by M C Beaton
“So that you can scuttle to the vicarage with stars in your eyes? Grow up.”
“Oh, bugger off, Charles.”
Agatha slumped down at the kitchen table. Charles studied her for a moment and then went to the coffee machine and made her a cup of black coffee. He slid her cigarettes and a lighter along the table and let the cats out. Silently, he went off upstairs to change.
Once showered and dressed, he was about to leave without saying goodbye when he stopped in the little hallway. What is happening to us, wondered Charles. Life would be very dull without Agatha’s friendship. He turned around abruptly and sat down with her at the kitchen table. “Drink your coffee,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
Agatha pressed his hand and gave a weak smile. Charles snatched his hand away. “Enough of the soap opera for one morning. You look quite odd without your usual war paint.”
That had the effect of sending Agatha flying up the stairs to put on makeup.
* * *
Charles and Agatha found Edward being comforted by the members of the last dinner party. Despite her desire to get out of working for Edward, Agatha could not help studying them closely. Tiffany’s aunt, Mrs. Ruby Jones, had an arm around Edward’s shaking shoulders. Judge Lord Thurkettle was saying, “Courage old boy. Tomorrow’s another day.”
“And it never rains but it pours,” said Bengy Gentry, and his sister, Brenda, added sotto voce, “And inside every silver lining there’s a great big dirty cloud.”
Everyone was drinking sherry, sherry being considered a suitable mourning sort of drink.
Edward had already begged Agatha to find the monster who had taken his beautiful wife from him before bursting into tears. So Agatha looked at him helplessly.
She said to Charles in low voice, “Let’s go and take a stroll around this village. I want to find out about witches.”
Outside they found heavy rain had started to fall again. “I saw a little shop as we drove in and it had a sign outside saying CAFETERIA. Funny about that lot drinking sherry so early in the day. I once had a nanny who sucked those sweeties, mint imperials, in church. She said God didn’t mind mint imperials but would frown on chocolates.”
“I don’t know anyone other than Mrs. Bloxby who drinks sherry. I quite like the stuff, just so long as it’s not sweet.”
They scurried from the shelter of the porch into Agatha’s car.
The café turned out to be at the back off a general store. It had five tables covered in checked cloth and with old Chianti bottles holding candles, no doubt to give the place a spurious Italian flavour along with the posters of Venice on the walls.
A beaded curtain separated the café from the shop. A faded lady came through the curtain and lit a paraffin stove. “Cold as a witch’s tit in here,” she said conversationally.
Then she vanished back through the bead curtain.
A few minutes later, she was replaced by a young girl who had a spotty face and pink hair and a very large backside which she hung over the paraffin stove. “What yers want?” she asked.
“Do you have any breakfast type stuff?” asked Agatha, realising she was hungry.
“Yes mean eggs an ’at, like?”
“Yes.”
“Dunno. MUM!”
The faded lady reappeared. “Them wants breakfusty things.”
“Like bacon and eggs?”
“Lovely,” said Agatha.
“Well, you ain’t having ’em, see? It’s tea and cakes or nothing.”
To Charles’s amazement, Agatha said calmly, “I’m not joining this coven if it has sour-faced old hags like you in it.”
“You was going to join us, like?”
“Not like, if it’s full of people like you.”
“Now, now, don’t you be getting your knickers in a twist, my lovely. Bacon and eggs coming right up.”
When the woman and her daughter had gone, Charles hissed, “Are you out of your tiny mind?”
“I’ve decided to go ahead with the investigation,” said Agatha. “I mean, there have been so many attempts on my life, you’d think I’d be used to them by now. I bet she wants me to join the other hags.”
Agatha flashed Charles a triumphant look as a seemingly delicious plate of eggs, bacon and fried bread was put in front of her. “You be enjoying that there,” said the woman and went off wiping her hands on her apron.
Before Agatha could start eating, Charles snatched her plate and studied it closely. “I thought so. The old bitch has spat on one of your eggs. See! That filthy globule to the side.”
