by Beaton, MC
She thrust her way through the crowds, sometimes losing him, and then seeing that dark head a distance in front of her. The crowd thinned and she put on a desperate spurt.
She caught up with him and seized his arm. “James!” she panted.
A total stranger turned round and looked down at her, a puzzled look on his face.
Agatha backed off, her face flaming. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “M-mistake.”
She turned away from him and scurried back off towards the café, where the waiter who was standing at the door was relieved to see her return.
She asked for her bill. He indicated her half-eaten food on the table. She shook her head, tipped him and paid her bill at the cash desk.
Then she walked slowly back to the hotel.
She went up to her room and fell face-down on the bed.
“Oh, James,” said Agatha. “Where are you?”
In the morning, she sat down at a desk in the room, and taking a sheet of hotel stationery, she wrote to James at the Benedictine Monastery. She should have thought of it before, she told herself. Of course he was there. It was Marie’s questioning that had put the uneasy thought in her head that he might have lied about taking holy orders and becoming a monk.
She kept her letter short and cheerful, ending by asking him if he could send her a note to her home address and let her know how he was getting on. Then she packed her cases and left them for collection and went down to reception and asked them to post the letter for her.
Feeling better that she had taken some action to find out how he was, Agatha Raisin set out on the long journey home.
SHE’S PRICKLY, THIN-SKINNED, AND TOTALLY INTRIGUING. CRITICS LOVE AGATHA RAISIN!
“[Agatha] is a glorious cross between Miss Marple, Auntie Mame, and Lucille Ball, with a tad of pit bull tossed in. She’s wonderful.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“Anyone interested in a few hours’ worth of intelligent, amusing reading will want to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Agatha Raisin.”
—Atlanta Journal Constitution
“Few things in life are more satisfying than to discover a brand new Agatha Raisin mystery.”
—Tampa Tribune Times
“Beaton has a winner in the irrepressible, romance-hungry Agatha.”
—Chicago Sun-times
“The Miss Marple—like Raisin is a refreshingly sensible, wonderfully eccentric, thoroughly likable heroine … [A] must for cozy fans.”
—Booklist
“Anyone interested in … intelligent, amusing reading will want to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Agatha Raisin.”
—Atlanta Journal Constitution
“The Raisin series brings the cozy tradition back to life. God bless the Queen!”
—Tulsa World
“[Beaton’s] imperfect heroine is an absolute gem!”
—Publishers Weekly
AGATHA RAISIN AND THE LOVE FROM HELL
“Among the many joys of all Agatha Raisin adventures are Beaton’s sweetly formal prose and her vivid descriptions of colorful villagers. This one, however, adds a crackerjack plot and a delightfully comic ending to the mix, making it clearly the best of the lot.”
—Booklist (starred review)
AGATHA RAISIN AND THE FAIRIES OF FRYFAM
“Witty … [A] highly amusing cozy.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Agatha is as fractious and funny as ever. Don’t miss this one.”
—Tulsa World
“Outwardly bossy and vain, inwardly insecure and vulnerable, Agatha grows more endearing with each installment.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“More great fun from an endearing heroine.”
—Library Journal
AGATHA RAISIN AND THE WIZARD OF EVESHAM
“Another delightful cozy featuring Cotswolds surroundings, a bit of history, and buoyant characters.”
—Library Journal
“[A] smartly updated Miss Marple … Beaton’s books about this tough little Raisin cookie are well-made and smoothly oiled entertainment machines … [T]rust Agatha to solve it all in style.”
—Amazon.com
“The return of Agatha Raisin, amateur sleuth extraordinaire, is always a treat and M. C. Beaton does not miss a beat … Another fabulous English cozy by the great M. C. Beaton.”
—Harriet Klausner, Painted Rock Reviews
AGATHA RAISIN AND THE WELLSPRING OF DEATH
“Tourists are advised to watch their back in the bucolic villages where M. C. Beaton sets her sly British mysteries … [O]utsiders always spell trouble for the inbred societies Beaton observes with such cynical humor.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Outspoken, chain-smoking, aggravating Agatha roars back for a[n] … outing that will keep fans cheering. Must be something in the water.”
—The Poisoned Pen
AGATHA RAISIN AND THE TERRIBLE TOURIST
“Another refreshing and delightful series addition.”
—Library Journal
AGATHA RAISIN AND THE MURDEROUS MARRIAGE
“Beaton gleefully creates one excruciating situation after another for her indomitable heroine to endure.”
