by M C Beaton
“Forget her. Want to go and see Gwen?”
“She won’t see me,” said Agatha.
“She’ll see me. I’ll bet she’s on the hunt for a husband now that her possessive son is out of the road.”
“May as well,” said Agatha. “I’m still curious.”
* * *
Winter Parva lay innocently before them in the soft twilight as they drove into the village. “You’d never think there had been murder and mayhem going on here,” said Agatha.
“You’d better wait in the car,” said Charles. “She won’t let us in if she sees you.”
“Oh, all right,” said Agatha. “I wish I’d brought a book.”
Gareth Craven answered the door to Charles. To Charles’s request to see Gwen, he said, “Poor Gwen is not seeing anyone but me.”
Gwen appeared beside Gareth. “Why, Sir Charles! Do come in.”
How can she bear to go on living here? wondered Charles. He walked through to the back shop. The living quarters were on the right at the end of a long dim passage and to the back were, he assumed, where the freezers and the room that had been Agatha’s prison.
“I came to see how you were getting on,” said Charles.
“Do sit down,” said Gwen. “We were just about to have tea. Gareth, dear, don’t you have something to do?”
“No,” said Gareth sulkily, sitting down opposite Charles.
Gwen waited until she had served tea and then smiled at Charles. “I’m moving out tomorrow. The wine company is moving in.”
Charles looked around the kitchen. “Nothing seems to be packed,” he said.
“Oh, I’m paying for one of these super duper removal firms. They do it all.”
“And how are you coping with your bereavement?” asked Charles.
Her face hardened. “I have hired a top psychiatrist to explain to the police that my poor son was brutalised and traumatised into committing those terrible deeds. He should not be blamed.”
“Gwen’s getting help from a good therapist,” said Gareth.
“Oh, she’s ever so clever. She’s just moved to the Cotswolds. Her name is Jill Davent.”
“The one in Carsely?”
“Oh, yes. Do you know her?”
“I haven’t met her.”
“Oh, but you should,” said Gwen sweetly. “Perhaps she could find out the deep reason you are not married.”
“Perhaps she could,” said Charles amiably. “Did you eat any of your late fiancé?”
“How dare you bring all that up?” said Gwen, beginning to cry.
“Get out of here!” roared Gareth.
* * *
“And that was that,” said Charles after he had given his report to Agatha.
“What on earth prompted you to ask if she’d eaten any of John?” asked Agatha.
“It just came out,” said Charles ruefully. “She looked so … well … smug. And that crack about me needing to visit this therapist really annoyed me. Let’s go to the pub in Carsely. I could do with a drink.”
* * *
In the Red Lion, they took their drinks out into the pub garden.
“I’m sure Gwen must have known what her son was up to,” said Agatha.
“I don’t think so,” said Charles. “I mean, if Walt hadn’t murdered John, then she would have married him.”
“Just wish I could be a fly on the wall when she’s talking to that therapist.”
“Look! Here comes James,” said Charles.
James walked into the pub garden, carrying two glasses. He was accompanied by a small woman. She had straight black hair and rather protuberant dark eyes set in a pug-like face.
Agatha waved to James as a signal to join them, but James only nodded and led his companion to a table a good bit away from them. Soon he and his companion were absorbed in deep conversation.
“Who the hell is she?” demanded Agatha fiercely.
“Whoever she is, our James does seem fascinated,” said Charles.
“Can’t possibly be,” said Agatha sourly. “She looks like a constipated otter. I need another drink. Go into the bar and find out who she is.”
“Yours to command,” said Charles lazily.
When he came back, he said, “That is the therapist.”
“What! The one Gwen is going to?”
“The same.”
“I’ll go and see her myself,” said Agatha.
“Come on, Aggie. Butt out.”
“I need to protect James. What can he see in her?”
When Charles eventually left, Agatha sat in her garden and fretted. She would not admit to herself that she was jealous.
By late afternoon, she felt she couldn’t bear it any longer, picked up that flyer and phoned Jill.
“I would like to make an appointment,” she said.
“What is your name?” asked the therapist.
“Agatha Raisin. I live in the village.”
“I could see you in half an hour’s time. I have had a cancellation.” Her voice was husky and attractive.
“Okay,” said Agatha, but suddenly feeling the whole idea of seeing this woman was stupid.
* * *
Jill ushered Agatha into what she called her consulting room. It was dark, as the blinds were drawn. There was a smell of joss. Agatha was told to sit in an armchair and Jill sat on a hard upright seat behind her.
“Now what is troubling you?” Jill asked.
“I am having nightmares,” said Agatha.
“I can help with that. First let us go back into your childhood and start there. Tell me about it.”
Agatha had no intention of telling this woman about her upbringing in a Birmingham slum, or about her alcoholic parents. So she invented an idyllic childhood in a Cotswold village and happy school days. Her father had been a farmer and her mother, an old-fashioned housewife. She was rambling on happily and had just got to the bit where her fictitious mother was making one of her famous chocolate cakes and letting little Agatha lick the spoon when Jill’s voice interrupted her. “Don’t tell me a load of lies, Mrs. Raisin, or I cannot help you.”
Agatha leapt to her feet. “How dare you call me a liar.”
“Only when necessary.”
“I’m out of here,” said Agatha. “You can take your therapy and stuff it up your scrawny arse.”
