by M C Beaton
“Such an odd job for a little girl,” said Mrs. Evans. She turned to her son when the toast was over and picked up her conversation with him where she had left off.
Agatha said to Toni, “We’ve just been to Piddlebury.”
“Did you find out why they all banded together with this fiction that the murders were done by an outsider?” asked Toni.
“Stonewalled at every turn,” said Charles, “apart from Jenny Soper, who admitted to being blackmailed. Such an odd village. So closed in. I bet there was a lot of incest in the old days.”
Mrs. Evans found to her annoyance that her son was no longer listening to her. “Are you all right now?” Frank asked Agatha. “Toni told me you got struck on the head and then the murderers tried to push you down the well.”
Agatha launched into a highly colourful, highly embroidered account of her adventures, pausing only to eat her food.
Frank was now not even pretending to listen to his mother.
Mrs. Evans couldn’t bear it. She interrupted Agatha and said in a high, thin voice, “I hope Toni is not going to continue with this unsavoury work after she is married.”
“I need to make a living,” protested Toni.
“But there are more suitable jobs. I happen to have a friend who owns a florist’s shop in Mircester. Now, there’s a genteel job for you.”
“Why don’t you take it yourself,” said Agatha. “Don’t have a job, do you?”
“My poor Ethelred left me very comfortably off, thank you.”
Agatha cackled with laughter. “Poor man. Did he get called Ethel at school?”
Mrs. Evans threw her napkin down on the table. “I’ve had enough of this. I feel faint. Help me out, Frank.”
“I’ll phone you later, Toni,” said Frank.
Agatha, Charles and Toni watched as Mrs. Evans, clutching onto her son, left the dining room.
Toni got to her feet. “Agatha, couldn’t you just, this one evening, mind your own business?”
Charles looked at Agatha’s downcast face. “Cheer up,” he said. “Toni will come to her senses. That damned mother of his will win out in the end.”
* * *
But the next morning when Agatha arrived in the office, it was to find Toni waiting for her. Grim-faced, Toni said, “I’m giving you a month’s notice. You nearly ruined my engagement.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” pleaded Agatha. “But the woman was insufferable.”
“Did it never dawn on you that I might be able to cope?” asked Toni. “I am not a child.”
“But where will you go? What will you do?”
“I shall join the police force.”
“Oh, Toni. Please stay. We can’t do without you.”
“You should have thought of that. Now, I’m off to work on the Bryelys’ divorce case.”
She went out and slammed the door.
Agatha went to the window and stared down into the street. Toni emerged and walked towards the car park. Before she turned the corner, she gave a little skip, like someone who has found freedom at last.
Phil put an arm around Agatha’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She’ll change her mind.”
* * *
But the month passed and Toni showed no signs of relenting. Agatha decided to give a farewell party for her in the office. The staff arrived early, the champagne was in two ice buckets and canapés laid out on the desks. Patrick, Simon, Phil, Mrs. Freedman and Agatha had all bought presents.
The clock on the wall ticked past nine o’clock. No sign of Toni. “Check your e-mail,” said Phil. “Maybe she’s ill.”
“She would surely have phoned.” But Agatha checked her e-mail. There was one from Toni.
Agatha read, “I couldn’t bear the idea of the last day so I’ve gone off to Wales with Frank to visit his mother. Thanks for everything. Toni.”
In a faltering voice, Agatha read it aloud.
“This is all your fault,” yelled Simon, who had received an account of that disastrous dinner from Toni. “Well, you can damn well take my notice as well.”
They all stared at him as he crossed the office and slammed the door behind him.
Agatha sat staring at her computer. “I don’t know about you,” said Patrick. “But I could do with a drink. Come on, Agatha. Let’s all get pissed.”
He cracked open a bottle of champagne and began to fill glasses.
He raised his glass. “Here’s to Agatha Raisin. The best detective in the world.”
That was when the usually indomitable Agatha began to cry.
* * *
A week later, Phil took a large box with all the presents round to Toni’s flat. When she opened the door, he handed her the box. “Presents for you,” he said.
“Bring them in,” said Toni in a subdued voice.
Phil placed them on the floor. “Coffee?” asked Toni.
“No, thanks,” said Phil. “I’ve got to get back to work. Congratulations, by the way. You’ve finally made our Agatha cry.”
Toni coloured up. “I’m a free spirit, Phil. It’s my life. I can leave if I want to.”
“Look, she arranged a farewell party for you, we all brought these presents, and all you do is send an e-mail.”
Toni hung her head. “I’ll apologise.”
“Don’t do that. Keep clear and let her forget about the whole thing. Simon has left as well. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Goodbye, Toni.”
