by M C Beaton
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 on to 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 email,’ said Phil. ‘Maybe she’s ill.’
‘She would surely have phoned.’ But Agatha checked her email. 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 email.’
Toni hung her head. ‘I’ll apologize.’
‘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 vicar’s wife sipped sherry. Then she said, ‘People don’t often recognize 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 that 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.
