by M C Beaton
The Agatha Raisin series
(listed in order)
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death
Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener
Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage
Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death
Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam
Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate
Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance
Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison
M. C. Beaton
ROBINSON
London
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the USA 2007 by St Martin’s Press
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
First UK edition published by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2007
This paperback edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2008
Copyright © 2007, 2008 M. C. Beaton
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-84529-533-2 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-84529-576-9 (hbk)
Printed and bound in the EU
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
AGATHA RAISIN
Agatha Raisin was born in a tower block slum in Birmingham and christened Agatha Styles. No middle names. Agatha had often longed for at least two middle names such as Caroline or Olivia. Her parents, Joseph and Margaret Styles, were both unemployed and both drunks. They lived on benefits and the occasional bout of shoplifting.
Agatha attended the local comprehensive as a rather shy and sensitive child but quickly developed a bullying, aggressive manner so that the other pupils would steer clear of her.
At the age of fifteen, her parents decided it was time she earned her keep and her mother found her work in a biscuit factory, checking packets of biscuits on a conveyer belt for any faults.
As soon as Agatha had squirreled away enough money, she ran off to London and found work as a waitress and studied computing at evening classes. But she fell in love with a customer at the restaurant, Jimmy Raisin. Jimmy had curly black hair and bright blue eyes and a great deal of charm. He seemed to have plenty of money to throw around. He wanted an affair, but besotted as she was, Agatha held out for marriage.
They moved into one room in a lodging house in Finsbury Park where Jimmy’s money soon ran out (he would never say where it came from in the first place). And he drank. Agatha found she had escaped the frying pan into the fire.
She was fiercely ambitious. One night, when she came home and found Jimmy stretched out on the bed dead drunk, she packed her things and escaped.
She found work as a secretary at a public relations firm and soon moved into doing public relations herself. Her mixture of bullying and cajoling brought her success. She saved and saved until she could start her own business.
But Agatha had always been a dreamer. Years back when she had been a child her parents had taken her on one glorious holiday. They had rented a cottage in the Cotswolds for a week. Agatha never forgot that golden holiday or the beauty of the countryside.
So as soon as she had amassed a great deal of money, she took early retirement and bought a cottage in the village of Carsely in the Cotswolds.
Her first attempt at detective work came after she cheated at a village quiche baking competition by putting a shop bought quiche in as her own. The judge died of poisoning and shamed Agatha had to find the real killer. Her adventures there are covered in the first Agatha Raisin mystery, The Quiche of Death, and in the series of novels that follow. As successful as she is in detecting, she constantly remains unlucky in love. Will she ever find happiness with the man of her dreams? Watch this space!
Chapter One
Agatha Raisin was bored.
Her detective agency in the Cotswolds was thriving, but the cases were all small, niggling and unexciting, and yet took a great deal of time to solve. She sometimes felt if she had to deal with another missing cat or dog, she would scream.
Dreams and fantasies, that cushion she usually had against the realities of life, had, to her astonished mind, disappeared entirely. She had dreamed so long about her neighbour and ex-husband, James Lacey, that she would not accept the fact that she did not love him any more. She thought of him angrily as some sort of drug that had ceased to work.
So although it was only early October, she tried to fill her mind with thoughts of Christmas. Unlike quite a number of people, Agatha had not given up on Christmas. To have the perfect Christmas had been a childhood dream whilst surviving a rough upbringing in a Birmingham slum. Holly berries glistened, snow fell gently outside, and inside, all was Dickensian jollity. And in her dreams, James Lacey kissed her under the mistletoe, and, like a middle-aged Sleeping Beauty, she would awake to passion once more.
Her friend, the vicar’s wife, Mrs Bloxby, had once pointed out that Christmas was to celebrate the birth of Christ, but Agatha’s mind shied away from that. To her, Christmas was more Hollywood than church.
Christmas advertisements were already appearing on television, and supermarket aisles were laden with Christmas crackers, mince pies and puddings.
But something happened one crisp morning early in the month to take her mind off Christmas.
She was sitting in her office in Mircester, going through the files with her secretary, Mrs Freedman, wondering whether to handle another dreary job herself or to turn it over to one of her two detectives, Phil Marshall and Patrick Mulligan. Her erstwhile detective, young Harry Beam, was now studying at Cambridge, and Agatha missed his hardworking energy.
‘I nearly forgot,’ said Mrs Freedman, ‘but this letter arrived for you. It’s marked “personal”, so I didn’t open it.’
Agatha picked it up. The handwriting on the envelope was spidery and there was no return address. She opened it. She read:
Dear Mrs Raisin,
I have learned of your prowess as a detective through the local newspapers and I wonder if you might find time to call on me.