After he had left, Toni opened her presents. Agatha had given her a box of Chanel cosmetics; Phil, a book token; Patrick, a guidebook on police work; Mrs. Freedman, a box of embroidered handkerchiefs; and Simon, a large bottle of Dior perfume.
She sat there for a long time, reflecting on the quite horrible week she had spent in Cardiff. Toni felt more trapped now by Mrs. Evans than she had ever felt with Agatha. For Mrs. Evans had it all worked out. Toni and Frank were to have an early wedding and come and live with her in her bungalow, called Mon Repos. Frank would transfer his studies to Cardiff and Toni could find suitable work. Toni and Frank had had a painful row, Frank thinking the arrangement was a good one. The engagement was still on but she and Frank had parted on strained terms. How much in love I was, thought Toni, remembering the days when she was encased in a golden bubble. Now, the bubble had burst and she did not know what to do.
At last she phoned Bill Wong and made an arrangement to meet him and ask his advice about joining the police, even though Bill, too, had an awful mother in whom he could never see any faults.
They met in a pub near Bill’s home that evening. He listened carefully to the whole saga even though he had already heard a lot of it from Agatha. He squirmed a little as her soft voice went on, remembering the times when his own mother had told his latest romance that she and Bill would live with his parents and how his latest love had melted away. When she had finished, he said cautiously, “You had a lot of freedom working for Agatha. There’s tight discipline in the police force. Because of the rules about taking on ethnic minorities, you’d probably not get a job in Mircester. Then when you do qualify, you’ll start at the bottom, traffic control and things like that. Also, the police can be pretty sexist. We’re not bad in Mircester, but some stations, I believe, can be pretty rough for a woman. Where is Simon?”
“He’s gone to work for one of Agatha’s rivals.”
“Poor Agatha. What a mess. Is Mrs. Evans really as awful as she said?”
“Worse.”
“Engagement still on?”
“Just.”
“My advice is to go back to Agatha and ask for your job back.”
“I can’t do that! I didn’t turn up for the farewell party and they had presents for me.”
“I think Agatha has a bigger heart than you give her credit for.”
* * *
That evening, Agatha was saying to Mrs. Bloxby, “I’ve told you. I wouldn’t take that ungrateful little girl back if she came crawling on her knees.”
There was a silence while the vic
ar’s wife sipped sherry. Then she said, “People don’t often recognise jealousy in themselves. Because if you are jealous of someone, you are in competition with them, and looking down at them at the same time. So when someone accuses you of jealousy, you’re apt to say, ‘Jealous of her? You must be mad. She’s nothing but…’ and so on.”
“I’m not jealous of Toni,” said Agatha mulishly.
“Miss Gilmour is very young. She may be feeling a bit lost, now she has possibly spent more time with the mother.”
Agatha heaved a sigh. “She won’t be back. Start of a new era. I’m interviewing new detectives tomorrow. I can forget about Piddlebury. Stupid people. Not one of them had the guts to go to the police. It stands to reason if someone is blackmailing you into silence to tell a lie about the murderer, then that very person is probably the murderer. Sod the lot of them.”
“I really don’t think that village will ever be the same,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I think there will come a change for the better.”
“Maybe in the next hundred years,” said Agatha.
* * *
Fog was enveloping the village when Agatha trudged back to her cottage. She let herself in. Charles’s lazy voice came from her living room. “In here, Aggie.”
Agatha strode in. “How many times have I told you to stop calling me…”
Her voice trailed off. Toni was sitting by the fire. She rose to her feet and faced Agatha.
“I-I-I w-wondered if I could have my j-job back,” she stammered.
Agatha stood with her head down, staring at the floor.
“Don’t see why not,” she said at last. “Pour me a gin and tonic, Charles, while I get my coat off.”
Agatha went into the hall and hung up her damp coat. She stared at herself in the mirror.
A slow smile crossed her face.
Maybe Mrs. Bloxby is right, thought Agatha Raisin, and there is a God after all. I’ve got Toni back and Simon has gone. Oh, happy day.
Also by M. C. Beaton
AGATHA RAISIN
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” (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.
SOMETHING BORROWED, SOMEONE DEAD. Copyright © 2013 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
Cover design by DAVID BALDEOSINGH ROTSTEIN
Cover illustration by GRIESBACH/MARTUCCI
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Beaton, M. C.
Something borrowed, someone dead: an Agatha Raisin mystery / M. C. Beaton. — First Minotaur Books edition.
pages cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-64013-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-3469-9 (e-book)
1. Raisin, Agatha (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—England—Cotswold Hills—Fiction. 3. Police—Crimes against—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6053.H4535.S66 2013
823'.914—dc23
2013013926
e-ISBN 9781466834699
First Edition: September 2013
