by M C Beaton
Roy Silver had set off for London early that morning, but his new-found passion for riding now made him more likely than ever to become a regular weekend visitor. He was happy to carry on working with Tamara and had been a huge comfort to her when he broke the news about Jacob. The police, of course, had visited the stables, evidence was collected and Tamara had been interviewed at length, but the press were now portraying her as a victim of both “Bloody Mary”—every journalist loved that term—and “the Lexington Stranglers,” “the Sinister Siblings” and “the Evil Twins.” The Lexingtons were not twins, but the news editor who had come up with the tag wasn’t about to let that fact get in the way of a good headline.
Roy was milking the media attention for all it was worth and had been forced back to his London office to deal with the surge of interest in the Montgomery Stables from corporate clients and equestrian sponsors. Tamara had shut reporters out of the stables, upset by events and unable to cope with their pestering. She kept her head down and pointed everyone towards Roy. Agatha knew that she would cope well enough once things settled down and people wanted to talk to her about horses and riding instead of intrigue and murder. That would come soon enough. The press had little interest in yesterday’s news.
“Are you sure you want me to drop you off at the bottom of the drive?” said Toni. “I can come in with you if you like.”
“I’m sure,” said Agatha. “It’s so refreshing outside. The rain has stopped and it’s a beautiful day for a walk in the fresh air.”
“It’s just … you’re going in on your own.”
“I’ll be fine. We don’t have to do everything mob-handed. And you need to take yourself off shopping. That dress you were wearing on Monday evening was ruined after you were flung around the room and dragged across the floor. Get yourself a new one. Get a couple—charge them to the company. I’ve got Charles’s invoice in here.” She patted the briefcase on her lap. “Raisin Investigations can afford it.”
Toni turned into the gateway to Barfield House and Agatha hopped out of the car. She set off up the long avenue of trees with a spring in her step. It was indeed a splendid afternoon for a walk. She carried her briefcase in one hand and a bottle-shaped padded bag in the other. In the bag was a chilled bottle of champagne, with which she and Charles would celebrate the successful outcome of the case and his new-found wealth.
As she approached the house, she spotted a small open-topped sports car parked near the terrace and saw some movement on the terrace itself, near the library doors. She carried on walking and recognised the unmistakably neat, slim outline of Sir Charles Fraith—but who was that with him? Venturing a little farther, she could see a young woman, wearing a midnight-blue evening gown that trailed on the ground. The high-heeled shoes that would lift her to the level where the dress simply caressed the ground were in her left hand. Her right hand was stroking Charles’s hair, then at the back of his neck as they pressed close to one another and he crushed her to his chest, their lips locked in a kiss that betrayed a lingering lust from the night before. And probably the morning after, too, Agatha guessed, knowing Charles. A long, lazy morning, a very late lunch … She felt a chill run down her spine. Had it really taken him so little time to slip back into his old predatory ways?
She watched the young woman wave cheerfully to Charles, throw her shoes into the car’s passenger footwell and then climb behind the wheel. Clever girl. You’re not used to those new shoes, are you? They must have been hell last night, and your feet still too raw to wear them today. Better to go without them, especially if you’re unaccustomed to driving in such high heels.
Charles walked back into the library. Agatha stepped off the drive behind a tree and dropped her briefcase. She took the champagne out of the cooler bag, ripped off the foil and undid the wire. The sports car’s engine burst into life and it came zipping down the driveway. Agatha stepped out from the tree, vigorously shaking the champagne. The cork shot out and she crammed her thumb over the mouth of the bottle just as the car reached her, the spray of champagne drenching the driver. The car screeched to a halt and the spray subsided.
“Sorry!” Agatha called, picking up her briefcase and carrying on up the drive with the bottle held high. “Must have jiggled it!”
Charles was taking a phone call when she walked in through the library’s French doors.
“Aggie,” he said, hanging up and frowning. “Just had a call from a friend of mine. Warned me there’s a madwoman on the drive spraying champagne everywhere.”
“I had a bit of an accident,” Agatha admitted, setting the bottle on Charles’s desk. “I must have jiggled it. It could have been worse, though. They say that one bottle in every few thousand has a flaw in the glass and explodes completely. A friend, was she?”
“Yes … a friend.”
“Known her long? Probably not, I’d say. She didn’t look old enough for anyone to have known her for very long.”
“I … um … met her last night at a Young Farmers’ dinner. I was giving a speech about … Oh, what the hell, Aggie—I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“No, no you don’t. Of course you don’t. But I was far too knackered to do anything except sleep last night, having spent all my waking hours recently fighting to keep you out of jail!”
“Calm down, for goodness’ sake. Let’s get this business settled now. The sooner it’s all done and dusted, the better.”
“Then I’d better update you on what’s in the report,” Agatha informed him, and gave him a brief account of everything that had happened since they last spoke, including her adventure in France with the beautiful Claudette.
Charles reached for the little handbell on his desk and tinkled it. “GUSTAV!”
Gustav duly appeared and scowled at Agatha.
“I used the tradesmen’s entrance,” she said. “Like the hired help is supposed to.”
