Hot to Trot

by M C Beaton

  They had parked at the Huntsman, a wayside inn on the edge of the Barfield estate, where Agatha and Charles had stopped for a drink once or twice. Agatha had suggested a swift intake of Dutch courage before gatecrashing the wedding, and James had proceeded to explain that the term had originated in the seventeenth century, when soldiers drank Dutch gin to calm their fears and rouse their fighting spirit before battle. With nothing better to do just then, Agatha had listened politely while sipping her gin and tonic in the pub garden. The back of the garden led into the woods, where the path they were walking had been easy to find.

  With Gustav having supplied a detailed itinerary of the day, Agatha had decided that the best time to take a look at the proceedings was late afternoon, by which time the day guests would have eaten but the evening guests would not yet have arrived. She and James were aiming to make it in time for the speeches, giving them a good opportunity to study the other guests while the attention of those in the bridal party was distracted.

  Long before they reached the end of the path, they could clearly see the wedding big top overwhelming the lawn in front of Barfield House. Agatha had chosen this route in order to get close to the tent without being seen, but they still had a short stretch of grass to negotiate once they broke cover. They surveyed the scene, peering out from behind an ancient oak.

  “Some of the side panels are open,” James pointed out. “Must be for ventilation, but it means we might be seen.”

  “Maybe,” said Agatha, “but look at the way they’re seated.” She unfolded a piece of paper from her handbag. “Gustav sent me this seating plan. The guests will be facing away from us, looking towards the top table as the speeches are delivered. They’re not likely to notice us, and we won’t be seen from the top table either if we approach the tent from this direction. Our only problem will be getting past him.” She gestured towards a man standing near one of the open side panels, wearing a black suit and bow tie.

  “Black tie?” James frowned. “Evening wear is hardly the right thing for—”

  “He’s not a guest, James,” Agatha tutted. “Look at the way his biceps fill his sleeves. He’s security.”

  “Security guards at a wedding?” said James. “Who are these people—the Mafia?”

  “They’re not well liked, that’s for sure,” said Agatha, “but there’s no need for guards here. It’s just another way for the Brown-Fields to show off, I suppose. I can deal with him. Follow my lead.”

  Agatha marched out onto the lawn. The bright afternoon sunshine immediately illuminated the pale blue of her dress, highlighted with an elegantly slim black trim at the round neckline and the ends of the short sleeves. She marched straight towards the tent with James in close support. At the edge of the open side flap, she paused and began hauling one foot out of its Wellie. The guard spoke firmly yet quietly, clearly briefed for today’s event to use his discretion rather than his muscles.

  “Excuse me, madam. Are you official wedding guests?”

  “Of course we are, young man!” Agatha laughed in a shrill upper-crust accent. “We are old friends of Sir Charles.”

  James gave Agatha’s performance an almost imperceptible nod of approval. She smiled as she cocked a leg to slip on a shiny black stiletto, and nodded back. It was his turn.

  “Yes, old friends,” said James. He didn’t have to try quite so hard with the accent. “I was his history tutor at Cambridge, you know.”

  “But you look like you came from the direction of the woods,” said the guard.

  “Oh, it’s terribly discreet in those woods,” said Agatha in a hushed voice. “Perfect for a bit of … you know … outdoors rumpy-pumpy!”

  The guard’s eyebrows shot up. He pointed to her boots. “But you have Wellies with you…”

  “It’s a bit muddy in there, so we came prepared,” Agatha explained, smoothing her hair.

  “Premeditated rumpy,” said James, giving the guard a wink as they breezed past into the tent.

  Agatha and James accepted glasses of champagne from a tray offered to them by a waiter and picked a spot not too far from the open tent flap from where they could survey the whole of the big top. Some of the guests were, like them, standing with glasses in hand, having left their tables to chat with friends. The majority sat at round tables, each laid for eight guests, the white tablecloths crowded with wine bottles and glasses. The tables were arranged on a taut carpet of canvas ground sheets around a huge area of wood-laid dance floor. The bridal party sat, as Agatha had expected, on a slightly raised podium. An army of catering staff marching out of the tent laden with crockery and cutlery indicated that the meal was over. Agatha was not surprised that the event was running precisely to schedule. Normal weddings seldom did, but this was not a normal wedding. This was Mary Darlinda Brown-Field’s wedding.

