Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (25 page)

“All right,” said Agatha bleakly.

“Now lie down and let me examine you. Remove your trousers.”

Agatha suffered her leg being pulled this way and that.

“Right,” he said when he had finished. “Call at the X-ray desk on your road out and make an appointment for a bone scan.”

Agatha was just leaving the hospital when her mobile phone rang. It was Charles. “Have you eaten?”

“No, I’m in Cheltenham.”

“I’ll take you for dinner. I’ll meet you in the square in Mircester. How long will you be?”

“The traffic should have thinned out. About three quarters of an hour.”

“See you then.”

“Why were you in Cheltenham?” asked Charles when they were seated in an Italian restaurant.

“Working on a case,” said Agatha, who had no intention of telling Charles about her arthritis. So ageing.

“You’ve been having a lot of excitement.”

“You could have been in on it, Charles, if you hadn’t gone scuttling off. How’s it going?”

“Turns out she was engaged and was just using me for a bit of a fling.”

“Poor you.”

“Yes, poor me. Do you ever worry about getting old on your own, Agatha?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Sometimes I think it would be awful to sink into decrepitude on my own.”

“You’re hardly on your own, Charles. You’ve got your aunt and Gustav.”

“My aunt can’t last forever and Gustav is hardly the sort of sympathetic type to soothe the fevered brow. Still, there’s always hope. Lots of pretty girls out there.”

Agatha obscurely felt she was being dismissed because of her age. Charles was in his forties, but she was only in her fifties. And yet men in their forties could still hope to wed some young miss.

When the meal was over, she hoped Charles would volunteer to stay with her because she did not want to go back to an empty house, but he showed no signs of wanting to. Agatha felt too demoralized to ask him.

She went home alone and checked her phone for messages. There was one from Roy thanking her for the weekend, but the next one made her heart soar. It was Freddy.

“How’s my heroine?” he said. “I’ll call you at your office tomorrow.”

Agatha’s black mood lifted. Somebody loved her!

* * *

The next day in the office, she jumped whenever the phone rang, waiting for Freddy to call. By late afternoon, she had almost given up hope and was tired of making excuses not to leave the office when he did call. “What about dinner tonight?” he said.

“At what time?”

“I’ll pick you up at your cottage at eight.”

Without making any more excuses, Agatha left the office and went straight to the nearest hairdresser’s. Then, with her hair newly done, she hurried off home to begin elaborate preparations for the evening ahead.

Freddy arrived promptly at eight o’clock and took her to a new restaurant in Moreton-in-Marsh.

Had Agatha not been so elated to be in his company, she would certainly have complained about the meal. Freddy recommended the rolled, stuffed pork belly. When it was served, Agatha found herself staring down at what looked like one small brown turd surrounded by acres of empty plate. It was served with a tiny bowl of mixed salad. But there was handsome Freddy across the table, plying her with questions about the murders and exclaiming in a flattering way at what he described as her brilliant intuition.

And, oh, the way he looked into her eyes and the way his hand brushed hers as he reached across to fill her wine glass.

They were sitting at a table in the bay of a window. It had started to rain again, but for once Agatha was oblivious to the miseries of the dreary weather.

“Do you know,” breathed Freddy, “I fancy you something rotten, old girl.”

He should have left the “old” out. Agatha turned away and stared out of the window just in time to see Charles in his car stopping at the pedestrian crossing lights outside the restaurant. He gave her a startled look. The lights changed to green, a car behind him honked and Charles moved on.

Agatha realized Freddy was waiting for some sort of reply, but found she couldn’t think of anything that might be suitable come on.

So instead she asked, “How was South Africa?”

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Met friends. That sort of thing.”

The door of the restaurant opened and Charles breezed in. “Mind if I join you?”

“You weren’t invited,” snapped Agatha.

“And how are you, Freddy?” asked Charles, ignoring the fact that Agatha was glaring at him.

“Fine,” mumbled Freddy.

“Bring the wife and kids back with you?”

“They’re still there.”

Agatha could hardly believe what Charles was saying.

“When are they joining you?” pursued Charles.

“Next week.”

“Jolly good. Well, I better not interrupt your meal. I’ll phone you tomorrow, Agatha.”

“Wait!” Agatha got to her feet. “I’m coming with you. Give me a lift home. I want to get away from this bastard as quickly as possible.”

“I thought you knew I was married,” said Freddy.

“How was I to know that when you didn’t tell me, and you told that copper right in my kitchen that you weren’t married.”

“You’re a rat, Freddy,” said Charles. “Come along, Agatha.”

* * *

“You should have told me,” said Agatha for the umpteenth time when they were both back in Agatha’s cottage.

“And you should have told me he had been dating you. How many times do I have to say it?” protested Charles.

“Well, it’s all very depressing. I was feeling low as it was. I mean, all that publicity was rather exhilarating, but it suddenly just died away. Midlands TV wanted me for another interview and they cancelled.”

“It may have been something to do with Detective Inspector Wilkes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He gave a rather unflattering interview about you in the
Guardian
”

“When?”

“I forget exactly when, but as it happens I’ve got a copy of the paper in my car. Gustav got it for me.”

“If it was unflattering, then he would. Fetch it for me.”

Charles went out and came back with a crumpled copy of the
Guardian.

Agatha riffled through it until she came to the features page. There was a big headline: THE INSPECTOR AND THE LUCKY AMATEUR. She began to read.

Wilkes had been very amusing about Agatha’s detective abilities. “I think Mrs. Raisin stumbled on where the murderers were because they were amateurs and she is an amateur,” he had said. “She bumbles around my cases like some sort of bumble bee, occasionally, by sheer luck, crashing into the truth. We are grateful to her, of course, but Interpol were on it and they would have been caught eventually.” There was a lot more of the same.