“Apparently there has been some kind of Champagne incident on the drive,” said Gustav.
Charles waved a hand in the direction of Agatha and the near-empty bottle. “She says she ‘jiggled it,’” he said. “Show the gentlemen in, please, Gustav.”
“Gentlemen?” queried Gustav. “Will these two do instead?”
He waved Chief Inspector Wilkes and Darell Brown-Field into the room.
“Well, well,” said Agatha. “Pinky and Perky. You’ve just cut the room’s average IQ in half.”
“I am not here to be insulted by you, Agatha Raisin,” muttered Wilkes.
“No?” said Agatha. “What exactly are they here for, Charles?”
“I think this one is here to apologise,” said Charles, pointing at Wilkes, “and this one,” he indicated Brown-Field, “is here to take a last look.”
“I don’t owe anyone an apology,” Wilkes hissed. “I was just doing my job.”
“Really?” said Agatha. “If you had done your job properly, the murderers would not have come within an ace of jetting off to a sun-kissed shore somewhere, never to be seen again.”
“We were pursuing all valid lines of inquiry!” he insisted.
“You were pursuing me and Charles!” Agatha yelled. “For personal reasons and…” she turned to Brown-Field, “perhaps personal gain. Wilkes is one of your golfing chums, isn’t he, Darell? You were pressing him to go after Charles and me, weren’t you?”
“That Lexington pair have yet to stand trial,” blustered Darell. “Who’s to say they did this all on their own? Who’s to say he isn’t behind it all?”
“The Lexingtons themselves, Darell,” said Agatha. “They confessed to everything. We got it all on camera.”
“That means nothing!” Darell argued. “They are likely being well paid to carry the can for this. They’re young. They’ll spend a few years in prison and then they’ll be free. They can go and live on a tropical island, or whatever they were planning to do, in comfort for the rest of their lives with a fat load of cash.”
“It all comes down to money with you, doesn’
t it, Darell?” said Agatha. “If Charles had been guilty, his whole estate would be yours. Because he’s innocent, you lose all of this,” she waved a hand around the room, “and a huge chunk of the Brown-Field millions as well. That’s why you had your little lapdog here go after him.”
“I am nobody’s little—”
“Down, boy,” said Agatha, wagging a finger at Wilkes. “Shall we all take a seat, Charles, or is he not allowed on the furniture?”
“I refuse to be treated like this!” shouted Wilkes. “Mircester Police have already issued an official apology. What more do you want from me?”
“How about a bit of a grovel?” Agatha suggested. “You have made life so uncomfortable for Charles and for me; maybe you should consider grovelling a little, otherwise I might feel obliged to start looking into your affairs, the way I did with him!” She nodded towards Darell.
“I warned you to keep your nose out!” Darell yelled, stepping towards her, a clenched fist raised.
“Don’t even think about it!” warned Charles, grabbing Darell by the shoulder and pushing him back.
“No, Darell,” said Agatha, “don’t even think about it. Not in front of witnesses. Not in front of an officer of the law. You are in plain sight, here, not skulking out of a taxi to meet your mistress at a rented house in Oxford.”
“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Darell blustered.
“Oh but you do, Darell,” said Agatha. “Mrs. Sheraton Chadwick is what we’re talking about.” She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a print of the photograph she’d taken at the restaurant in the Gironde. “You remember her—you were screwing her in France a few days ago. By now the lovely Sherry will be starting to find her whole world falling apart. Her husband has been provided with a preliminary report on her activities here, in France, and with her lovers in Italy, Germany and the Netherlands. Did you know about them? No? Really, Darell—did you think you were her one and only?
“I’m guessing you first met her after Mary tried to nobble her horse. You would have offered her money to hush it all up. Sherry likes money. I wonder what Mrs. Brown-Field will think of all this? I may still be able to keep your name out of the Chadwick divorce. Maybe we can do a deal, Darell. You like doing deals, don’t you?”
“What sort of a deal?” muttered Darell.
“How about you leave here, you leave Charles alone and you leave Tamara Montgomery alone, and I will keep you anonymous in the final report.”
“That sounds like blackmail,” said Wilkes.
“Stay out of this, Wilkes,” ordered Darell, “if you want to keep your job long enough to see your pension.”
“That sounds like very good advice,” said Charles. “Best keep your trap shut, old boy.”
“So what about it, Darell?” Agatha asked. “It would be a bit of a blow to lose Mary’s share of your fortune to Charles in a marriage settlement, and then have your wife walk off with the lion’s share of the rest in a divorce settlement. Would you be left with enough to interest little Sherry? Would you still be able to afford gifts like the horse brooch you had made for her? Did she see the one Mary had and demand one the same?”
“You gave your whore a brooch like Mary’s!” Linda Brown-Field was standing in the library doorway. She strutted towards Darell and slapped him across the face. “You gave her a copy of the gift I had made for my daughter! How could you?”
“Linda, darling, I only—”
“Shut up!” She slapped him again. Agatha was enjoying this. “You’ve got a lot to answer for. From now on, we’ll be doing things my way.”
She turned to Charles.