—Publishers Weekly
Also By M. C. Beaton
AGATHA RAISIN
The Walkers of Dembley
A Spoonful of Poison
Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Love, Lies and Liquor
The Perfect Paragon
The Deadly Dance
Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Case of the Curious Curate
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death
Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage
The Potted Gardener
The Vicious Vet
The Quiche of Death
The Skeleton in the Closet
HAMISH MACBETH
Death of a Bore
Death of a Poison Pen
Death of a Village
Death of a Celebrity
A Highland Christmas
WRITING AS MARION CHESNEY
Our Lady of Pain
Sick of Shadows
Hasty Death
Snobbery with Violence
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM ANOTHER AGATHA RAISIN ADVENTURE
Agatha Raisin and the Case of the Curious Curate
NOW AVAILABLE FROM ST. MARTIN’S/MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS!
AGATHA Raisin was beginning to feel that nothing would ever interest her again. She had written to a monastery in France, to her ex-husband, James Lacey, who, she believed, was taking holy orders, only to receive a letter a month later saying that they had not heard from Mr. Lacey. Yes, he had left and promised to return, but they had heard or seen nothing of him.
So, she thought miserably, James had simply been sick of her and had wanted a divorce and had used the monastery as a way to get out of the marriage. She swore she would never be interested in a man again, and that included her neighbour, John Armitage. He had propositioned her and had been turned down. Agatha had been hurt because he had professed no admiration or love for her. They talked from time to time when they met in the village, but Agatha refused all invitations to dinner and so he had finally given up asking her.
So the news that the vicar, Alf Bloxby, was to get a curate buzzed around the village, but left Agatha unmoved. She went regularly to church because of her friendship with the vicar’s wife, regarding it more as a duty that anything to do with spiritual uplift. Also because of her friendship with Mrs. Bloxby, she felt compelled to attend the Carsely Ladies’ Society where the village women discussed their
latest fund-raising projects.
It was a warm August evening when Agatha trotted wearily along to the vicarage. She looked a changed Agatha. No make-up, sensible flat sandals and a loose cotton dress.
Miss Simms, the secretary, read the minutes of the last meeting. They were all out in the vicarage garden. Agatha barely listened, watching instead how Miss Simms’s stiletto heels sank lower and lower into the grass.
Mrs. Bloxby had recently been elected chairwoman. Definitely the title of chairwoman. No chairpersons in Carsely. After tea and cakes had been passed round, she addressed the group. “As you know, ladies, our new curate will be arriving next week. His name is Tristan Delon and I am sure we all want to give him a warm welcome. We shall have a reception here on the following Wednesday. Everyone in the village of Carsely has been invited.”
“Won’t that be rather a crush?” asked Miss Jellop, a thin, middle-aged lady with a lisping voice and large protruding eyes. Agatha thought unkindly that she looked like a rabbit with myxomatosis.
“I don’t think there will be all that much interest,” said Mrs. Bloxby ruefully. “I am afraid church attendances are not very high these days.”
Agatha thought cynically that the lure of free food and drinks would bring them in hordes. She wondered whether to say anything, and then a great weariness assailed her. It didn’t matter. She herself would not be going. She had recently returned from London, where she had taken on a free-lance public relations job for the launch of a new soap called Mystic Health, supposed to be made from Chinese herbs. Agatha had balked at the name, saying that people didn’t want healthy soap, they wanted pampering soap, but the makers were adamant. She was about to go back to London for the launch party and intended to stay for a week and do some shopping.
At the end of the following week, Agatha made her way to Paddington Station, wondering, as she had wondered before, why London did not hold any magic for her anymore. It seemed dusty and dingy, noisy and threatening. She had not particularly enjoyed the launch of the new soap, feeling she was moving in a world to which she no longer belonged. But what was waiting for her in her home village of Carsely? Nothing. Nothing but domestic chores, the ladies’ society, and pottering about the village.
But when she collected her car at Moreton-in-Marsh Station and began the short drive home, she felt a lightening of her spirits. She would call on Mrs. Bloxby and sit in the cool green of the vicarage garden and feel soothed.
Mrs. Bloxby was pleased to see her. “Come in, Mrs. Raisin,” she said. Although she and Agatha had been friends for some time, they still used the formal “Mrs.” when addressing each other, a tradition of the ladies’ society, which fought a rearguard action against modern times and modern manners. “Isn’t it hot?” exclaimed the vicar’s wife, pushing a damp tendril of grey hair away from her face. “We’ll sit in the garden. What is your news?”
Over the teacups Agatha regaled her with a highly embroidered account of her experiences in London. “And how’s the new curate?” she finally asked.
“Getting along splendidly. Poor Alf is laid low with a summer cold and Mr. Delon has been taking the services.” She giggled. “I haven’t told Alf, but last Sunday there was standing room only in the church. Women had come from far and wide.”
“Why? Is he such a good preacher?”
“It’s not that. More tea? Help yourself to milk and sugar. No, I think it is because he is so very beautiful.”
“Beautiful? A beautiful curate? Is he gay?”
“Now why should you assume that a beautiful young man must be gay?”
“Because they usually are,” said Agatha gloomily.
“No, I don’t think he’s gay. He is very charming. You should come to church this Sunday and see for yourself.”
