With a feeling of holiday, she drove up the winding hill that led out of the village and then down through Bourton-on-the-Hill to Moreton-in-Marsh.
She arrived at Paddington station and drew in great lungfuls of polluted air and felt herself come alive again. In the taxi to South Molton Street she realized she did not really have any amusing stories with which to regale her former staff. ‘Our Aggie will be queen of that village in no time at all,’ Roy had said. How could she explain that the formidable Agatha Raisin did not really exist as far as Carsely was concerned?
She got out of the taxi in Oxford Street and walked down South Molton Street, wondering what it would be like to see ‘Pedmans’ written up where her own name used to be.
Agatha stopped at the foot of the stairs which led up to her former office over the Paris dress shop. There was no sign at all, only a clean square on the paintwork where ‘Raisin Promotions’ had once been.
She walked up the stairs. All was silent as the grave. She tried the door. It was locked. Baffled, she retreated to the street and looked up. And there across one of the windows was a large board with FOR SALE in huge red letters and the name of a prestigious estate agent.
Her face grim, she took a cab over to the City, to Cheapside, to the headquarters of Pedmans, and demanded to see Mr Wilson, the managing director. A bored receptionist with quite the longest nails Agatha had ever seen languidly picked up the phone and spoke into it. ‘Mr Wilson is busy,’ she enunciated, picked up the women’s magazine she had been reading when Agatha had arrived and studied her horoscope.
Agatha plucked the magazine from the receptionist’s hands. She leaned over the desk. ‘Get off your lazy arse and tell that crook he’s seeing me.’
The receptionist looked up into Agatha’s glaring eyes, gave a squeak, and scampered off upstairs. After some moments during which Agatha read her own horoscope – ‘Today could be the most important day of your life. But watch your temper’ – the receptionist came tottering back on her very high heels and whispered, ‘Mr Wilson will see you now. If you will come this way . . .’
‘I know the way,’ snarled Agatha. Her stocky figure marched up the stairs, her sensible low-heeled shoes thumping on the treads.
Mr Wilson rose to meet her. He was a small, very clean man with thinning hair, gold-rimmed glasses, soft hands and an unctuous smile, more like a Harley Street doctor than the head of a public relations firm.
‘Why have you put my office up for sale?’ demanded Agatha.
He smoothed the top of his head. ‘Mrs Raisin, not your office; you sold the business to us.’
‘But you gave me your word you would keep on my staff.’
‘And so we did. Most of them preferred the redundancy pay. We do not need an extra office. All the business can be done from here.’
‘Let me tell you, you can’t do this.’
‘And let me tell you, Mrs Raisin, I can do what I like. You sold us the concern, lock, stock and barrel. Now, if you don’t mind, I am very busy.’
Then he shrank back in his chair as Agatha Raisin told him at the top of her voice exactly what he could do to himself in graphic detail before slamming out.
Agatha stood in Cheapside, tears starting to her eyes. ‘Mrs Raisin . . . Aggie?’
She swung round. Roy was standing there. Instead of his usual jeans and psychedelic shirt and gold earrings, he was wearing a sober business suit.
‘I’ll kill that bastard Wilson,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve just told him what he can do to himself.’
Roy squeaked and backed off. ‘I shouldn’t be seen talking to you, sweetie, if you’re not the flavour of the month. Besides, you sold him the outfit.’
‘Where’s Lulu?’
‘She took the redundancy money and is sunning her little body on the Costa Brava.’
‘And Jane?’
‘Working as PR for Friends Scotch. Can you imagine? Giving an alcoholic like her a job in a whisky company? She’ll sink their profits down her gullet in a year.’
Agatha inquired after the rest. Only Roy had been employed by Pedmans. ‘It’s because of the Trendies,’ he explained, naming a pop group, one of Agatha’s former clients. ‘Josh, the leader, has always been ever so fond of me, as you know. So Pedmans had to take me on to keep the group. Like my new image?’ He pirouetted round.
‘No,’ said Agatha gruffly. ‘Doesn’t suit you. Anyway, why don’t you come down and visit me this weekend?’
