The Quiche of Death (17 page)

"And guess what?"

"What?" said Agatha testily.

"Your old persecutor, Mrs. Boggle, ups and asks him point-blank in the middle of Harvey's if he means to marry Mrs. Camberwell,
everyone thinking her a widow. And
he
replies in surprise, 'Why the devil should I marry my own sister?' So I gather the ladies of Carsely are now thinking that
although they cannot really call on him after what he said to Mrs. Bloxby, perhaps they can get up a little party or dinner
and lure him into one of their homes." Bill laughed heartily.

Agatha turned around, her face suddenly radiant. "We haven't opened the champagne and we must cel­ebrate!"

"Celebrate what?" asked Bill in sudden suspicion.

"Why, your promotion. Dinner won't be long."

Bill opened the champagne and poured them a glass each.

"Is there anything you would like me to do, Mrs. Raisin, before dinner? Lay the table?"

"No, that's done. But you could start off by calling me Agatha, and there is something else. There's a sign in the front garden
and a sledge hammer beside it. Could you hammer it into the ground?"

"Of course. Not selling again, are you?"

"No, I'm naming this cottage. I'm tired of everyone still calling it Budgen's cottage. It belongs to me.

He went out into the garden and picked up the sign and hammered its pole into the ground and then stood back to admire the
effect.

Brown lettering on white, it proclaimed boldly: RAISIN'S COTTAGE.

Bill grinned. Agatha was in Carsely to stay.

Keep reading
FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

M.C. BEATON S LATEST AGATHA RAISIN MYSTERY

The Perfect Paragon

NOW AVAILABLE FROM

ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS

Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar's wife, stepped out into her garden and took a deep breath of fresh-scented air. Never had there been
so much blossom. The Ulac trees were bent down under the weight of purple and white blooms. White hawthorn hedges formed bridal
alleys out of the country lanes. Clematis spilled over walls like flowery waterfalls, and wisteria decorated the golden stone
of the cottages with showers of delicate purple blooms. AU the trees were covered in bright, fresh green. It was as if the
countryside were clothed like an animal in a deep, rich pelt of leaves and flowers.

The few misery-guts in the village shook their heads and said it heralded a harsh winter to come. Nature moved in a mysterious
way to protect itself.

The vicarage doorbell rang and Mrs. Bloxby went to answer it. Agatha Raisin stood there, stocky and truculent, a line of worry
between her eyes.

"Come in," said Mrs. Bloxby. "Why aren't you at the office? No cases to solve?"

Agatha ran her own detective agency in Mircester. She was well dressed, as she usually was these days, in a linen trouser
suit, and her glossy brown hair was cut in a fashionable crop. But her small brown eyes looked worried.

Mrs. Bloxby led the way into the garden. "Coffee?"

"No," said Agatha. "I've been drinking gallons of the stuff. Just wanted a chat."

"Chat away."

Agatha felt a sense of comfort stealing over her. Mrs. Bloxby with her mild eyes and grey hair always had a tranquillizing
effect on her.

"I could do with a really big case. Everything seems to be itty-bitty things like lost cats and dogs. I don't want to run
into the red. Miss Simms, who was acting as secretary, has gone off with my full-time detective, Patrick Mulligan. He's retired
and doesn't want to be bothered any more with work. Sammy Allen did the photo work, and Douglas Ballantyne the technical stuff.
But I had to let them go. There just wasn't enough work. Then Sally Fleming, who replaced Patrick, got lured away by a London
detective agency, and my treasure of a secretary, Mrs. Edie Frint, got married again.

"Maybe the trouble was that I gave up taking divorce cases. The lawyers used to put a good bit of business my way."

Mrs. Bloxby was well aware that Agatha was divorced from the love of her Ufe, James Lacey, and thought that was probably why
Agatha did not want to handle divorce cases.

She said, "Maybe you should take on a few divorce cases just to get the money rolling again. You surely don't want any murders."

"I'd rather have a murder than a divorce," muttered Agatha.

"Perhaps you have been working too hard. Maybe you should take a few days off. I mean, it is a glorious spring."

"Is it?" Agatha gazed around the glory of the garden with city eyes which had never become used to the countryside. She had
sold up a successful public relations company in London and had taken early retirement. Living in the Cotswolds had been a
dream since childhood, but Agatha still carried the city, with all its bustle and hectic pace, inside herself.

"Who have you got to replace Patrick and Miss Simms? Are you sure you wouldn't like anything? I have some home-made scones."