  The room fell silent as a liveried master of ceremonies announced the father of the bride and Darell Brown-Field rose to speak.

  “I would like to begin,” he said, “by saying how proud I am of my beautiful daughter…”

  “Which daughter’s that?” whispered a woman to Agatha’s left, giggling with a friend. “And why’s she not here?”

  Agatha turned her attention to the bride. Mary was wearing her dark hair up, with a cascade of ringlets falling to the nape of her neck. Diamond earrings dazzled above an equally impressive diamond necklace, their combined sparkle far outshining the gaudy chandeliers that hung from the ceiling of the big top. Her dress, what Agatha could see of it, was white silk, with a plunging neckline that left her arms and most of her shoulders bare. Agatha had always conceded that Mary had a good figure and wore clothes with a certain style, and her bridal outfit appeared to be no exception.

  Charles was seated next to his bride. He was immaculately dressed in a crisp black morning suit, gold waistcoat and blue tie, matching the outfit worn by his father-in-law. As if he knew he was being watched, he turned his head and spotted Agatha. He forced a smile and raised his glass. The movement caught the attention of Mary, who followed his gaze and stared with disbelief. She shot a look of sheer malice across the room. Agatha calmly responded by slowly tilting her champagne glass, pouring the contents onto the canvas floor. With her father droning on, oblivious to all but the sound of his own voice, Mary gesticulated to the master of ceremonies and nodded in Agatha’s direction.

  “The game’s up, James,” said Agatha. “Time to go.”

  She stopped outside the tent to remove her shoes. The security guard grinned, started to say something and then froze under Agatha’s thunderous glare. She hurried off towards the woods. James scooped up her Wellies, shrugged at the guard and strode after her.

  * * *

  That evening Agatha fed Boswell and Hodge, slipped into a light jacket and sauntered down her garden path into Lilac Lane. The lilacs after which the street was named, and which dominated most of the front gardens of her neighbours’ cottages, were not quite in flower yet, but yellow daffodils bobbed their heads in the gentle breeze, complementing the golden forsythia flowers and brightening the gathering dusk. She had declined James’s offer of dinner and he had retreated to his own cottage, years of experience with the notorious Raisin mood swings warning him that his company was not required.

  Agatha strolled out into Carsely High Street and headed up the hill, admiring the straggle of terraced cottages, some under thatch and some with slate roofs, all with walls of yellow Cotswold stone glowing in the twilight. She passed the butcher’s, the post office and the general store and carried on, pausing only when she came to the low wall surrounding the vicarage garden. As she looked up at the church steeple, towering protectively over the village, she heard her name being called.

  “Agatha! Hello, my dear. How are you?”

  Margaret Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, was walking up the garden towards her, holding a handful of freshly cut daffodils.

  “Contemplating a religious experience?” she asked, looking up towards the steeple. “It never fails to impr
ess, I find. At any time of day, in any light, there’s something warm and solid and comforting about it.”

  “I agree,” said Agatha. “About the church steeple, I mean, not the religious experience.” Then she realised she was talking to a vicar’s wife. “I’m sorry … I don’t mean that … Well, you know me…”

  “Yes, I do.” Mrs. Bloxby smiled, dismissing Agatha’s apology with a wave of her free hand. “Why don’t you come in? We can have a glass of sherry.”

  “Thanks,” said Agatha. “I’d like that.”

  Mrs. Bloxby led the way into the vicarage and pointed towards the drawing room. “You know where the bottle and the glasses are kept,” she said. “You pour while I pop these in a vase to cheer up Alf’s study. He’s at a function at his other church tonight. I managed to duck out of it.”