Roy looked shifty. ‘Love to, darling, but got lots and lots to do. Wilson is a slave-driver. Must go.’
He darted off into the building, leaving Agatha standing alone on the pavement.
She tried to hail a cab but they were all full. She walked along to Bank station but the Tube wasn’t running and someone told her there was a strike. ‘How am I going to get across town?’ grumbled Agatha.
‘You could try a river boat,’ he suggested. ‘Pier at London Bridge.’
Agatha stumped along to London Bridge, her anger fading away to be replaced with a miserable feeling of loss. At the pier at London Bridge, she came across a sort of yuppies’ Dunkirk. The pier was crammed with anxious young men and women clutching briefcases while a small flotilla of pleasure boats took them off.
She joined the end of the queue, inching forward on the floating pier, feeling slightly seasick by the time she was able to board a large old pleasure steamer that had been pressed into action for the day. The bar was open. She clutched a large gin and tonic and took it up to the stern and sat down in the sunshine on one of those little gold-and-red plush ballroom chairs one finds on Thames pleasure boats.
The boat moved out and slid down the river in the sunshine, seeming to Agatha to be moving past all she had thrown away – life and London. Under the bridges cruised the boat, along past the traffic jams on the Embankment and then to Charing Cross Pier, where Agatha got off. She no longer felt like lunch or shopping or anything else but just wanted to get back to her cottage and lick her wounds and think of what to do.
She walked up to Trafalgar Square and then along the Mall, past Buckingham Palace, up Constitution Hill, down the underpass and up into Hyde Park by Decimus Burton’s Gate and the Duke of Wellington’s house. She cut across the Park in the direction of Bayswater and Paddington.
Before this one day, she thought, she had always forged ahead, always known what she had wanted. Although she was bright at school, her parents made her leave at fifteen, for there were good jobs to be had in the local biscuit factory. At that time, Agatha had been a thin, white-faced, sensitive girl. The crudity of the women she worked with in the factory grated on her nerves, the drunkenness of her mother and father at home disgusted her, and so she began to work overtime, squirrelling away the extra money in a savings account so that her parents might not get their hands on it, until one day she decided she had enough and simply took off for London without even saying goodbye, slipping out one night with her suitcase when her mother and father had fallen into a drunken stupor.
In London, she had worked as a waitress seven days a week so that she could afford shorthand and typing lessons. As soon as she was qualified, she got a job as a secretary in a public relations firm. But just when she was beginning to learn the business, Agatha had fallen in love with Jimmy Raisin, a charming young man with blue eyes and a mop of black hair. He did not seem to have any steady employment but Agatha thought that marriage was all he needed to make him settle down. After a month of married life, it was finally borne in on her that she had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. Her husband was a drunk. Yet she had stuck by him for two whole years, being the breadwinner, putting up with his increasing bouts of drunken violence until, one morning, she had looked down at him lying snoring on the bed, dirty and unshaven, and had pinned a pile of Alcoholics Anonymous literature to his chest, packed her things and moved out.
He knew where she worked. She thought he would come in search of her if only for money, but he never did. She once went back to the squal
id room in Kilburn which they had shared, but he had disappeared. Agatha had never filed for divorce. She assumed he was dead. She had never wanted to marry again. She had become harder and harder and more competent, more aggressive, until the thin shy girl that she had been slowly disappeared under layers of ambition. Her job became her life, her clothes expensive, her tastes in general those that were expected of a rising public relations star. As long as people noticed you, as long as they envied you, that was enough for Agatha.
By the time she reached Paddington station, she had walked herself into a more optimistic frame of mind. She had chosen her new life and she would make it work. That village was going to sit up and take notice of Agatha Raisin.
When she arrived home, it was late afternoon and she realized she had had nothing to eat. She went to Harvey’s, the general store-cum-post-office, and was ferreting around in the deep freeze wondering if she could face curry again when her eye was caught by a poster pinned up on the wall. ‘Great Quiche Competition’ it announced in curly letters. It was to be held on Saturday in the school hall. There were other competitions listed in smaller letters: fruit cake, flower arrangements, and so on. The quiche competition was to be judged by a Mr Cummings-Browne. Agatha scooped a Chicken Korma out of the deep freeze and headed for the counter. ‘Where does Mr Cummings-Browne live?’ she asked.