Agatha was tempted, but the waistband of her trousers was already tight. She shook her head. "Let me s e e . . . staff. Well,
there's a Mrs. Helen Freedman from Evesham as secretary. Middle-aged, competent, quite a treasure. I do all the detecting
myself."

"And for the technical and photographic stuff?"

"I'm looking for someone. Experts charge so much."

"There's Mr. Witherspoon in the village. He's an expert cameraman and so good with computers and things."

"I know Mr. Witherspoon. He must be about a hun­dred."

"Come now. He's only seventy-six and that's quite young these days."

"It's not young. Come on. Seventy-six is creaking."

"Why not go and see him? He lives in Rose Cottage by the school."

"No."

Mrs. Bloxby's normally mild eyes hardened a fraction. Agatha said hurriedly, "On the other hand, it wouldn't hurt me to go
along for a chat." Agatha Raisin, who could face up to most of the world, crumpled before the slightest suggestion of the
vicar's wife's displeasure.

Rose Cottage, despite its name, did not boast any roses. The front garden had been covered in tarmac to allow Mr. Witherspoon
to park his old Ford off the road. His cottage was one of the few modern ones in Carsely, an ugly redbrick two-storeyed affair.
Agatha, who knew Mr. Witherspoon only by sight, was prepared to dislike someone who appeared to have so little taste.

She raised her hand to ring the doorbeU but it was opened and Mr. Witherspoon stood there. "Come to offer me a job?" he said
cheerfully.

Much as she loved Mrs. Bloxby, in that moment Agatha felt she could have strangled her. She hated being manipulated and Mrs.
Bloxby appeared to have done just that.

"I don't know," said Agatha gruffly. "Can I come in?"

"By all means. I've just made coffee."

She telephoned him as soon as I left. That's it, thought Agatha. She followed him into a room made into an office.

It was impeccably clean and ordered. A computer desk stood at the window flanked on either side with shelves of files. A small
round table and two chairs dominated the centre of the room. On the wall opposite the window were ranks of shelves containing
a collection of cameras and lenses.

"Sit down, please," said Mr. Witherspoon. "I'll bring coffee."

He was an average-sized man with thick grey hair. His face was not so much lined as crumpled, as if one only had to take a
hot iron to it to restore it to its former youth. He was slim.

No paunch, thought Agatha. At least he can't be a boozer.

He came back in a short time carrying a tray with the coffee things and a plate of scones.

"Black, please," said Agatha. "May I smoke?"

"Go ahead."

Well, one good mark so far, thought Agatha. "I'll get you an ashtray," he said. "Have a scone."

When he was out of the room, Agatha stared at the plate of scones in sudden suspicion. She picked up one and bit into it.
Mrs. Bloxby's scones. She would swear to it. Once again, she felt manipulated and then experienced a surge of mallcious glee
at the thought of turning him down.

He came back and placed a large glass ashtray next to Agatha.

He sat down opposite her and said, "What can I do for you?"

"Just a social call," said Agatha.

A flicker of disappointment crossed his faded green eyes.

"How nice. How's the detective business?"

"Not much work at the moment."

"That's odd. There's so much infidelity in the Cotswolds, I would have thought you would have enough to keep you busy."

"I don't do divorce cases any more."

"Pity. That's where the money is. Now, take Robert Smedley over in Ancombe. He's very rich. Electronics company. Madly jealous.
Thinks his wife is cheating on him. Pay anything to find out."

They studied each other for a long moment. I really need the money, thought Agatha.

"But he hasn't approached me," she said at last.

"I could get him to."

Agatha had a sizeable bank balance and stocks and shares. But she did not want to become one of those sad people whose Lifetime
savings were eaten up by trying to run an unsuccessful business.

She said tentatively. "I need someone to do bugging and camera work."

"I could do that."

"It sometimes means long hours."

"I'm fit."

"Let me see, this is Sunday. If you could have a word with this Mr. Smedley and bring him along to the office tomorrow, I'll
get my Mrs. Freedman to draw you up a contract. Shall we say a month's trial?"

"Very weU, you won't be disappointed."

Agatha rose to her feet and as a parting shot said, "Don't forget to thank Mrs. Bloxby for the scones."

Outside, realizing she had forgotten to smoke, she Ut up a cigarette. That was the trouble with all these anti smoking people
around these days. It was almost as if their disapproval polluted the very air and forced one to light up when one didn't
want to.

Because of the traditions of the Carsely Ladies' Society, women in the village called each other by their second names. So
Mrs. Freedman was Mrs. Freedman even in the office, but Mr. Witherspoon volunteered his name was Phil.

Agatha was irritated when Phil turned up alone, but he said that Robert Smedley would be along later. After he didn't protest
at the modest wages Agatha was offering him, she felt guilty and promised him more if his work should prove satisfactory.

