by M C Beaton
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison
( Agatha Raisin - 19 )
M.C. Beaton
Critics hail Agatha Raisin and M. C. Beaton!
“Tourists are advised to watch their backs in the bucolic villages where M. C. Beaton sets her sly British mysteries…Outsiders always spell trouble for the societies Beaton observes with such cynical humor.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“[Beaton’s] imperfect heroine is an absolute gem!”
—Publishers Weekly
“Beaton’s Agatha Raisin series just about defines the British cozy.”
—Booklist
“Anyone interested in … intelligent, amusing reading will want to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Agatha Raisin.”
—Atlanta Journal Constitution
“Beaton has a winner in the irrepressible, romance-hungry Agatha.
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Few things in life are more satisfying than to discover a brand-new Agatha Raisin mystery.”
—Tampa Tribune Times
“The Raisin series brings the cozy tradition back to life. God Bless the Queen!”
Tulsa World
“The Miss Marple-like Raisin is a refreshingly sensible, wonderfully eccentric, thoroughly likable heroine…a must for cozy fans.”
—Booklist
A SPOONFUL OF POISON
“Agatha is like Miss Marple with a drinking problem, a pack-a-day habit, and major man lust … Beaton’s latest installment, in which Aggie gets mixed up in a deadly jam-tasting contest, is pretty terrific—a must-read.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Take two fine old English traditions—the village fête and death by poison—and you have a clever tale … featuring irascible, lovable Agatha Raisin. A Spoonful of Poison will go down just fine.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Beaton’s sly humor enhances the cozy-style plotting, while updates on Agatha’s … romantic travails are as delightful as ever. The open-ended resolution points to more madcap mayhem to come.”
—Publishers Weekly
THE WALKERS OF DEMBLEY
“British cozy fans will no doubt find this book an engaging teatime companion.”
—Booklist
“Trenchant and droll.”
St. Petersburg Times
“Among writers of cozy village mystery series, count M. C. Beaton as one who creates a nice tea party.”
—Associated Press
THE POTTED GARDENER
“From the author’s sure-fire plot comes this fail-safe moral: It takes an outsider to open people’s eyes to the beauty—and the evil—within.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Compare this one to lemon meringue pie: light … with a delicious hint of tartness at its heart.”
—Washington Times
KISSING CHRISTMAS GOODBYE
“Agatha Raisin is still at the top of her game … in her most challenging case yet.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Beaton, the reigning queen of the cozies, adds an English manor house and a Christmas theme to her usual Cotswold village setting, upping the comfiness factor even higher.”
—Booklist
LOVE, LIES AND LIQUOR
“Another highly satisfying Beaton cozy, this one is long on the kind of social comedy that uses character, plot, and atmosphere to produce the laughter.”
—Booklist
ALSO BY M. C. BEATON
AGATHA RAISIN
Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Love, Lies and Liquor
The Perfect Paragon
The Deadly Dance
Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Case of the Curious Curate
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death
Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage
The Walkers of Dembley
The Vicious Vet
The Quiche of Death
The Potted Gardener
The Skeleton in the Closet
HAMISH MACBETH
Death of a Bore
Death of a Poison Pen
Death of a Village
Death of a Celebrity
A Highland Christmas
WRITING AS
MARION CHESNEY
Our Lady of Pain
Sick of Shadows
Hasty Death
Snobbery with Violence
A SPOONFUL
OF POISON
An Agatha Raisin Mystery
M. C. BEATON
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A SPOONFUL OF POISON
Copyright © 2008 by M. C. Beaton.
Excerpt from There Goes the Bride copyright © 2009 by M. C. Beaton.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2008023581
EAN: 978-0-312-94350-9
Printed in the United States of America
Minotaur hardcover edition/October 2008
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition/September 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to my three bookselling angels
at the Cotswold Bookstore, Moreton-in-Marsh,
Gloucestershire—Tony Keats, David Whitehead and Nina
Smith.
Chapter One
MRS. BLOXBY, WIFE OF THE VICAR of Carsely, looked nervously at her visitor. “Yes, Mrs. Raisin is a friend of mine, a very dear friend, but she is now very busy running her detective agency and does not have spare time for—”
“But this is such a good cause,” interrupted Arthur Chance, vicar of Saint Odo The Severe in the village of Comfrey Magna. “The services of an expert public relations officer to bring the crowds to our annual fête would be most welcome. Proceeds will go to restore the church roof and to various charities.”
“Yes, but—”
“It would do no harm to just ask, now would it? It is your Christian duty.”