Agatha picked up her plate and hurled it against the wall. Then she picked up the fat china teapot and sent it sailing off in the direction of the kitchen door.
“You daft cow,” said Charles. “We could have called a health inspector. See where your rudeness got you? Come on. Let’s go to the vicarage.”
* * *
To Agatha’s disappointment, there was no sign of Guy and with Charles’s cynical look fixed on her face, she didn’t feel like asking where he was. And there was worse. Charles said, as Molly was filling the kettle, “Stop slaving away. Let’s all go out somewhere and eat junk food. Aggie loves the stuff.”
“I’m off food,” said Agatha. “A cup of tea will be fine.”
“But it won’t be fine for our Molly who longs to get out of here and stop making tea for every caller. Get your coat.”
“Did anyone ever call you a real Christian before?” asked Molly.
“I’m flattered.”
* * *
“Where do you want to go?” asked Agatha as they piled into her car. She kept looking around, hoping to see Guy returning.
“What about Harry’s All Day Breakfast on the ring road?”
“Great,” said Molly.
“Would you like to leave a note for your husband?” said Agatha. “Maybe he could join us.”
“Rory and Guy are off shooting pheasant.”
“Whose shoot?”
“Lord Thurkettle. He’s not popular and he wanted to swell the ranks and so Guy and Rory get to go for free provided they only take one bird each. Do you like pheasant, Agatha?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” said Agatha.
“Then you must come for dinner.”
“You’ll need to hang them,” cautioned Charles.
“I’ve got a brace from five days ago. I usually allow half a bird each but I’m sure it’ll stretch.”
“I’ll bring you another brace,” said Charles. “And what’s more, they’ve been plucked.”
“I’d better get out there and do some detecting,” said Agatha.
“But we’ve only just got here,” complained Charles. “I mean, you did come to see Molly, didn’t you, darling?”
There was a sarcastic stress on that “darling.” Agatha shifted uncomfortably. She had hoped to see Guy, Guy wasn’t at the vicarage, so what was the point in staying?
“Of course,” said Agatha. “Molly, are you able to get out? I mean, I see this village on television every evening. The world’s press are cruising around.”
“There are even busloads of tourists,” said Molly. “Some village bitch told The Sun newspaper that Rory was holding black masses in the church.”
“I bet it was that nasty cow from the shop-café place,” said Agatha.
“Oh, Mrs. Fawkes. She’s all sound and fury signifying nothing.”
“Until she spits in your food,” said Charles.
“Surely not!”
“Surely yes. I think it was because Agatha called her a sour-faced old cow.”
“I also said that I did not want to join her coven,” said Agatha. “I just wanted to see how she’d react.”
“Oh, dear. I have just found out, there is a coven in this village and they even advertise their meetings in Mystic magazine.”
“I’ll go off and find a copy,” said Agatha. “Then Charles and I can go to one of their meetings.”
“Go yourself, Aggie. Not the time o
f year to go prancing around in the nude.”
“After the reported bad publicity they got for that sort of thing years ago, I bet they keep their clothes on. Don’t be silly, Charles. It’ll be a laugh.”
He stared at her, his eyes blank and then said evenly, “My time and my life are both my own. Furthermore, I don’t work for you.”
Agatha looked taken back and then she shrugged. “You spoil me, Charles,” she said. “I quite forget I have an office full of detectives. In fact, I’d better go and see what they are doing. Do you want me to drop you at your car?”
“I’ll get a taxi,” said Charles.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to call on Sarah Bloxby so I’ll drop you off,” said Molly.
“I’ll see myself out.” Agatha walked out into the dark, gusty day feeling strangely bereft. If Charles had been angry with her, she would not have been so upset. But it was worse than that. He had looked bored.
* * *
Agatha walked into the office. Only Toni was there, her bright hair shining under the electric light, switched on because of the darkness of the day.
