by M C Beaton
Mrs. Baxter-Semper looked past her.
“Oh, is that the garden?”
“Obviously,” said Agatha, blowing smoke in her direction.
“Look, Bob. We could knock down that kitchen wall and have a nice conservatory.”
Oh, God, thought Agatha, one of those nasty white wood-and-glass excrescences sticking out of the back of my cottage.
They stood before her as if expecting her to offer them tea or coffee.
“I’ll show you out,” said Agatha gruffly.
As she shut the door behind them with a bang, she could hear Mrs. Baxter-Semper saying, “What a rude woman!”
“House is perfect for us, though,” remarked the husband.
Agatha picked up the phone and dialled the estate agents. “I’ve decided not to sell at the moment. Yes, this is Mrs. Raisin. No, I don’t want to sell. Just take your board down.”
When she replaced the receiver, she felt happier than she had done for some time. Nothing could be achieved by quitting Carsely.
On the morning of her departure, she left her house keys with her cleaner, Doris Simpson, and then returned home to coax Hodge and Boswell into their cat boxes. She drove off down Lilac Lane, cast one longing look at James’s cottage, turned the corner and then sped up the leafy hill out of Carsely, the cats in their boxes on the back seat and a road map spread beside her on the passenger seat.
The sun shone all the way until she reached the boundaries of the county of Norfolk and then the sky clouded over the brooding flat, flat countryside.
At last, with a sigh of relief, she saw a signpost with the legend “Fryfam” on it and followed its white pointing finger. There were now pine woods on either side and the countryside was becoming hilly. Round another bend, and there was a board with “Fryfam” on it, heralding that she had arrived. She stopped again and took out the estate agent’s instructions. Lavender Cottage, her new temporary home, lay in Pucks Lane on the far side of the village green.
A very large village green, thought Agatha, circling round it. There were a huddle of houses with flint walls, a pub, a church, and then, running along by the graveyard, lay Pucks Lane. It was very narrow and she drove slowly along, hoping she did not meet a car coming the other way. Agatha was hopeless at reversing. She switched on her headlights. Then she saw a faded sign, “Pucks Lane,” and turned left and bumped along a side lane. The cottage lay at the end of it. It was a two-storey brick-and-flint building which seemed very old. It sagged slightly towards a large garden, a very large garden. Agatha got stiffly out and peered over the hedge at it.
The estate agent had said the key would be under the doormat. She bent down and located it. It was a large key, like the key to an old church door. It was stiff in the lock, but with a wrench, she managed to unlock the door. She found a switch on the inside of the door, put on the light and looked around. There was a little entrance hall. On the left was a dining-room and on the right, a sitting-room. There were low black beams on the ceiling. A door at the back of the hall led into a modern kitchen.
It was when she was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other that she realized two things. The kitchen did not have a microwave. Recently Agatha had abandoned her forays into “real” cooking and had returned to the use of the microwave. Also, the cottage was very cold. She got up and began to search for a thermostat to jack up the central heating. It was only after a futile search that she realized there were no radiators. She went into the sitting-room. There was a fireplace big enough to roast an ox in. Beside the fireplace there was a basket of logs. There was also a packet of fire-lighters and a pile of old newspapers. She lit the fire. At least the logs were dry and were soon crackling away merrily. Agatha searched through the house again. There were fireplaces in every room except the kitchen. In the kitchen, in a cupboard, she found a Calor gas heater.
This is ridiculous, thought Agatha. I’ll need to spend a fortune on heating this place. She went out the front door. The garden still seemed very big. It would need the services of a gardener. The lawn was thick with fallen leaves. It was Saturday. The estate agents’ would not be open until Monday.
After she had unpacked her groceries and put all her frozen meals away, she opened the back door. The back garden had a washing green and little else. As she looked, she blinked a little. Odd little coloured lights were dancing around at the bottom of the garden. Fireflies? Not in cold Norfolk. She walked down the garden towards the dancing lights, which abruptly disappeared on her approach.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her it was some time since she had eaten. She decided to lock up and walk down to the pub and see if she could get a meal. She was half-way down the lane when she realized with a groan that she had not unpacked the cats’ litter boxes. She returned to the cottage and attended to that chore and then set out again.