‘That’ll be Plumtrees Cottage, m’dear,’ said the woman. ‘Down by the church.’
Agatha’s mind was racing as she trotted home and shoved the Chicken Korma in the microwave. Wasn’t that what mattered in these villages? Being the best at something domestic? Now if she, Agatha Raisin, won that quiche competition, they would sit up and take notice. Maybe ask her to give lectures on her art at Women’s Institute meetings and things like that.
She carried the revolting mess that was her microwaved dinner into the dining-room and sat down. She frowned at the table-top. It was covered with a thin film of dust. Agatha loathed housework.
After her scrappy meal, she went into the garden at the back. The sun had set and a pale-greenish sky stretched over the hills above Carsely. There was a sound of movement from nearby and Agatha looked over the hedge. A narrow path divided her garden from the garden next door.
Her neighbour was bent over a flower-bed, weeding it in the failing light.
She was an angular woman who, despite the chill of the evening, was wearing a print dress of the type beloved by civil servants’ wives abroad. She had a receding chin and rather bulbous eyes and her hair was dressed in a forties style, pinned back in rolls from her face. All this Agatha was able to see as the woman straightened up.
‘Evening,’ called Agatha.
The woman turned on her heel and walked into her house and closed the door.
Agatha found this rudeness a welcome change after all the friendliness of Carsely. It was more what she was used to. She walked back through her own cottage, out the front door, up to the cottage next door, which was called New Delhi, and rapped on the brass knocker.
A curtain at a window near the door twitched but that was the only sign of life. Agatha gleefully knocked again, louder this time.
The door opened a crack and one bulbous eye stared out at her.
‘Good evening,’ said Agatha, holding out her hand. ‘I’m your new neighbour.’
The door slowly opened. The woman in the print dress reluctantly picked up Agatha’s hand, as if it were a dead fish, and shook it. ‘I am Agatha Raisin,’ said Agatha, ‘and you are . . .?’
‘Mrs Sheila Barr,’ said the woman. ‘You must forgive me, Mrs . . . er . . . Raisin, but I am very busy at the moment.’
‘I won’t take up much of your time,’ said Agatha. ‘I need a cleaning woman.’
Mrs Barr gave that infuriating kind of laugh often described as ‘superior’. ‘You won’t get anyone in the village. It’s almost impossible to get anyone to clean. I have my Mrs Simpson, so I’m very lucky.’
‘Perhaps she might do a few hours for me,’ suggested Agatha. The door began to close. ‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Barr, ‘I am sure she wouldn’t.’ And then the door was closed completely.
We’ll see about that, thought Agatha.
She collected her handbag and went down to the Red Lion and hitched her bottom on to a bar stool. ‘Evening, Mrs Raisin,’ said the landlord, Joe Fletcher. ‘Turned nice, hasn’t it? Maybe we’ll be getting some good weather after all.’
Sod the weather, thought Agatha, who was tired of talking about it. Aloud she said, ‘Do you know where Mrs Simpson lives?’
‘Council estate, I think. Would that be Bert Simpson’s missus?’
‘Don’t know. She cleans.’
‘Oh, ah, that’ll be Doris Simpson all right. Don’t recall the number, but it’s Wakefield Terrace, second along, the one with the gnomes.’
Agatha drank a gin and tonic and then set out for the council estate. She soon found Wakefield Terrace and the Simpsons because their garden was covered in plastic gnomes, not grouped round a pool, or placed artistically, but just spread about at random.
Mrs Simpson answered the door herself. She looked more like an old-fashioned schoolteacher than a charwoman. She had snow-white hair scraped back in a bun, and pale-grey eyes behind spectacles.
Agatha explained her mission. Mrs Simpson shook her head. ‘Don’t see as how I can manage any more, and that’s a fact. Do Mrs Barr next to you on Tuesdays, then there’s Mrs Chomley on Wednesdays and Mrs Cummings-Browne on Thursdays, and then the weekends I work in a supermarket at Evesham.’
