by M C Beaton
Agatha and James packed up and returned to Carsely that evening, James to his cottage, Agatha to hers. Agatha busied herself with household chores, fed the cats, watered the garden, and then went to the Red Lion, trying not to hope that James would be there. But there were only the locals, who talked to her with the sort of half-smiles which told Agatha that she and James going off together had been much discussed and that whatever Mrs Bloxby had said about them had fallen on deaf ears.
So I've got the reputation of being a fallen woman with none of the pleasure, thought Agatha, and was relieved to escape after a pub meal and get home and go to bed. Before she slipped her nightgown over her head, she stared in the mirror at a naked body which seemed to be slipping back into a sort of spinsterhood, which looked already to her jaundiced eyes as if it had never, ever been made love to.
She took a long time to get to sleep and awoke to find the sun high in the sky and the sound of her doorbell jangling through the house.
She put on her housecoat and ran to answer it, blinking up at the tall figure of James.
"I've got something I want to ask you, Agatha," he said seriously. And then a voice from a car in the road called, "Coo-ee!"
Agatha peered round him and saw getting out of a little red car her former secretary, Bunty.
"Hi!" said Bunty, walking up to join them. "I was in the area and thought I'd pop in to say hello."
"Come in," said Agatha wearily to both James and Bunty. She led them into her sitting-room. "I'll go and get coffee," she said.
When she carried in a tray of coffee mugs, Bunty and James were laughing about something, Bunty's fresh young face glowing with health.
All at once Agatha felt so depressed, she thought she would be sick.
She could not bear to sit and watch James being charmed by this young girl, could not bear to have any more evidence that what she had experienced with him was simply a drunken one-night stand.
"I'm awfully sorry," said Agatha, putting down the tray of coffee very carefully on the table, "but I am feeling unwell. I'm sorry, Bunty, but I have got to go and lie down."
"Can I get the doctor?" asked James, alarmed.
"No," said Agatha. "Entertain Bunty for me, would you, James?"
Agatha trailed back to her bedroom, threw her housecoat across the room and crawled back into bed and drew the duvet up over her ears. She was so depressed, she felt she hurt all over. She was nothing but a silly, middle-aged woman.
She dimly heard the door downstairs slam and a car driving off. They had gone. Maybe they had gone off together for a happy lunch in a pub. Maybe Bunty would ask her to their wedding.
A hand shaking her shoulder made her twist round and stare up.
"Agatha," said James gently. "What's the matter?"
With a great effort, Agatha forced herself to say, "Just a headache, James. If I lie quietly for a bit, I'll be all right."
"Would you like me to bring you some aspirin?"
"No, no. I'll be fine."
He stroked her forehead. "Poor thing. I'll leave you in peace."
"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" asked Agatha. "The bill for Sir Charles?"
"Oh, that. No." He gave a little laugh. "Of all the times to pick. I actually came round to ask you to marry me, but you'd better get over your headache first before you even think about it."
He turned to walk away.
Agatha sat bolt upright. "Are you joking? What was that about marriage? I mean, marriage!"
He came back and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I know you probably like your independence. It hit me last night. We get on very well. The fact is, it all seemed a bit lonely without you. Agatha! What are you doing, Agatha?"
She had started to unbutton his shirt.
"Agatha, what about your headache?"
"What headache?" asked Agatha as she pulled him down on top of her.
An hour later, James said dreamily, "I don't know why, but I seem to remember your telling me that you had walked out on your husband but not divorced him."
Agatha felt a stab of cold fear in her stomach. It had all been so long ago. The last time she had seen Jimmy Raisin had been over thirty years ago, when she left him as he lay in a drunken stupor. He was bound to be dead by now.
She forced herself to laugh. "No, you're mistaken," she said. "Jimmy died of drink ages ago."
"So whose house shall we live in?" he asked. "They're both the same size."
"Yours, I think," said Agatha, promptly forgetting about Jimmy. "You're the one with the most possessions. All those books."
"Did you hear about Mrs Mason?"
"Oh, her," snorted Agatha. "The cheek of it, telling Deborah I was a phony. What about her?"