The pub was called the Green Dragon. A badly executed painting of a green dragon hung outside the door of the pub. She went in. There were only a few customers, all men, all very small men. They watched her progress to the bar in silence.
It was a silent pub, no music, no fruit machines, no television. There was no one behind the bar. Agatha’s stomach gave another rumble. “Any service here?” she shouted. She turned and looked at the other customers, who promptly all looked at the stone-flagged floor.
She turned impatiently back to the bar. What sort of hell-hole have I arrived in? she thought bitterly. There was the rapid clacking of approaching high heels and then a vision appeared on the other side of the bar. She was a Junoesque blonde like a figurehead on a ship. She had thick blond—real blond—hair, which flowed back from her smooth peaches-and-cream face in soft waves. Her eyes were very wide and very blue.
“How can I help you, missus?” she asked in a soft voice.
“I’m hungry,” said Agatha. “Got anything to eat?”
“I’m so sorry. We don’t do meals.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” howled a much exasperated Agatha. “Is there anywhere in this village that time forgot where I can get food?”
“Reckon as how you’re lucky. I got a helping of our own steak pie left. Like some?”
She gave Agatha a dazzling smile. “Yes, I would,” said Agatha, mollified.
She held up a flap on the bar. “Come through. You’ll be that Mrs. Raisin what’s taken Lavender Cottage.”
Agatha followed her into the back premises and into a large dingy kitchen with a scrubbed table in the centre.
“Please be seated, Mrs. Raisin.”
“And you are?”
“I’m Mrs. Wilden. Can I offer you a glass of beer?”
“I wouldn’t mind some wine if that isn’t asking too much.”
“No, not at all.”
She disappeared and shortly after returned with a decanter of wine and a glass. Then she put a knife, fork and napkin in front of Agatha. She opened the oven door of an Aga cooker and took out a plate with a wedge of steak pie. She put it on a large plate and then opened another door in the cooker and took out a tray of roast potatoes. Another door and out came a dish of carrots, broccoli and peas. She put a huge plateful in front of Agatha, added a steaming jug of gravy, which she seemed to have conjured out of nowhere, and a basket of crusty rolls and a large pat of yellow butter. Not only was the food delicious but the wine was the best Agatha had ever tasted. She could not normally tell one wine from another, but she somehow knew this one was very special, and wished that her baronet friend, Sir Charles Fraith, could taste it and tell her what it was. She turned to ask Mrs. Wilden, but the beauty had disappeared back to the bar.
Agatha ate until she could eat no more. Feeling very mellow and slightly tipsy, she made her way back to the bar.
“All right, then?” asked Mrs. Wilden.
“It was all delicious,” said Agatha. She took out her wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
A startled look of surprise came into those beautiful blue eyes.
; “I told you, we don’t do meals.”
“But …”
“So you were welcome to my food and drink,” said Mrs. Wilden. “Best go home and get some sleep. You must be tired.”
“Thank you very much,” said Agatha, putting her wallet away. “You and your husband must join me one evening for dinner.”
“That do be kind of you, but he’s dead and I’m always here.”
“I’m sorry your husband’s dead,” said Agatha awkwardly as Mrs. Wilden held up the flap on the bar for her to pass through. “When you said ‘our’ steak pie, I thought…”
“I meant me and mother.”
“Ah, well, you’ve been very kind. Perhaps I could buy a round of drinks for everyone here?” The customers had been talking quietly, but at Agatha’s words there was a sudden silence.
“Not tonight. Don’t do to spoil them, do it, Jimmy?”
Jimmy, a gnarled old man, muttered something and looked sadly at his empty tankard.
Agatha walked to the door. “Thanks again,” she said. “Oh, by the way, there’s these funny dancing lights at the bottom of the back garden. Is it some sort of insect like a firefly you’ve got in these parts?”