“Any further forward?” asked Toni.
“No, but I would like to see who’s in that coven. I believe they advertise in Mystic magazine.”
“I believe you’ll find it in the personal ads at the back. We had one of those cases before.”
“Tell me honestly, Toni, do you think I take Charles for granted?”
“No. I thought it was the other way around. He uses your cottage as a hotel, drops in and out when he feels like it. James comes and goes. You need a man with commitment.”
“At my age, they’ve been committed already to some lucky woman, or committed to the loony bin, or committed to their own reflections.” She thought suddenly of Guy. Had he been married? Was he married? Molly was going to visit Mrs. Bloxby, therefore Mrs. Bloxby would surely know.
Agatha flicked through the personal ads. “Ah here we are. ‘Sumpton Harcourt’—why do all these villages have names like someone in a P. G. Wodehouse novel?—‘coven will meet on fifteenth November on Hangman’s Hill.’ That’s tonight!”
“There’s a Hangman’s Hill between Blockley and Chipping Campden,” said Toni.
“Can’t be. Not the sort of place.”
“I’ll google it. Oh, they’re all over the place. The best known one is in Epping Forest.”
“They’ve probably named some hill near the village themselves. I’ll ask around. I’m off. Everything running all right?”
“Yes, I’ve wrapped up the Barons’ divorce case.”
“Want to come with me? I got cold feet and wanted to back out and give Edward his money back.”
“Not like you, Agatha!”
“Wait until you start to spend more time in that rotten village and you’ll get the creeps as well.”
* * *
Molly had left by the time they arrived. They settled gratefully against the feather cushions of the sofa in the vicarage drawing room. The fire crackled and Mrs. Bloxby passed around tea and buttered scones. Outside the French windows stood the churchyard, the old stones looking as if they were hunched against the cold wind.
It was really only on television that people got buried in churchyards, thought Agatha. Cremation was all the rage.
Toni said, “Agatha is wondering if you know anything about the coven in my village.”
“Funny you should mention that,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I thought that had finished long ago and a lady in this village nicknamed Fiercely Puritan—I’m afraid my husband thought that one up but she is always complaining his sermons don’t have enough hellfire in them and she does seem obsessed with sin—where was I? Oh, yes, well, real name Joanna Bentley says she has heard the coven at Sumpton Harcourt has re-formed. And they are to meet tonight on Hangman’s Hill.”
“Where’s that?” asked Agatha.
“It’s actually called Badger’s Hill and it is just above the village. They did used to hang people there. There was a gibbet. But it’s been called Badger’s Hill for the last hundred or so years. You are surely not thinking of going?”
“Well, yes,” said Agatha. “I want to see whether they are vicious enough to start killing people.”
“Oh, do be careful,” admonished the vicar’s wife. “I do think they take some sort of drugs. They used to in the old days. They rubbed something or other on their genitals and that gave them a feeling of flying.”
“I wish someone would rub something on my genitals,” said Agatha, and then turned dark red as she realised she had spoken aloud.
Mrs. Bloxby hurried from the room and Toni could hear her stifled laughter coming from outside.
“I think we should have an early meal,” said Agatha. “It didn’t give a time. What if it’s at midnight? I don’t feel like freezing up there in the bushes.”
“Tell you what,” said Toni. “You go to the vicarage this evening and I’ll ask around.”
“You will be careful? Maybe Simon could go with you.”
“No. Not Simon.”
“Why? Got a crush on you again?”
“No. But he’s dreaming about someone. I know the signs.”
Chapter Seven
“Thanks,” said Molly early that evening as she accepted Charles’s gift of two brace of pheasant. “Funny how men are hanged but pheasants are hung. The niceties of the English language. Guy is doing the cooking tonight. He does waste a lot of streaky bacon.”
“I like to wrap the birds up in it and stick them in the oven. Can’t be bothered keeping basting them. Oh, there’s the door. Probably some journalist.”