"She's devastated about her niece. She's moved off to live with her sister, not Mrs Camden, another one in Wales, and she's putting her house up for sale. It looks as if the Carsely Ladies' Society will be looking for a new chairwoman. Interested?"
"No," said Agatha lazily. "My managing days are over."
"So," said Mrs Bloxby happily two days later, "I am delighted that you and James are getting married in our church. It will be quite an event for the village. But I was saying to Alf the other day that for some reason I thought you were separated from your husband, not divorced." Alf Bloxby was the vicar.
Again, that stab of fear in Agatha's stomach, but she decided to ignore it and said, "Jimmy's been dead for years." Then she began to worry. Would the vicar expect to see the death certificate? She would need to try to find out what had happened to Jimmy. The wedding was set in three months' time. She and James were seeing an estate agent that very afternoon to put Agatha's cottage on the market. She had come such a long way from the days when she had worked as a waitress to support a drunken and increasingly violent husband. The vicarage sitting-room was calm and quiet, with shadows from the sun-dappled leaves in the old garden outside flitting across the walls. Carsely belonged to another world. She refused to think about Jimmy. She was marrying James, and no one was going to stop her.
Bill Wong called that evening just as Agatha was getting ready to go out for dinner with James.
"I saw the announcement of your wedding in the local paper," said Bill. "Congratulations. Have you had a divorce?"
"I don't need a divorce," snapped Agatha. "My husband's dead."
"Agatha, I'm pretty sure you told me you had left him years ago and you didn't know whether he was alive or dead."
"Just because you're a policeman doesn't mean you've got total recall," said Agatha. "You're going to be invited to the wedding, of course."
Bill leaned forward, his features solemn. "Agatha, I'm your friend and I know you well and I know what you feel for James Lacey. Take my advice and get on to a detective agency and get them to trace your husband and find out where he is."
"Are you deaf?" shouted Agatha. "I've told you. He's dead. I'm marrying James Lacey and I'll kill anyone who tries to stop me!"
The next morning, Roy Silver dropped in for a chat with Bunty.
"Haven't you any work to do?" asked Bunty.
"Loads," said Roy cheerfully. "Reluctant to get started, that's all."
"I called on your friend, Agatha Raisin, a few days ago," said Bunty.
"How is the old bat?"
"She wasn't very well. But her fiance entertained me."
"Her what? I phoned her last night and she said nothing about the engagement."
"Fact. One James Lacey, quite a dish, too. It was in the local paper yesterday. My ma phoned me with the news."
"Well, well," said Roy thoughtfully and drifted off to his own office.
He sat behind his desk and stared into space. He had phoned Agatha at the urging of Mr Wilson, his boss, who wanted Agatha back. Agatha had been rude and dismissive, had told Roy not to call her again, had told him she was tired of his creepy sycophantic ways, and a few other hard words.
He remembered when he used to work for Agatha's PR firm, Agatha once telling him over
a drink that she had walked out on her husband, that she did not know where he was. Of course, that had been some time ago, and maybe Agatha had either heard of her husband's death or divorced him. Still...
What a lovely way it would be to pay Agatha back if by any chance she had lied to James and intended to commit bigamy. Would do no harm to find out. He pulled forward the Yellow Pages and began to run his thumb down a list of detective agencies.
The Dembley Walkers trudged out over the countryside. "You know, ah've been thinkin'," said Kelvin, "thon Laceys were an odd couple. Ah think they were working for the police."
"What makes you think that?" asked Mary Trapp.
"It was odd the way they surfaced among us shortly after Jessica's murder and then, when Deborah was arrested, they disappeared."
"I thought that," said Alice. "I'll tell you another thing: that flat they were in in Sheep Street was the property of Sir Charles."
"I could have told you from day one they weren't one of us," said Peter.
"So why didn't you?" jeered Kelvin.
Before Peter could retaliate, a gamekeeper surfaced and told them in no uncertain terms that they were in danger of disturbing the young pheasants. Happily they drew together to meet the challenge. Pheasants were for the rich, the land belonged to all; come the revolution, lackeys like him would be hanging from the nearest lamp-post; and the mysterious Laceys were forgotten.
FB2 document info
Document ID: e35b29fd-40f5-44fd-97ff-6253de900ec6
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 14.9.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.67, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
M.C. Beaton
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