“This is character assassination,” said Agatha. “I’ll sue him.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Not if you intend to keep running a detective agency. You sue him and you’ll soon have the police working against you at every turn.”

“You should have told me,” protested Agatha. “I could have countered this by reminding everyone it was I who found Jessica’s body, not to mention tracking that pair to Spain.”

“The paper was old by the time Gustav gave it to me. Anyway,” said Charles, “you never mentioned me once in any of your interviews.”

“Because you had beetled off chasing a bit of skirt.”

“That’s it,” said Charles. “I’m off. Phone me when you’re in a better temper.”

Agatha arrived at the office the next morning to find them all waiting for her. “What’s this?” she asked wearily. “A strike?”

“We just wanted to be sure that you want to continue with this agency,” said Patrick. “You didn’t bother doing any work yesterday and you took the whole weekend off.”

“Of course I am continuing,” said Agatha. “I’ve just been tired, that’s all. Mrs. Freedman, let’s go through the work for today.”

In order to show enthusiasm, Agatha took on one of the nastier cases, which was following a man whose wife thought he was being unfaithful and wanted grounds for a divorce.

He owned a delicatessen in Mircester. The shop was a popular one. Agatha found a parking place across the road. Phil was beside her with his camera.

Customers came and went. Then the shop was closed for an hour at lunchtime. Their quarry went to a local restaurant but ate on his own.

Back to watching the shop as the hours dragged on until closing time. His two assistants left and then he came out and locked up the shop. He stood outside, looking up and down the street.

“He’s waiting for someone,” said Agatha, crouching down. “Get ready with the camera. Thank God for the light evenings. Wouldn’t want him to be alerted with a flash.”

A youngish man came along the street and hailed the owner. They walked off together.

“Today was a waste of time,” said Phil.

“No, get out the car and follow them,” said Agatha. “I’ve got an idea.”

They hurried after them at a discreet distance. They stopped outside a club called the Green Parrot.

“Thought so,” said Agatha. “Bang off a couple of pictures and let’s get out of here.”

Phil did as he was told, getting two good shots before the two men walked into the club, their arms around each other’s shoulders.

“So why did I have to take photographs?” asked Phil. “Was that his illegitimate son, or what?”

“The Green Parrot is Mircester’s only gay club. Sometimes I hate this job. I feel grubby. I’ll drive you back to your car, Phil. You can go home now and print up those photos. I just want to look at the books.”

After she had left Phil, Agatha slumped down in Mrs. Freedman’s chair and stared at the blank computer screen.

She could not remember ever before feeling so old or so lonely. Early fifties surely wasn’t old these days. But the fact that she had arthritis had shaken her badly. She envisaged herself crumbling into old age all on her own, no one to look after her, no one to share the pain.

There was a tentative knock at the office door. Agatha was about to shout, “We’re closed. Go away,” but reflected that business was business and a possible new case might take her mind off her misery.

She opened the door and stared up at the tall figure standing there, smiling down at her.

“Hullo, Agatha,” said James Lacey.

Keep reading for an excerpt from

the next Agatha Raisin mysrery

LOVE, LIES AND LIQUOR

Coming soon from St. Martins/Minotaur Paperbacks!

JAMES Lacey, Agatha Raisin’s ex-husband with whom she was still in love, had come back into her life. He had moved into his old cottage next door to Agatha’s.

But although he seemed interested in Agatha’s work at her detective agency, not a glint of love lightened his blue eyes. Agatha dressed more carefully than she had done in ages and spent a fortune at the beauticians, but to no avail. This was the way, she thought sadly, that things had been before. She felt as if some cruel hand had wound the clock of time backwards.

Just when Agatha was about to give up, James called on her and said friends of his had moved into Ancombe and had invited them both to dinner. His host, he said, was a Mr. David Hewitt who was retired from the Ministry of Defence. His wife was called Jill.

Delighted to be invited as a couple, Agatha set out with James from their cottages in the village of Carsely in the English Cotswolds to drive the short distance to Ancombe.

The lilac blossom was out in its full glory. Wisteria and clematis trailed down the walls of honey-coloured cottages and hawthorn, the fairy tree, sent out a heady sweet smell in the evening air.

Agatha experienced a qualm of nervousness as she drove them towards Ancombe. She had made a few visits to James in his cottage, but they were always brief. James was always occupied with something and seemed relieved when she left. Agatha planned to make the most of this outing. She was dressed in a biscuit-coloured suit with a lemon-coloured blouse and highheeled sandals. Her brown hair gleamed and shone.

James was wearing a tweed sports jacket and flannels. “Am I overdressed?” asked Agatha.

One blue eye swivelled in her direction. “No, you look fine.”

The Hewitts lived in a bungalow called Merrydown. As James drove up the short gravelled drive, Agatha could smell something cooking on charcoal. “It’s not a barbecue?” she asked.

“I believe it is. Here we are.”

“James, if you had told me it was a barbecue, I would have dressed more suitably.”

“Don’t nag,” said James mildly, getting out of the car.

Agatha detested barbecues. Barbecues were for Americans, Australians and Polynesians, or any of those other people with a good climate. The English, from her experience, delighted in undercooked meat served off paper plates in an insect-ridden garden.

James rang the doorbell. The door was answered by a small woman with pinched little features and pale grey eyes. Her grey hair was dressed in girlish curls. She was wearing a print frock and low-heeled sandals.

“James, darling!” She stretched up and enfolded him in an embrace. “And who is this?”

“Don’t you remember, I was told to bring my ex-wife along. This is Agatha Raisin. Agatha, Jill.”