  Agatha poured their drinks and settled into an armchair beside the window. Mrs. Bloxby bustled back into the room and settled herself in a matching chair. She picked up her sherry and they clinked glasses then took a sip. Agatha looked across at a large table that was groaning under the weight of dozens of elaborately iced cakes.

  “The Carsely Ladies’ Society Bake Off,” Mrs. Bloxby explained. “We’ll be judging them after church tomorrow. There’s still time to enter, if you like.”

  “Probably best not,” said Agatha. “Who could forget the quiche incident?”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Bloxby said. “Murder and mayhem. You have certainly spiced up our lives since arriving in Carsely, Agatha. I was thinking of you today. The wedding, of course. Wondering how you were coping with it all. Sounds like it was a sumptuous affair.”

  “It was. I was there.”

  “Really? I shouldn’t have thought Sir Charles’s bride would have agreed to you being invited.”

  “She didn’t. I wasn’t exactly invited. I just felt I had to see it for myself.”

  “You gatecrashed the wedding of the year!” Mrs. Bloxby laughed. “That’s wonderful! I shall look out for you in the background when the photos appear in those society magazines. What is it the youngsters call it nowadays—‘photo bombing’?”

  “I doubt I’ll be in any photos.” Agatha smiled. “I wasn’t there for very long. I wanted to see him and…”

  “Let him know you still care?” said Mrs. Bloxby, who had had enough fireside chats with Agatha to appreciate the depth of her feelings for Sir Charles Fraith. She had had similar chats with Sir Charles. She’d got through a lot of sherry over the years.

  “I do still care,” said Agatha. “Not in a romantic way. Not any more. But he has been a big part of my life and I hate to see him being treated like this.”

  “He’s still in a bad situation, then?”

  “It seems worse than ever. I want to find a way to help him, but I know she’ll try to stop me. I’m really not sure what I can do. Sometimes I feel totally out of my depth. Maybe I should turn my back on all of this—forget about Charles, forget about Carsely, forget it all and head back to London.”

  “That would be a shame, Agatha,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “You would be sorely missed, and I think you know you would never forgive yourself for running away. But you don’t really mean it anyway, do you? You’re not a quitter.”

  “You’re right,” Agatha agreed. “There are lots of people here I really like and just one, at the moment, that I really hate.”

  “Then you should concentrate on the people you like.”

  “I will—but first I need to deal with the one who’s really pissing me off: Lady Mary Fraith.”

  “So the battle lines are drawn.” Mrs. Bloxby sipped her sherry. “It is always very awkward trying to involve oneself in whatever goes on between a husband and wife.”

  “Not for a private detective,” said Agatha. “It’s pretty much my professional stock in trade.”

  “Mine too.” Mrs. Bloxby smiled. “Alf writes a great sermon and is very good at organising church functions, but I do quite a bit of what you might call pastoral care.”

  “Does that generally involve sherry and a chat?”

  “You’re different,” said Mrs. Bloxby, refilling their glasses. “And thank heavens for that. Sir Charles Fraith would be lost without you, and one day I’m sure he will have cause to be grateful that you were there for him—that you never gave up.”

  “I never will,” Agatha agreed, and they clinked glasses again. “I never give up.”

  * * *

  Had Agatha harboured any lingering doubts about helping Charles to deal with his new wife and in-laws, they evaporated early the following afternoon. She had slept late and was showered, dressed and enjoying a cup of coffee in her kitchen, browsing the Sunday papers, when the doorbell rang. She made her way along the narrow hall to the front door, congratulating herself on having done her hair and applied make-up at leisure prior to having a visitor, whoever it might be. To her surprise, she found Mary standing on the doorstep. She was wearing a casual sweater, jeans and the kind of boots that country ladies keep for walking Labradors.

  “Well, well,” said Agatha, crossing her arms and leaning on the doorpost to make it clear that her visitor would not be invited inside. “The blushing bride. Shouldn’t you be on honeymoon or something?”