I think a member of my family is trying to kill me. Isn’t the weather warm for October?
Yours sincerely,
Phyllis Tamworthy
The paper was expensive. The address, in raised italic script at the top, gave the address of The Manor House, Lower Tapor, Gloucestershire.
‘Nuts,’ said Agatha. ‘Barking mad. How are our profits?’
‘Good,’ said Mrs Freeman. ‘It is amazing how grateful people are to get one of their pets back.’
‘I miss Harry,’ sighed Agatha. ‘Phil and Patrick don’t mind the divorces, but they do hate searching for animals. They think it’s all beneath them, and I think it’s beneath me.’
‘Why don’t you employ a young person to cope with the missing animals? A girl, perhaps. Girls are very keen on animals.’
‘That’s a very good idea. Put an ad in the local paper and we’ll see if we can get anyone. Say we want a trainee.’
A week later, Agatha, after a long day of interviews, felt she would never, ever find someone suitable. It seemed as if all the dimmest girls in Mircester fancied themselves as detectives. Some had come dressed in black leather and stiletto-heeled boots, thinking that a Charlie’s Angel image would be appropriate. Unfortunately, with the exception of one anorexic, the rest were overweight with great bosoms and buttocks. Weight would not have mattered, however, if any of them had shown the least spark of intelligence.
Agatha was about to pack up for the day when the door to her office opened and a young girl entered. She had blonde hair that looked natural and pale-blue eyes fringed with thick fair lashes in a neat-featured face. She was conservatively dressed in a tailored suit, white blouse and low-heeled shoes.
‘Yes?’ asked Agatha.
‘My name is Toni Gilmour. I believe you are looking for a trainee detective.’
‘Applicants are supposed to apply in writing.’
‘I know. But you see, I’ve just made up my mind to try for the job.’
Actually, Toni had been lurking in the street outside for a good part of the day, studying the girls who came out after their interviews, examining their faces and listening to what they said. She gathered that no one had got the job. She deliberately calculated that if she turned up last, then a desperate Mrs Raisin might take her on.
But Agatha was anxious to get home to her cats and relax for the weekend.
‘Go away and write your application,’ she said. ‘Send in copies of your school certificates plus a short description of why you think you might be suited for the job.’
Agatha half-rose from her seat behind her desk, but sat down again as Toni said, ‘I have brought my school certificates with me. I am well educated. I work hard. People like me. I feel that is important in getting facts.’
Agatha scowled at her. Agatha’s way of getting facts was usually by either lying or emotional blackmail or outright bullying.
‘It’s not glamorous,’ said Agatha. ‘Your job will be to try to find missing dogs and cats. It’s tedious work and you will often find that the animal has been killed on the road or has probably been stolen. When did you leave school?’
‘Last June. I’m seventeen.’
‘Are you employed at the moment?’
‘Yes, I work at the pharmacy counter at Shalbey’s.’ Shalbey’s was one of the local supermarkets. ‘I work the late shift.’
‘The difficulty is that I need someone to start right away.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Toni. ‘I can get the sack.’
‘Don’t you want to go to university?’
‘I can’t bear the idea of having a bank loan for my studies around my neck for years. Mrs Raisin, it would do no harm to give me a trial.’
‘I don’t like the idea of you trying to get the sack. You’ll be letting your employers down.’
‘There are plenty of girls to take my place. I think I am showing initiative. You cannot want a detective who plays by the rules the whole time.’
Agatha realized how tired she was. Toni had a clear, precise manner of speaking, hardly ever heard in the local youth these days, where the glottal stop was considered de rigueur.
‘All right. Report here on Monday morning at nine o’clock. You’d better wear flat shoes and clothes you don’t mind getting messed up.’
‘How much will I be paid?’ asked Toni.
‘Six pounds an hour and no overtime while you are a trainee. But do well and I’ll give you a bonus. You may claim reasonable expenses.’
Toni thanked her and left.
‘Odd girl,’ commented Agatha.
‘I thought she was nice,’ said Mrs Freedman. ‘Quite old-fashioned.’
Toni cycled to her home in one of Mircester’s worst housing estates. She pushed her bike up the weedy garden path and propped it against the wall of the house. Then she took a deep breath and let herself in. Her brother, Terry, was sitting slumped in front of the television with a bottle of beer in one hand and a fish supper in the other. ‘Where’s Mum?’ asked Toni.
‘Passed out,’ said Terry. Unlike his slim sister, Terry was a mass of bulging muscles. A scar from a knife fight in a pub marred his right cheek.