“I’ll get it,” said Charles. “I think it’s Agatha. I can smell French scent from here.”
“Are they an item?”
“Don’t think so.”
Agatha came in bearing a large jar of cranberry sauce. “Mrs. Bloxby’s offering,” she said. “Evening, Guy.”
Charles was irritated to notice that Agatha was wearing false eyelashes. Then he was irritated with himself. Why shouldn’t she tart herself up?
“You got a toothache or something?” Charles realised the vicar was asking. “You’re scowling quite dreadfully.”
“Bit of a headache,” lied Charles. “Are the press still haunting you?”
“No, apart from a young chap who looks vaguely like Mr. Punch. He lurks in the shrubbery so he can accost Molly.”
“He’s rather sweet,” said Molly. “I’ve finished peeling the spuds, Guy, you can put them on to roast. I told him sharpish to run along and stop bothering me and he looked so hurt, I told him to toughen up or he wouldn’t be much of a reporter.”
“Amazing,” said her husband. “Molly never notices when men have fallen for her.”
Must have a word with Simon, thought Agatha. I swear it’s him in the grip of another obsession. Why can’t he grow up?
She realised that Guy was looking at her and she suddenly smiled, not her usual crocodile smile, but a tentative, very feminine one that lit up her face.
Guy stared at her. Charles said loudly, “Someone at the door again. I’ll go.”
He came back after a few moments followed by Toni, beautiful as ever, with raindrops shining in her blond hair. “It’s at eleven o’clock tonight, Agatha,” she said, shrugging off a scarlet puffa jacket to reveal a soft blue sweater that showed off her small high breasts to advantage.
“I think we should forget about it,” said Agatha. “Thanks, Toni. No need to wait around.”
Rory said, “Oh, she must stay for dinner. We’ve got masses.”
Toni looked uneasily at Agatha. Guy stepped forward. “No one’s going to introduce us so we’d better do it ourselves. I’m Guy Harris and I gather you work for Agatha?”
“Yes, I’m Toni Gilmour. But I feel I should be going. I promised Simon a drink.”
“That your boyfriend?”
“No, he’s another detective. He said he was helping Agatha in his spare time by finding out as much as possible
about the village.”
“Go and bring him in,” said Molly. “It’s a nasty night.”
Toni returned after a few minutes, leading Simon, who glanced at Molly and reddened.
“What on earth were you doing lurking about?” demanded Molly. “All you had to do was ring the bell and say you were working for Agatha.”
“I thought you would have been bothered enough,” said Simon.
“Is there anything to drink,” asked Guy, “or have you thrown it all on that wretched stove?”
There’s a box of Merlot on the counter,” said Molly, “or there’s sloe gin.”
How marvellous, thought Agatha enviously, to be able oh-so-casually to offer guests box wine and homemade tipple as well. It’s all these snobbish colour supplements and arty-farty TV programmes of the I-wouldn’t-be-seen-dead-dahling-giving–that-to-meh-guests. They keep the class system going. In fact, thought Agatha, colour supplements and glossy magazines sometimes even have etiquette advisors. Who was that thin bitch who worked for Super Upper mag? Her conversation was limited to jeering at so-and-so who had cut the lettuce, my dear, or who had used a knife and fork to eat asparagus.
Guy found himself becoming more intrigued by Agatha as he watched her thoughts chasing like cloud shadows across her expressive face. But there was Charles Fraith, who was currently regarding him with a cold, assessing look.
* * *
Dinner was a pleasant affair and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves with the exception of Charles who seemed on edge and Agatha who had become progressively gloomy. Did Toni always have to look so young and radiant? The men were laughing at everything she said although she was only telling a few stories about cases she had been on. Simon just sat and gazed at Molly.
At last, Agatha said she had better be going if she meant to have a look at the coven.
She got to her feet and Toni rose as well. “That coat of yours is too bright,” said Agatha. “Simon, you’d better come instead. Charles?”