  “All in good time,” Mary replied, looking up at Agatha. There was only one step up to the front door of the cottage, but Agatha was enjoying having the strategic advantage of looking down on Mary from the higher ground. “We fly out tomorrow to spend some time at our property in Spain,” Mary continued, “before taking a short cruise on a rather exclusive liner. I wanted some time after the wedding to clear up a few loose ends.”

  “I’m not sure I like being called a loose end.”

  “I don’t care what you like!” growled Mary. “I’m here to tell you to keep your nose out of my business. I saw you yesterday.”

  “I saw that you saw me yesterday.”

  “And the security guard told me what you were up to in the woods—with him!” Mary pointed to her right, where James was sitting on a wooden bench by his front door, enjoying the sunshine, a cup of tea and a book.

  “Afternoon, James,” called Agatha.

  “Afternoon, Aggie.”

  “You really shouldn’t believe everything you hear from an over-muscled cretin in an ill-fitting suit,” said Agatha, “but I do hope it didn’t entirely spoil your big day, Darlinda.”

  “It’s Lady Mary to you!”

  “I think not, Your Majesty. I prefer Darlinda, although it’s a shame they didn’t make it Lindarell, isn’t? Your mother’s quite pretty. With her name first, you might have inherited her looks instead of getting that,” she pointed at Mary’s chin, “from your old man.”

  “I don’t have to take that sort of talk from you! You’re not fit to scrape the shit off my shoes. I can buy and sell your sort, so tread very carefully, you old cow—and keep your fat arse off my property!”

  Agatha blinked. A cold, blank look came over her face.

  “Old? Fat?”

  She shot out a hand, clutching Mary around the throat. Mary squealed and grabbed two fistfuls of Agatha’s hair. In an instant, James had vaulted the low picket fence between the front gardens and prised the two women apart.

  “That’s enough!” he shouted. “Calm down, both of you!”

  Neighbours cleaning cars in the street or tidying their flower beds craned their necks to see what was disturbing the peace on their Sunday afternoon.

  “Did you see that?” Mary screeched, rubbing her throat and appealing to Agatha’s neighbours. “Did you all see that? She tried to strangle me!”

  “Why don’t you bugger off back to Barfield House,” Agatha roared, “before I finish the job?”

  She stepped back into her cottage and slammed the door. Mary turned on her heel and stomped off down the garden path. James let out a breath of relief and returned to his bench.

  * * *

  Sir Charles Fraith sat at his desk in the library of Barfield House. Of all the rooms in the house, an
d there were many—he had long forgotten exactly how many—this was his favourite. It was his haven, a sanctuary where he could work, think or simply sit and read. One wall of the oak-panelled room was lined with shelves of books, an ornate mahogany wheeled staircase standing ready, as it had done for over a century, to allow access to the highest levels. There were many valuable first editions among the hundreds of books, and many volumes that he treasured. He had read only a fraction of them and doubted he would manage to peruse them all during his lifetime. Some he knew well, especially those pertaining to his Cambridge history degree; others he only discovered when the mood took him to browse the collection.

  Opposite the shelves were tall windows that flooded the room with light—although the shafts of direct sunlight stretched across the floor only as far as the base of the bookcases, a deliberate design to protect the spines of the volumes—and a set of French doors leading onto the terrace. In front of his desk, beyond a sofa, a pair of wing-backed chairs and a low coffee table, was a cavernous fireplace with a carved marble surround. A huge gilt-framed mirror stood proudly on the mantelpiece. Behind him the wall was dedicated to portraits of his ancestors, or at least those paintings he liked. When he had inherited the house, some had not been to his taste and were banished to rarely visited rooms or wrapped in blankets in the attic. One of those had been of Cater Thompson, a disturbing portrait that had haunted Charles’s childhood. Thompson was not a direct ancestor but had owned the original Tudor house that had once stood where Barfield now was. That house had burned down, which was hardly surprising given everything that had gone on within its walls. Thompson had been a member of a Hellfire Club and had held black mass ceremonies and ritual orgies in the house.