“I might do that. Nothing else to do here.”
“I hate it when you get bored,” said the vicar’s wife anxiously. “It seems to me that every time you get bored, a murder happens somewhere.”
“Murder happens every day all over the place.”
“I meant close by.”
“I’m not interested in murders. That last case I nearly got myself killed. I had a letter from that Detective Inspector Brudge in Worcester just before I left. He suggested I should go legit and set up my own detective agency.”
“Now that’s a good idea.”
“I would spend my days investigating nasty divorces or working undercover in firms to find out which typist has been nicking the office stationery. No, it’s not for me. Is this curate living with you?”
“We found him a room in the village with old Mrs. Feathers. As you know, she lives opposite the church, so we were lucky. Of course, we were prepared to house him here, we have plenty of room, but he would not hear of it. He says he is quite comfortably off. He has a small income from a family trust.”
“I’d better get back to my cats,” said Agatha, rising. “I think they prefer Doris Simpson to me.” Mrs. Simpson was Agatha’s cleaner, who looked after the cats when Agatha was away.
“So you will come to church on Sunday?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “I am curious to learn what you make of our curate.”
“Why, I wonder,” said Agatha, her bearlike eyes sharpening with interest. “You have reservations about him?”
“I feel he’s too good to be true. I shouldn’t carp. We are very lucky to have him. Truth to tell, I think my poor Alf is a little jealous. Though I said nothing about it, he heard from the parishioners about the crowds in the church.”
“Must be awful to be a vicar and to be expected to act like a saint,” said Agatha. “All right. I’ll be there on Sunday.”
When she got back to her cottage, Agatha opened all the windows and the kitchen door as well and let her cats, Hodge and Boswell, out into the garden. I don’t think they even missed me, thought Agatha, watching them roll on the warm grass. Doris comes in and feeds them and lets them in and out and they are perfectly happy with her. There was a ring at the doorbell and she went to answer it. John Armitage, her neighbour, stood there.
“I just came to welcome you back,” he said.
“Thanks,” retorted Agatha. “Oh, well, you may as well come in and have a drink.”
She was always surprised, every time she saw him, at how good-looking he was with his lightly tanned face, fair hair and green eyes. Although he was about the same age as she was herself, his face was smooth and he looked younger, a fact that annoyed her almost as much as the fact that he had propositioned her because he had thought she would be an easy lay. He was a successful detective story writer.
They carried their drinks out into the garden. “The chairs are a bit dusty,” said Agatha. “Everything in the garden’s dusty. So what’s been going on?”
“Writing and walking. Oh, and tired to death of all the women in the village babbling about how wonderful the new curate is.”
“And is he wonderful?”
“Smarmy bastard.”
“You’re just cross because you’re no longer flavour of the month.”
“Could be. Haven’t you seen him?”
“I haven’t had time. I’m going to church on Sunday to have a look.”
“Let me know what you think. There’s something wrong there.”
“Like what?”
“Can’t put my finger on it. He doesn’t seem quite real.”
“Neither do you,” commented Agatha rudely.
“In what way?”
“You’re … what? Fifty-three? And yet your skin is smooth and tanned and there’s something robotic about you.”
“I did apologize for having made a pass at you. You haven’t forgiven me, obviously.”
“Yes, I have,” said Agatha quickly, although she had not. “It’s just … you never betray any emotions. You don’t have much small talk.”
“I can’t think of anything smaller than speculation about a new village vicar. Have you ever tried just accepting people as they are instead of as something you want them to be?”
“You mean what I see is what I get?”
“Exactly.”
What Agatha really wanted was a substitute for her ex-husband and was often irritated that there was nothing romantic about John, but as she hardly ever thought things through, she crossly dismissed him as a bore.
“So is it possible we could be friends?” asked John. “I mean, I only made that one gaffe.”
“Yes, all right,” said Agatha. She was about to add ungraciously that she had plenty of friends, but remembered in time that before she had moved to the Cotswolds from London, she hadn’t had any friends at all.
“In that case, have lunch with me after church on Sunday.”
“Right,” said Agatha. “Thanks.”
She and John arrived at the church on Sunday exactly five minutes before the service was due to begin and found there were no seats left in the pews and they had to stand at the back.
The tenor bell in the steeple above their heads fell silent. There was a rustle of anticipation in the church. Then Tristan Delon walked up to the altar and turned around. Agatha peered round the large hat of the woman in front of her and let out a gasp of amazement.
The curate was beautiful. He stood there, at the altar, with a shaft of sunlight lighting up the gold curls of his hair, his pale white skin, his large blue eyes, and his perfect mouth. Agatha stood there in a daze. Mechanically, she sang the opening hymn and listened to the readings from the Bible. Then the curate mounted the pulpit and began a sermon about loving thy neighbour. He had a well-modulated voice. Agatha listened to every word of a sermon she would normally have damned as mawkish and boring.
