“That’s good.”
“Did you threaten her?”
“Look at me! I couldn’t even threaten a mouse.”
“It just seemed so odd that such a woman should change her mind.”
Harry cackled. “Well, there’s good in all of us. I have to get to bed. Is that all?”
“I suppose so. I’ll see myself out.” Agatha said goodnight and went outside the cottage.
She turned at the gate and looked back. She could see into the room she had left because the curtains hadn’t been drawn. Harry had got to his feet. He had a big smile on his face. As she watched, he raised his stick and swung it at some imaginary foe.
Agatha drove slowly home. She noticed her ex-husband James Lacey’s car parked outside his cottage.
She stopped her car, got out and rang his doorbell. “Why, Agatha!” exclaimed James when he opened the door. “It’s late. Anything up?”
“I could do with a bit of advice.”
“Come in and tell me what’s up. I read about you a while ago in the newspapers. Death by Christmas pudding. Now, there’s a first.”
If only our marriage had worked out, thought Agatha. James was as handsome as ever with his tall, rangy figure, dark hair and bright blue eyes. He was a retired colonel who wrote travel books and historical biographies. But he had proved to be a perpetual bachelor and rows had led to divorce. James brought her a gin and tonic and then said, “Tell me about it.”
So Agatha did while James tried to keep a straight face. “So what’s the problem?” he asked when she had finished. “The only proof you have is that you saw old Harry through the window, taking an imaginary swipe at someone.”
“He shouldn’t get away with hitting someone, even someone as horrible as Freda.”
“If you get the truth out of her, then what? A ninety-year-old pensioner will be charged with assault. Do you want that?”
“Not really.”
“So let it go.”
Business suddenly picked up for Agatha in the following months and she was able to forget about Harry. That was, until the wedding of Matilda and Simon. The church was full, the villagers always turning up in force for any wedding, whether they had been invited or not. Matilda’s son and daughter were there, looking furious. They could see their inheritance fading away.
Matilda was wearing a dull gold silk suit and a large hat embellished with silk flowers. Simon was in morning dress, very tight across the shoulders.
Agatha had chosen to wear a long floaty summer dress of chiffon patterned with large roses. She had an impulse to cry when they made their marriage vows. Agatha had been married twice and longed to give it another go, despite the fact that both marriages had been disasters.
Jake Turnbull was there, still looking amazingly healthy. Harry Dunster was in the glory of a very old morning suit which hung loosely on his skinny figure.
All Agatha’s niggling worries about Freda came back. She was sitting next to Mrs. Bloxby. “Have you heard anything about Freda?” she whispered.
“Don’t you know?” the vicar’s wife whispered back. “She sold up and left the village. I believe she bought a flat in Oxford.”
I don’t like that old codger getting away with it, thought Agatha fiercely. Okay, Freda was a pain in the bum, but no man should get away with striking a woman.
A little voice in her head admonished her. You don’t know he did anything. It could all be your imagination.
“I’m going to challenge Harry outright,” Agatha whispered fiercely.
“It’s a wedding!” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Don’t do anything to spoil the day.”
“Shhh!” said a man in the pew behind them.
The wedding ser vice finished. Agatha and a few others had been invited to a restaurant in Moreton-in-Marsh for a celebration lunch.
The congregation filed out into the sunshine of the village churchyard. Agatha saw Harry standing over by a table tombstone. Ignoring Mrs. Bloxby’s attempts to hold her back, she went up to him.
“Harry Dunster,” said Agatha fiercely, “I swear you struck and threatened Freda.’
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” he said, looking up at the sky. “I’m waiting for my lift to Moreton.”
“Answer me!” said Agatha. “Did you or did you not strike Freda?”
He grinned. “An old man like me?”
“Come along, Mrs. Raisin,” urged Ms. Bloxby, pulling at her arm.
Agatha turned away.
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin,” called Harry.
Agatha turned back.
He winked at her, waved the stick she had bought him and swiped it through the air. “Gotcha!” he cried. “Take that!”
He began to laugh, a horrible wheezing, cackling sound. Then he lost his balance, staggered backwards, his arms flailing and fell down against the tombstone, cracking his head on the edge of it.
Agatha rushed forward and bent over him. Blood was oozing from his head. The bells from the church tower pealed out deafeningly over the scene.
His eyes flickered open. “Got your answer,” he mumbled, and then all life drained out of him.
Two weeks later, Agatha was being interviewed for the local newspaper, the Mircester Times. It was the silly season and the editor had decided that an interview with a local detective would fill up the pages. Agatha had agreed to it, on the condition that there should be no mention of the Christmas pudding affair.
She bragged happily about all her successful cases with a few embellishments. Then she posed for photographs, something she hated to do.
“A few more questions, Mrs. Raisin,” said the interviewer, a thin, nervous girl with great ambitions but little talent. “Would you consider yourself a feminist?”
“That is a hard question to reply to,” said Agatha. “If one says ‘yes,’ one is damned as having hairy legs, a bullying attitude, a hatred of men and no bra. If one says ‘no,’ then people think one is old-fashioned and believes that men know better.”
“So what are you?”
“I am unique,” said Agatha crossly. “Now, if we could just wind this thing up . . .”
“One more question. Have you ever believed someone to be guilty of a crime but were unable to prove it?”
Suddenly, Agatha was back in the churchyard. Harry cackled in the sunlight and swung his stick.
“No,” said Agatha Raisin firmly. “Never.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