‘How much does Mrs Barr pay you?’ asked Agatha.
‘Five pounds an hour.’
‘If you work for me instead, I’ll give you six pounds an hour.’
‘You’d best come in. Bert! Bert, turn that telly off. This here is Mrs Raisin what’s taken Budgen’s cottage down Lilac Lane.’
A small, spare man with thinning hair turned off the giant television set which commanded the small neat living-room.
‘I didn’t know it was called Lilac Lane,’ said Agatha. ‘They don’t seem to believe in putting up names for the roads in the village.’
‘Reckon that’s because there’s so few of them, m’dear,’ said Bert.
‘I’ll get you a cup of tea, Mrs Raisin.’
‘Agatha. Do call me Agatha,’ said Agatha with the smile that any journalist she had dealt with would recognize. Agatha Raisin was going in for the kill.
While Doris Simpson retreated to the kitchen, Agatha said, ‘I am trying to persuade your wife to stop working for Mrs Barr and work for me instead. I am offering six pounds an hour, a whole day’s work, and, of course, lunch supplied.’
‘Sounds handsome to me, but you’ll have to ask Doris,’ said Bert. ‘Not but what she would be glad to see the back of that Barr woman’s house.’
‘Hard work?’
‘It’s not the work,’ said Bert, ‘it’s the way that woman do go on. She follows Doris around, checking everything, like.’
‘Is she from Carsely?’
‘Naw, her’s an incomer. Husband died a whiles back. Something in the Foreign Office he was. Came here about twenty year ago.’
Agatha was just registering that twenty years in Carsely did not qualify one for citizenship, so to speak, when Mrs Simpson came in with the tea-tray.
‘The reason I am trying to get you away from Mrs Barr is this,’ said Agatha. ‘I am very bad at housework. Been a career woman all my life. I think people like you, Doris, are worth their weight in gold. I pay good wages because I think cleaning is a very important job. I will also pay your wages when you are sick or on holiday.’
‘Now that’s more than fair,’ cried Bert. ‘’Member when you had your appendix out, Doris? Her never even came nigh the nospital, let alone gave you a penny.’
‘True,’ said Doris. ‘But it’s steady money. What if you was to leave, Agatha?’
‘Oh, I’m here to stay,’ said Agatha.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Doris suddenly. ‘In
fact, I’ll phone her now and get it over with.’
She went out to the kitchen to phone. Bert tilted his head on one side and looked at Agatha, his little eyes shrewd. ‘You know you’ll have made an enemy there,’ he said.
‘Pooh,’ said Agatha Raisin, ‘she’ll just need to get over it.’
As Agatha was fumbling for her door key half an hour later, Mrs Barr came out of her cottage and stood silently, glaring across at Agatha.
Agatha gave a huge smile. ‘Lovely evening,’ she called.
She felt quite like her old self.
Chapter Two
Plumtrees Cottage, where the Cummings-Brownes lived, was opposite the church and vicarage in a row of four ancient stone houses fronting on to a cobbled diamond-shaped area. There were no gardens at the front of these houses, only narrow strips of earth which held a few flowers.
The door was answered late the next morning to Agatha’s knock by a woman whom Agatha’s beady eyes summed up as being the same sort of species of expatriate as Mrs Barr. Despite the chilliness of the spring day, Mrs Cummings-Browne was wearing a print sun-dress which showed tanned middle-aged skin. She had a high autocratic voice and pale-blue eyes and a sort of ‘colonel’s lady’ manner. ‘Yes, what can I do for you?’
Agatha introduced herself and said she was interested in entering the quiche competition but as she was new to the village, she did not know how to go about it. ‘I am Mrs Cummings-Browne,’ said the woman, ‘and really all you have to do is read one of the posters. They’re all over the village, you know.’ She gave a patronizing laugh which made Agatha want to strike her. Instead Agatha said mildly, ‘As I say, I am new in the village and I would like to get to know some people. Perhaps you and your husband might care to join me for dinner this evening. Do they do meals at the Red Lion?’
Mrs Cummings-Browne gave that laugh again. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in the Red Lion. But they do good food at the Feathers in Ancombe.’
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death Page 2