Toni went upstairs and looked in her mother’s bedroom. Mrs Gilmour was lying fully clothed on top of the bed. An empty vodka bottle lay on the bed beside her. The air stank of sweat and booze.
Toni went to her own room and took off the suit she had borrowed from a friend. She hung the suit away carefully and then put on jeans and a clean T-shirt.
Downstairs, she took down a denim jacket from a peg on the wall and put it on. She opened the door and began to wheel her bike back down the garden.
Her brother appeared in the doorway behind her. ‘Where you goin’?’ he shouted.
‘Work. Late shift,’ yelled Toni. ‘Remember that stuff called work? Why don’t you get yourself a job, you wanker?’
Agatha was about to put a packaged curry into the microwave for her dinner when the doorbell rang. When she opened her front door she saw her friend Mrs Bloxby carrying a box of books.
‘These books were left after the sale at the church,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘They’re the old green-and-white Penguin detective stories. I thought you might like to have them.’
‘Suits me fine. Come in and put them on the kitchen table. I plan a lazy weekend and you’ve saved me a trip to the bookshop.’
Mrs Bloxby sat down at the kitchen table. Agatha looked at her friend with sudden concern. The vicar’s wife seemed tired. The lines under her gentle eyes were more pronounced, and strands of wispy grey hair were escaping from the bun at the base of her neck.
‘Let me get you a sherry,’ said Agatha. ‘You look worn out.’
‘Alf has a cold,’ said Mrs Bloxby. Alf was the vicar. Agatha always thought Alf was a stupid name for a vicar. He ought to have been called Peregrine or Clarence or Digby or something like that. ‘I’ve been doing the parish visits for him. Honestly, half of them don’t even bother coming to church.’
Agatha placed a glass of sherry in front of her.
‘I don’t suppose anyone’s frightened of God any more,’ commented Agatha. ‘People like a good fright.’
‘Cynical, but true,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Ecology is the new religion. The planet is dying, the poles are melting, and it’s all your fault, you sinners. Did you get a girl for your dogs and cats?’
‘I’m trying someone out. She’s neat and clean and somewhat old-fashioned in her speech and manner. Odd, these days.’
‘You’re always trying to brush against my boobs, you old perv,’ Toni was saying to the pharmacist, Basil Jones.
‘There’s not much space here,’ said Basil, outraged. ‘I was merely trying to get past you.’ Basil’s anger was fuelled by the fact that he had deliberately brushed against her.
‘You’re nothin’ but a sad old sack,’ said Toni.
Basil’s face was now mottled with anger. ‘You’re fired!’
‘Okey-dokey,’ said Toni cheerfully.
; ‘Have you heard from Mr Lacey?’ Mrs Bloxby asked.
‘No, he’s gone off somewhere. Don’t care. Though if he comes back in time, I might invite him to my Christmas dinner.’
‘Oh, no, Mrs Raisin! Not again!’
Agatha had previously had a disaster of a Christmas dinner when she had used the oven in the church hall to cook an enormous turkey, turned the gas up too high and filled the hall with acrid black smoke.
‘It’ll be perfect this time!’ Both Agatha and Mrs Bloxby called each other by their second names, an old-fashioned custom in the Carsely Ladies’ Society, to which they both belonged.
‘It’s only October,’ said the vicar’s wife plaintively. ‘No one should be allowed to mention Christmas before the first of December.’
Agatha grinned. ‘You’ll see. I’ll have it one week before, so it won’t interfere with anyone’s family arrangements.’
Mrs Bloxby finished her sherry and rose wearily to her feet. ‘I’ll drive you to the vicarage,’ said Agatha.
‘Nonsense. I can walk.’
‘I insist,’ said Agatha.
The vicar was sitting reading a book with a box of tissues on a table beside him. ‘Hello, dear,’ he said faintly.
‘How are you?’ asked Agatha briskly.
‘Still very weak.’
‘Your wife is exhausted,’ said Agatha, ‘so I’m going to look after you and give her a break.’
He looked at Agatha in horror. ‘There’s no need. In fact, I’m feeling better by the minute.’
‘We can’t have your wife falling ill with overwork, now can we?’ Agatha gave him a wide smile but her small bearlike eyes were threatening. The vicar turned to his wife.
‘Please go and lie down, dearest. I assure you I am now well enough to fix us a light supper. Mrs Raisin, your services will not be needed!’
‘Alf, you’re shouting,’ protested Mrs Bloxby. ‘Mrs Raisin was only trying to help.’
Agatha drove back to her cottage with a grin on her face. Men, she thought. Typical. Women get colds and men get flu.