“I hardly need to be reminded of my duty,” said Mrs. Bloxby wearily, thinking of all the parish visits, the mothers’ meetings and the Carsely Ladies’ Society. Really, she thought, surveying the vicar, for such a mild, inoffensive-looking man he is terribly pushy. Arthur Chance was a small man with thick glasses and grey hair which stuck out in tufts like horns on either side of his creased and wrinkled face. He had married a woman twenty years his junior, Mrs. Bloxby remembered. He probably bullied her into it, she thought.
“Look! I will do what I can, but I cannot promise anything. When is the fête?”
“It is a week on Saturday.”
“Only about a week away. You are not giving Mrs. Raisin any time.”
“God
will help her,” said Mr. Chance.
Agatha Raisin, a middle-aged woman who had sold up her successful public relations business to take early retirement in a cottage in the Cotswolds, had found that inactivity did not suit her and so had started up her own private detective agency. Now that it was successful, however, she wished she had more time to relax. Also, the cases which poured into the detective agency all concerned messy divorces, missing children, missing cats and dogs, and only the occasional case of industrial espionage. She had begun to close the agency at weekends, feeling she was losing quality time, forgetting that when she had plenty of quality time, she didn’t know what to do with it.
For a woman in her early fifties, she still looked well. Her hair, although tinted, was glossy and her legs good. Although she had small eyes, she had very few wrinkles. She had a generous bosom and a rather thick waist, which was her despair.
On Friday evening, when she arrived home, she fussed over her two cats, Hodge and Boswell, kicked off her shoes, mixed herself a generous gin and tonic, lit a cigarette, and lay back on the sofa with a sigh of relief.
She wondered idly where her ex-husband, James Lacey, was. He lived next door to her but worked as a travel writer and was often abroad. She rummaged around in her brain as usual, searching for that old obsession, that old longing for him, but it seemed to have gone forever. Agatha, without an obsession, was left with herself; and she forgot about all the pain and misery that obsession for her ex had brought and remembered only the brief bursts of elation.
The doorbell shrilled. Agatha swung her legs off the sofa and went to answer the door. Her face lit up when she saw Mrs. Bloxby standing there. “Come in,” she cried. “I’m just having a G and T. Want one?”
“No, but I’d like a sherry.”
Sometimes Agatha, often too aware of her slum upbringing, wondered what it would be like to be a lady inside and out like Mrs. Bloxby. The vicar’s wife was wearing a rather baggy tweed skirt and a rose-pink blouse which had seen better days. Her grey hair was escaping from a bun at the back of her neck, but she had her usual air of kindness and dignity.
The pair of them, as was the fashion in the Carsely Ladies’ Society, always called each other by their second names.
Agatha poured Mrs. Bloxby a sherry. “I haven’t seen you for a while,” said Agatha. “It’s been so busy.”
A brief flicker of guilt crossed Mrs. Bloxby’s grey eyes. “Have you still got that young detective with you, Toni Gilmour?”
“Yes, thank goodness. Excellent worker. But I think we will need to start turning down cases. I really don’t want to take on more staff.”
Mrs. Bloxby took a sip of sherry and said distractedly, “I knew you would be too busy. That’s what I told him.”
“Told who?”
“Mr. Arthur Chance. The vicar of Saint Odo The Severe.”
“The what?”
“An Anglo-Saxon saint. I forget what he did. There are so many of them.”
“So how did my name come up in your discussion with Mr. Chance?”
“He lives in Comfrey Magna—”
“Never been there.”
“Few people have. It’s off the tourist route. Anyway, they are having their annual village fête a week tomorrow and Mr. Chance wanted me to beg you to publicize the event for them.”
“Is there anything special about this vicar? Any reason why I should?”
“Only because it’s for charity. And he is rather pushy.”
Agatha smiled. “You look like a woman who has just been bullied. Tell you what, we’ll drive over there tomorrow morning and I will tell him one resounding no and he won’t bother you again.”
“That is so good of you, Mrs. Raisin. I am not very strong when it comes to saying no to good works.”
In the winter days, when the rain dripped down and thick wet fog covered the hills, Agatha sometimes wondered what she was doing buried under the thatch of her cottage in the Cotswolds.
But as she drove off with Mrs. Bloxby the following morning, the countryside was enjoying a really warm spring. Blackthorn starred the hedgerows, wisteria and clematis hung on garden walls, bluebells shook in the lightest of breezes, and a large blue sky arched overhead.
Mrs. Bloxby guided Agatha through a maze of country lanes. “Here we are at last,” she said finally. “Just park in front of the church.”