The office consisted of one low-beamed room above a shop in the old part of Mircester near the abbey. Agatha and Mrs. Freedman
both had desks at the win­dow: Phil was given Patrick's old desk against the wall. There was a chintz-covered sofa and a low
coffee table flanked by two armchairs for visitors. Filing cabinets and a kettle on a tray with a packet of tea and a jar
of instant coffee, milk and sugar cubes made up the rest of the furnishings.

Mr. Robert Smedley arrived at last and Agatha's heart sank. He looked the sort of man she heartily despised. First of all,
he was crammed into a tight suit. It had originally been an expensive one and Mr. Smedley was obviously of the type who would
not admit to putting on weight or to spending money to have the suit altered. He had small black eyes in a doughy face shadowed
by bushy black eyebrows. His flat head of hair was jet-black. Hair dyes are getting better these days, thought Agatha. Almost
looks real. He had a small pursed mouth, "like an arsehole," as Agatha said later to Mrs. Bloxby, and then had to apologize
for her bad language.

"Please sit down," said Agatha, mentally preparing to sock him with a large fee and get rid of him. "How may I be of help?"

"This is very embarrassing." Mr. Smedley glared round the small office. "Oh, very well. I think Mabel is seeing another man."

"Mabel being your wife?" prompted Agatha.

"Yes."

"What makes you think she might be having an af­fair?"

"Oh, little things. I came home early one day and I heard her singing."

"Why is that so odd?"

"She never sings when I'm around."

Can't blame her for that, thought Agatha sourly.

"Anything else?"

"Last week she bought a new dress without consulting me."

"Women do that," said Agatha patiently. "I mean, why would she need your permission to buy a new dress?"

"I choose all her clothes. I'm an important man and I like to see my wife dressed accordingly."

"Anything else?"

"Isn't that enough? I tell you, if she's seeing someone I want evidence for a divorce."

In that moment Agatha could have strangled both Phil and Mrs. Bloxby. She had been inveigled into hir- ing a geriatric all
on the promise of this case and now it seemed that Smedley was nothing more than a jealous bully.

So in order to get rid of him, she named a very heavy fee and expenses. He took out his chequebook. "I'll give you a thousand
pounds down and you can bill me for the expenses and for the rest if you are successful."

Agatha blinked rapidly, thought of her overheads, and accepted the cheque.

When Robert Smedley had left, Agatha said crossly to Phil, "This is all a load of rubbish, but we may as well make the moves.
You and I will go over to Ancombe and stake out the house. Have you got your camera?"

"Got a car full of them," said Phil cheerfully.

"Okay, let's go."

Ancombe was only a few miles from Carsely. They quickly found Smedley's home. It was on the outskirts of the village in a
heavily wooded area, perched on a rise. It had originally been a small eighteenth-century cottage built of the local mellow
golden stone, but a large extension had been added to the back. Phil parked his car a little way away off the road in the
shelter of a stand of trees. He took out a camera with a long telescopic lens.

"I'm slipping," mourned Agatha. "I should have asked him for a photograph of her."

Phil peered down the road. "There's a car just coming out of the driveway. Here, you take the wheel. We'U follow."

Agatha swung the wheel and followed at a discreet distance while Phil photographed the car and the number plate.

"She's heading for Moreton," said Agatha. "Probably going to buy another dress or something evil like that."

"She's turning into the station," said Phil. "Maybe going to meet someone."

"Or take the train," said Agatha.

A small, dowdy-looking woman got out of the car. "I hope that's her and not the cleaner," said Agatha. "If he chose that dress
for her, he should be shot."

Who they hoped was Mabel Smedley was wearing a cotton shirtwaister in an eye-watering print. The hem practically reached her
ankles and she was wearing patent leather shoes with low heels. She had dusty, sandy hair pulled back in a bun. She was obviously
much younger than her husband. Smedley, Agatha guessed, looked around late forties. If this was Mrs. Smedley, she looked in
her early thirties. Her face, devoid of make-up, was unlined and with no outstanding features. Small tired eyes, regular mouth,
small chin.

She turned into the ticket office. As usual, there was a queue, so they were able to stand a few people behind her. They heard
her order a day return to Oxford.

When it came their turn, they asked for day returns as well and then went over the bridge to the platform.

Phil had unscrewed the telescopic lens and snapped several discreet shots of Mrs. Smedley waiting for the train.

The train was ten minutes late in that usual irritating way of trains—like some boss keeping you waiting ten minutes outside
his door to stress what a busy and important man he was.