“That will be sixty pounds.”
“What!”
“That is my fee and I’ve earned it listening to your lies.”
Face flaming, Agatha opened her wallet and threw three twenty-pound notes at Jill before storming out.
As she walked home, she wondered furiously how Jill had penetrated the layers and layers of middle class that she had lacquered herself with over the years.
She stopped short at the corner of Lilac Lane. James knew her background. Had James told her?
She strode to his cottage and banged on the door. There was no reply and his car was not parked outside.
Agatha was about to turn away when James drove up. He was no sooner out of his car than Agatha flew at him, shouting, “Did you tell her?”
He pushed her away and said, “You’re gabbling. Tell who what?”
“That therapist. Did you tell her about my background?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” demanded James. “I never gossip about you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Agatha. “It’s silly to be so ashamed of my background, but I am. I told her a fictitious tale about my childhood and she knew I was lying.”
“Come in and have a coffee and tell me why you went to her in the first place.”
Agatha did not say she had been prompted by jealousy. Instead, she said that she had learned Gwen was consulting Jill and she wanted to see what sort of woman the therapist was.
“You saw me with her in the pub,” said James. “You could have waited and asked me. I find her intelligent and sympathetic. She is a very good listener.”
“So am I,” said Agatha, “and I don’t charge sixty pounds.”
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“I haven’t been consulting her. I regard her as a friend.”
“How did you meet her?”
“She called on me.”
“Why?”
James looked awkward. “Jill said she was new to the village and wanted to meet a few interesting people. She had read my travel books.”
“Wanted to meet a few unmarried men,” said Agatha cynically.
“Let’s talk about something else. Are you still suspicious of Gwen?”
“I am,” said Agatha. “Very.”
“Maybe you should trust the police on this one, Agatha. I am perfectly sure they grilled her.”
“There’s something about her that makes men go weak at the knees,” said Agatha.
“You need a break after all you’ve been through,” said James. “Go on holiday.”
“Maybe. I’ll call on Bill Wong and see if there’s any news.”
* * *
It turned out to be Bill’s day off. Once she got past the barrier of his formidable mother, Bill led her into the garden and listened to her suspicions about Gwen.
“We’ve got absolutely nothing on her,” said Bill. “And believe me, we tried. Forensics went over that cold room where John was dissected. They found his fingerprints but none from Gwen so when she said she’d never ever go in there and left it all to her son, we had to believe her. Gareth Craven vouched for her and said she’d given up baking entirely after the murder of her husband.”
“He’s sweet on her,” said Agatha. “I bet he’ll be the next husband and God help him.”
“Agatha, it’s time to let go. You’ve had a dreadful experience. Forget it. Take a break. It’s lovely weather.”
Agatha sighed. “I’m maybe imagining things. I’ll do that.”
* * *
That evening, Jill had a visitor, but not a client. Clive Tremund, a private detective from Oxford, accepted a cash payment and said, “Why were you so curious about the Raisin woman?”
“She’s a detective. She lives here. I wanted to know all about her. She could make trouble for me and I’d like to keep her at arm’s length.”
“You mean you don’t want her ferreting around in your background?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide. Now, get out of here.”
Clive paused in the doorway. “I’d be careful if I were you. Murder follows that woman Raisin around.”
“Pooh, it’ll be a blue moon before anyone murders me.”
After he had gone, Jill settled down in front of the television and switched on the news. Forest fires had been raging across Canada and a cloud of dust was heading across the Atlantic.
“So in our skies next week,” said the announcer, “we may have the rare sight of a blue moon.”
Also by M. C. Beaton
AGATHA RAISIN
Something Borrowed, Someone Dead: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Hiss and Hers: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
As the Pig Turns: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Busy Body: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
There Goes the Bride: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
A Spoonful of Poison: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Kissing Christmas Goodbye: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Love, Lies and Liquor: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Perfect Paragon: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Deadly Dance: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
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 Fryfram
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 Walkers of Dembley: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Potted Gardener: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Vicious Vet: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Quiche of Death: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Skeleton in the Closet
EDWARDIAN MYSTERY SERIES
Our Lady of Pain
Sick of Shadows
Hasty Death
Snobbery with Violence
About The Author
M. C. Beaton, who was the British guest of honor at Bouchercon 2006, has been hailed as the “Queen of Crime” by The Globe and Mail. In addition to her New York Times and USA Today bestselling Agatha Raisin novels, Beaton is the author of the Hamish Macbeth series and four Edwardian mysteries.
Born in Scotland, she currently divides her time between the English Cotswolds and Paris. Visit her on Facebook or at www.mcbeaton.com.
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.
THE BLOOD OF AN ENGLISHMAN. Copyright © 2014 by M. C. Beaton. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Beaton, M. C.
The blood of an Englishman: an Agatha Raisin mystery / M. C. Beaton.—First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-312-61626-7 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-4668-5773-5 (e-book)
1. Raisin, Agatha (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—England—Cotswold Hills—Fiction. 3. Amateur theater—England—Cotswold Hills—Fiction. 4. City and town life—England—Fiction. 5. Cotswold Hills (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6053.H4535B58 2014
823'.914—dc23
2014016728
e-ISBN 9781466857735
First Edition: September 2014