For a moment the silence in the pub was absolute. Everybody seemed frozen, like statues. Then Mrs. Wilden picked up a glass and began to polish it. “We got nothing like that round here. Reckon your poor eyes were tired after the journey.”
Agatha shrugged. “Could be.” She went out into the night.
She remembered she had left the fire blazing and had not put a fire-guard in front of it. She ran the whole way back, terrified her beloved cats had been burnt to a crisp. She fumbled in her handbag for that ridiculous key. Need to oil the lock, she thought. She got the door open and hurtled into the sitting-room. The fire glowed red. Her cats lay stretched out in front of it. With a sigh of relief she bent down and patted their warm bodies. Then she went up to bed. There were two bedrooms, one double and one single. She chose the one with the double bed. It was covered in a huge thick duvet. She explored the bathroom. It had an immersion heater. It would take ages to heat water for a bath. She switched it on, washed her face and cleaned her teeth and went to bed and fell into a sound and dreamless sleep.
The morning was bright and sunny. Agatha had a hot bath, dressed and had her usual breakfast of two cups of black coffee and three cigarettes. She let the cats out into the back garden and then, returning to the kitchen, picked up the estate agent’s inventory of the contents. Agatha, an old hand at renting property, knew the importance of checking inventories. She wanted all her deposit back, and did not want it defrayed by mythical losses.
Agatha was half-way through it when there was a knock at the door. She opened and found herself confronted by four women.
The leader of them was a rangy middle-aged woman in a sleeveless padded jacket over a checked shirt. She was wearing corduroy trousers which bagged at the knee. “I’m Harriet Freemantle,” she said. “I’ve brought you a cake. We all belong to the Fryfam Women’s Group. Let me introduce you. This is Amy Worth.” A small, faded woman in a droopy dress smiled shyly and handed Agatha a jar of chutney. “And Polly Dart.” Large tweedy county woman with beetling eyebrows and an incipient moustache. “Brought you some of my scones,” she boomed. “I’m Carrie Smiley.” The last to come forward was youngish, about thirty-something, with dark hair, dark eyes, good figure in T-shirt and jeans. “I’ve brought along some of my elderberry wine.”
“Come in, please,” said Agatha. She led the way into the kitchen.
“They’ve done old Cutler’s place quite nicely,” said Harriet, as she and the others put their presents on the kitchen table.
“Cutler?” said Agatha, plugging in the kettle.
“An old man who lived here for ages. His daughter rents it,” said Amy. “The cottage was a terrible mess when he died. He never threw anything away.”
“I’m surprised the daughter didn’t just sell it. Must be difficult to rent.”
“Don’t know about that,” said Harriet. “You’re the first.”
“Coffee, everyone?” asked Agatha. There was a chorus of assent. “And perhaps we’ll have some of Mrs. Freemantle’s cake.”
“Harriet. It’s all first names.”
“As you probably already know, I’m Agatha Raisin. I belong to a ladies’ society in my home village of Carsely.”
“A ladies’ society?” exclaimed Carrie. “Is that what you call it?”
“We’re a bit old-fashioned,” said Agatha. “And we call each other by our second names.” Harriet was efficiently cutting a delicious chocolate cake into slices and arranging the slices on plates. I’ll put on pounds if I’m not careful, thought Agatha. First that enormous meal at the pub and now chocolate cake.
When the coffee was poured, they all took their cups and plates through to the sitting-room. “Should I light the fire?” asked Agatha.
“No, we’re all warm enough,” said Harriet without consulting the others.
“I think they might at least have had some sort of central heating,” complained Agatha. “The rental was expensive enough without having to pay for wood.”
“Oh, but you’ve plenty of wood,” said Polly. “There’s a shed at the bottom of the garden full of logs.”
“I didn’t see it. But it was dark when I arrived. Oh, by the way, I saw these odd lights dancing about at the bottom of the garden.”
There was a silence and then Carrie asked, “Is anything missing?”
“I’m just in the middle of checking the inventory, so I don’t know. Why?”