“We are leaving this house. You will not see or hear from us again. We will retire to Marbella.”
She looked at Agatha.
“Tamara Montgomery will not hear from us again either, but you may, Mrs. Raisin, should I ever have need of your services. Did you hear that, Darell, you shitty little cockroach?”
She glared at Wilkes.
“And if you ever show your face at my house in Marbella again, you pathetic old arse-licker, I will set her on you!”
She turned and marched out.
“I think now would be a good time for you two to leave,” said Charles, addressing Darell and Wilkes. He tinkled the little bell. “GUSTAV!”
Gustav walked into the room and sighed.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, “that ringing the bell is rendered redundant when you follow it up by bawling like a Mircester market trader?”
“See the chief inspector out, Gustav,” said Charles. “Then help Mr. Brown-Field pack. Make sure he doesn’t purloin any of the family silver.”
“You sold that years ago,” muttered Gustav, ushering the wearied Wilkes and the forlorn Darell out of the room.
“I must be going too,” said Agatha, taking a folder from her briefcase. “Here is your report, and here is my invoice for payment.”
“Here is your cheque,” said Charles.
“You haven’t looked at the invoice.”
“I don’t need to. This will more than cover it—plus a bonus.”
“Very generous. I think my team have earned it.”
“Aggie, must we be like this?” Charles pleaded, reaching out to touch her. “Can’t we go back to the way it used to be with us?”
Agatha backed away. “There’s not going to be any ‘us,’ Charles. Certainly not after you came home from the Young Farmers’ dinner with the prize cow.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“I’ve done my job. I’ve done what you paid me for. I was hired to help. Now I’m going.”
She walked out onto the terrace, turned right towards the driveway, realised that she had no car and marched back past Charles, down onto the lawn and off towards the woods. The Huntsman would be open. She would have a drink and call for a taxi.
Charles watched Agatha’s departure with a mixture of regret and irritation. She had stormed out of Barfield countless times in the past, but she’d never headed into the woods before. That had to mean something. Maybe this time she was going for good. He wandered back into the library and sat down behind his desk, pondering all that had happened.
“GUSTAV!”
“What, no bell?”
“Book me on the next available flight to Bordeaux. There’s a young lady there I think I should meet.”
* * *
Agatha’s taxi did not arrive outside the Huntsman until she had tucked away three deceptively large glasses of Pinot Gris, which wasn’t really surprising as she hadn’t called for it until she was halfway through her second. The pub was quiet and the barmaid was more than willing to chat about wine, men, shoes, men, clothes, men, cats and men. Only wine, shoes, clothes and cats came out well from their conversation.
James was tidying his front garden when the taxi pulled up in Lilac Lane. Agatha exited the car a little unsteadily and paused, fumbling for her door keys.
“James!” she announced, swaying slightly. “You are a good man, but tomorrow I am going back to France, where they have wine…” she surprised herself with a burp, “where they have fashion, grapes and fruity men. It’s what life’s all about … and cats.”
She disappeared into her cottage. James considered following her to make sure she was all right, but sensibly decided against it. If he heard any crashes, screams or other signs of distress, he would reconsider. He did not, and when he later ventured a peek through Agatha’s front window, he saw her curled up sound asleep on the sofa. All things considered, he thought, that was the best place for her. If she really was off to France again tomorrow, he would feed her cats. He was pretty sure that was what she had meant.
* * *
Agatha rolled off the sofa well before dawn and dragged herself upstairs to the shower. By the time the weak early-morning sun crept over the hills to tinge the tired night clouds a rejuvenating pink, she was on her way to Moreton-in-Marsh to catch a London-bound train. The train, at first almost emp
ty, became ever more crowded with the wave of morning commuters surging towards the capital. Arriving at Paddington station, she took the Underground to St. Pancras, where she boarded the Eurostar direct to Paris Gare du Nord, catching a brief nap as the train sped through the tunnel beneath the English Channel. In Paris, a swift Métro ride brought her to Gare Montparnasse, where she took a train for Bordeaux and relaxed with a late lunch and a brave but restorative glass of Sauvignon Blanc before studying a map she had bought to plan her route out of the city.
It was late afternoon by the time the train pulled in to Bordeaux Saint-Jean station. Agatha slung her modest overnight bag into a rental car and drove down to the river, following the Garonne until the swirling glass-and-steel tower of the Cité du Vin museum loomed into sight. There she turned left and slowed frustratingly in a snarl of sluggish traffic crawling along a boulevard that passed an old dockyard to the right from where Italian submarines had set sail during the Second World War to join the German U-boat wolf packs attacking convoys in the Atlantic. That was yet another fact that James had slipped into their conversation when he had first heard she was visiting Bordeaux. She congratulated herself on having remembered.
She turned right onto the Boulevard Aliénor d’Aquitaine, named after the woman who had been Queen of France, Queen of England and the most powerful woman in Europe during the twelfth century. She really was surprising herself with how much of James’s waffle she had managed to soak up while only half listening. She could probably learn a lot if she actually paid attention. Her route then took her onto a bridge across a city lake before she picked up a road that led out through the suburbs into the Gironde countryside.