Agatha thought Comfrey Magna was an odd, secretive-looking village. There were no new houses to mar the straggling line of ancient cottages on either side of the road. She could see no one on the main street or in the gardens or even at the windows.
“Awfully quiet,” she commented.
“Few young people, that’s the problem,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “No first-time buyers, only last-time buyers.”
“Shouldn’t think houses would be all that expensive in a dead hole like this,” said Agatha, parking the car.
“Houses all over are dreadfully expensive.”
They got out of the car. “That’s the vicarage over there,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “We’ll cut through the churchyard.”
The vicarage was an old grey building with a sloping roof of old Cotswold tiles, the kind that cost a fortune but that the local council would never allow anyone to sell, unless they were going to be replaced with exactly the same thing, which, of course, defeated the purpose.
As they entered the churchyard, Agatha saw a man straightening up from one of the graves where he had been laying flowers. He turned and saw them and smiled.
Agatha blinked rapidly. He was tall, with fair hair, a lightly tanned handsome face, and green eyes. His eyes were really green, thought Agatha, not a fleck of brown in them. He was wearing a tweed sports jacket and cavalry-twill trousers.
“Good morning,” said Mrs. Bloxby pleasantly, but giving Agatha’s arm a nudge because that lady seemed to have become rooted to the spot.
“Good morning,” he replied.
“Who was that?” whispered Agatha as they approached the door of the vicarage.
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Bloxby rang the bell. The door was opened by a tall woman wearing a leotard and nothing else. Her hair was tinted aubergine and worn long and straight. She had rather mean features—a narrow, thin mouth and long narrow eyes. Her nose was thin with an odd bump in the middle, as if it had once been broken and then badly reset. Pushing forty, thought Agatha.
“You’ve interrupted my Pilates exercises,” she said.
“We’ve come to see Mr. Chance,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“You must be the PR people. You’ll find him in the study. I’m Trixie Chance.”
Oh dear, thought Mrs. Bloxby. She often thought that trendy vicars’ wives did as much to reduce a church congregation as a trendy vicar. Mrs. Chance was of a type familiar to her: always desperately trying to be “cool,” following the latest fads and quoting the names of the latest pop groups.
Trixie had disappeared. By pushing open a couple of doors off the hall, they found the study. Arthur Chance was sitting behind a large Victorian desk piled high with papers.
He rushed round the desk to meet them, his pale eyes shining behind thick glasses. He seized Agatha’s hands. “Dear lady, I knew you would come. How splendid of you to help us!”
Agatha disengaged her hands. “I have come here,” she began, “to say—”
There was a trill of laughter from outside, and through the window Agatha could see Trixie talking to that handsome man.
“Who is that man?” she demanded, pointing at the window.
Arthur swung round in surprise. “Oh, that is one of my parishioners, Mr. George Selby. So tragic, his wife dying like that! He has been a source of strength helping me with the organization of the fête, ordering the marquees in case it rains. So important in our fickle English climate, don’t you think, Mrs. Raisin?”
“Certainly,” gushed Agatha. “Perhaps, if you could call Mr. Selby in, we could discuss the publicity together?”
“Certainly, certa
inly.” Arthur bustled off. Mrs. Bloxby stifled a sigh. She knew her friend was now dead set on another romantic pursuit. She wished, not for the first time, that Agatha would grow up.
George Selby entered the study behind the vicar. He smiled at Agatha. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “Mr. Chance can be very persuasive.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Agatha, thinking she should have worn a pair of heels instead of the dowdy flat sandals she was wearing.
But Agatha’s heart sank as the events were described to her. There was to be entertainment by the village band and dancing by a local group of morris men. The rest consisted of competitions to see who had created the best cake, bread, pickles, and relishes. The main event was the home-made jam tasting.
She sat in silence after the vicar had finished outlining the events. She caught a sympathetic look from George’s beautiful green eyes and a great idea leaped into her mind.
“Yes, I can do this,” she said. “You haven’t given me much time. Leave it to me.” She turned to George. “Perhaps we could have dinner sometime in the coming week to discuss progress?”
He hesitated slightly. “Splendid idea,” said the vicar. “Plan our campaign. There is a very good restaurant at Mircester. Trixie, my wife, is particularly fond of it. La Belle Cuisine. Why don’t we all meet there for dinner on Wednesday? Eight o’clock.”
“Fine,” said Agatha gloomily.
“I suppose so,” said George with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
Agatha’s staff, consisting of detectives Phil Marshall, Patrick Mulligan, young Toni Gilmour and secretary Mrs. Freedman, found that the usual Monday-morning conference was cancelled. “Just get on with whatever you’re on with,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a church fête to sell.”