There was another silence.
Then Harriet said, “We wondered whether you would like to be an honorary member of our woman’s group while you’re here. We’re quilting.”
“What’s that?” mumbled Agatha, her mouth full of cake. Why wouldn’t they talk about those lights?
“We’re making patchwork quilts. You know, we sew squares of coloured cloth onto old blankets.”
Competitive as ever, Agatha Raisin would not admit she could not sew. “Sounds like fun,” she lied. “Might drop in sometime. It is so very kind of you all to bring me all those presents.”
“Tonight,” said Harriet. “We meet tonight. I’ll come and pick you up at seven o’clock, right after evening service. Are you C of E?”
“Yes,” said Agatha, who wasn’t really anything but felt that her friendship with Mrs. Bloxby qualified her for membership in the Church of England.
“Oh, in that case, I’ll see you in church this evening and we’ll go on from there,” said Harriet.
Agatha was just about to lie and say she was feeling too poorly to go anywhere, when Polly said abruptly, “Well, go on. Tell us about your broken heart.”
Agatha reddened. “What are you talking about?”
“When we heard you were coming,” said Harriet, “and that you lived in a village in the Cotswolds, we wondered why you would want to rent in another village and so we decided you had man trouble and wanted to get away.”
I’m going off you lot rapidly, thought Agatha. She smiled round at them all, that shark-like smile which meant Agatha Raisin was about to tell a whopping lie.
“Actually I’m writing a book at the moment,” she said. “I wanted somewhere to write and have peace and quiet. You see, old friends from London keep dropping down on visits and I don’t have enough time for myself. I’ll go along with you to-night, but I am afraid I’m going to be a bit of a recluse.”
“What are you writing?” asked Amy.
“A detective story.”
“What’s it called?”
“Death at the Manor,” said Agatha, improvising wildly.
“And who’s your detective?”
“A baronet.”
“You mean you’re doing another sort of Lord Peter Wimsey?”
“Do you mind if I don’t talk about my work anymore?” said Agatha. “I don’t like discussing it.”
“Just tell us,” said
Amy, leaning forward. “Have you had any published?”
“No, this is my first attempt. I am a real-life detective, so I thought I may as well fictionalize some of my adventures.”
“You mean you work for the police?” asked Harriet.
“I occasionally work with the police,” said Agatha grandly. She proceeded to brag about her cases. To her irritation, just as she had got to the exciting bit of one of them, Harriet rose and said abruptly, “Sorry, we’ve got to go.”
Agatha saw them out. She walked with them down to the garden gate and waved them goodbye. She stayed leaning on the gate, enjoying the sunshine.
Harriet’s voice travelled back to her ears. “Of course she was lying.”
“Do you think so?” Amy’s voice.
“Oh, yes. Not a word of truth in any of it. Woman probably can’t write a word.”
Agatha clenched her fists. Jealous cow. She would show her. She would write a book. Writing was writing and she had written enough press releases in her days as a public relations officer. She had brought her computer and printer with her. She began to feel quite excited. When her name topped the bestseller list, then James would sit up and take notice.
On her road back to the house, she peered over the hedge at the driveway at the side of the house where her car was parked. What had they meant by asking if anything was missing?
She opened the kitchen door and went down to the bottom of the garden, finding a shed behind a stand of trees. It was full of logs. She returned to the kitchen with the cats scampering at her heels. At least they’re happy with the place, she thought. She fed them and returned to checking the inventory, but all the while wondering about her visitors. Did they have husbands? They couldn’t all be widows.
After she had finished ticking off everything on the inventory, she scraped out the contents of Genuine Bengali Curry into a pot. She would need to buy a microwave. She ate the hot mess and then decided to get down to writing that book.
She set up the computer on the kitchen table, typed in “Chapter One,” and then stared at the screen. She found that instead of writing that book, she was beginning to write down excuses to get out of quilting. “I suffer from migraine.” No good. They’d all call around with pills. “Something urgent has come up.” What? She decided to spend a useful day unpacking the rest of her stuff.