Two days later, Toni and Agatha were driving down the road towards Barfield House, the swish of the tyres on the wet road surface drowning out the noise of the engine. Sunshine flickered through the leaves of overhanging branches, reflecting off the road in patches of glassy glare. The heatwave had broken with a series of heavy rain showers and the Cotswold spring was now settling into its more usual gentle, milder weather.
Following a harrowing Monday night of questions, form-filling and more questions, Agatha had given her entire team the day off on Tuesday, with her secretary left holding the fort in the office. Mrs. Freedman had let the phone ring off the hook and spent most of the day drinking tea, reading a rather raunchy bodice-ripper lent to her by Agatha and shouting, “No comment!” down the stairs when reporters rattled the letter box, just as Agatha had instructed. Today they were all back at work, and now that the file marked “Fraith Murder Inquiry” was complete and nestling safely in Agatha’s briefcase, things were beginning to get back to normal. There were more missing pets, more employers with security concerns … and lots more divorces. Murder, Agatha decided, was actually quite good for business, unless, of course, you were the victim, in which case you could consider yourself liquidated.
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 empty, 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.
She emerged from the vineyard at the chateau and immediately saw Claudette skipping down the staircase to greet her.
“Agatha!” Claudette squealed, throwing her arms around her and kissing her on both cheeks. “I am so happy that you are here again!”
“I’m very pleased to be here. How is Pascal?”
“He is very well and looking forward to seeing you this evening. He is out touring the vineyard with a friend. Now come inside, I think it may be starting to rain.”
They hurried inside and Claudette organised tea for them in the drawing room. They settled into chairs with a view through the tall windows over the vineyards that stretched off to the far horizon. The first spots of light rain peppered the glass.
“It is so nice to be back,” said Agatha, “but there is something I must talk to you about, Claudette.”
“You sound so serious. What is it that is troubling you?”
“Do you know anything about CPD Developments?”
“Why do you ask?”
“CPD Developments is part of CPD Holdings, an investment company. CPD is Claudette-Pascal-Duvivier, isn’t it? Both companies are owned by you and your uncle.”
“That is correct,” said Claudette, sounding a little defensive. “We have many companies involved in property investments.”
“You must be aware that CPD Developments bought Deborah and Jacob Lexington’s house for a vastly inflated sum.”
“They needed money.” Claudette shrugged. “I felt sorry for them. They had been through so much. My uncle and I decided to help them. I know what it is like to lose your parents so young, and then there was the incident with Mary Brown-Field…”
“Did you know that Deborah was able to walk again?”
“I visited them once or twice. I could see that she was getting better.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of the two of you as friends.”
“How is it that you say in English … the enemy of my enemy is my friend!”
“I thought your fight with Mary was just a storm in a teacup, so to speak.”
“You do not know it all. No one except Uncle Pascal and Pierre knows. No one saw. I caught her in our transporter with the horses. What I told you about her trying to kick me and me hitting her with my hat was true, but then…”
Claudette lifted her T-shirt to show Agatha a livid scar running diagonally across her abdomen from just below her left breast to just above her right hip. Agatha caught her breath.
“She did that?”
“She took a steel bale hook—we use for lifting hay bales—from a wall rack and swipe me. I was lucky. It is not too deep, no major damage, but when it happen, there was a lot of blood. I was in much pain and collapsed. I could not move. She did not call for help. She took a rag, wiped clean the bale hook of her fingerprints, then left. Pierre found me.
“I could not compete, could not ride for months. Now I am well again, but this,” she ran a finger down the scar, then smoothed her T-shirt back into place, “this is for keeps, and not so good in bikini weather, no?”
“You could have had her thrown in jail.”
“With no witnesses, I think not. We say it was an accident and I look for a way to pay her back.”
“So you paid the Lexingtons to kill her?”
“Kill?” Claudette shrugged again. “How do I know they would do that? We make sure they have enough money to move abroad, start a new life, that is all.”
“How did that help you to pay Mary back?”
“Every little bit helps…”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Claudette,” said Agatha, standing, “but I doubt I will ever be able to prove that you were involved in the murder plan. I’m not entirely sure that I even want to try, but I don’t think I can stay here either. I’m going to head back to Carsely. I will see myself out.”
“I am sorry you feel this way, but of course you must do as you wish. Au revoir, Agatha.”
“No,” said Agatha. “Adieu, Claudette.”
Agatha had made it as far as one of the sweeping staircases outside the front door when she saw two figures walking up the other side. Two men. She knew both of them. One was Pascal, the other was Sir Charles Fraith. She turned and took up position at the top of their staircase.
“Aggie!” called Charles, beaming a smile up at her. “What a fantastic surprise. How lovely to see you—”
“YOU!” shrieked Agatha, jabbing a finger at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“He has come to research the vines,” explained Pascal, “perhaps make English wine and—”
“A likely story!” Agatha snapped. “You have no interest in vines. You might, of course, have an interest in Claudette!”
“Well, naturally, Claudette and I—”
“How long have you been seeing her? Wait a minute … you were in on it, weren’t you?” Agatha roared, taking a neatly logical step to entirely the wrong conclusion. “You were in on the murder right from the beginning—with them, and with the Lexingtons! You have played me for a fool all along!”
“Aggie, sweetie, I—”
“Don’t call me that!” she shrieked. “Don’t say another word! I never want to see you again! Stay away from me! Stay out of my life! You hear me? STAY OUT OF MY LIFE!”
She ran down the stairs, leapt into the hire car and sped off along the road through the vineyard.
“What … what was all that about, Pascal?” gasped Charles.
“I have no idea.” Pascal shrugged, casting a furtive glance at Agatha’s departing car.
“But she mentioned the murder, and the Lexingtons. You don’t know the Lexingtons, do you?”
“I know no one of that name,” Pascal lied.
“She was so upset…”
“I think it is what women do best,” said Pascal, taking Charles gently by the arm. “Perhaps she has been working too hard. Too much stress. Too much murder on her mind. Now come, let us try some of our wine…”
Agatha caught an early-evening train from Bordeaux to Paris. She considered finding a hotel room to break her journey, go for a stroll and find somewhere nice for dinner. The idea was short-lived. She loved the sounds, the smells and the feel of Paris. It was such a romantic city … and that was her problem. She was on her own. Had she been able to share an evening in the City of Light, walking along the banks of the Seine, even in the drizzly rain that was now falling, would have been a huge pleasure. On her own, it was a damp, miserable prospect.
Studying her timetables, she worked out that she could make it to Paddington for the late train back to Moreton. Instead of a romantic dinner in the French capital, she would grab a sandwich from the Eurostar buffet on the way to London.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning by the time she reached Carsely and parked her car in Lilac Lane. Her cottage was in darkness. There was a light on in James’s dining room. Agatha knew that he often worked late, finding it easier to write when most of the rest of the village was sound asleep and there were no other distractions. She climbed out of her car and the click of the door closing brought him to his study window. She walked up his path rather than hers, knowing that he would come to the door.
“What’s happened?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a chateau somewhere in France?”
“I am, or I was, but … I just wanted to come home, James.”
“I see,” said James, hearing exhaustion and despair in her voice. “French men not fruity enough?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” he said, smiling. “You look dead beat. That’s quite a round trip you’ve had.”
“I know, and … Oh James, I feel like such a fool … a complete idiot…”
“You’re not,” he said, putting his arms around her. “You’re just tired. The whole murder thing has worn you out.”
She looked up at him and he kissed her gently.
“Don’t be on your own tonight,” he whispered. “Stay with me.” He held his arms up in mock surrender. “No rumpy-pumpy, I promise. Just stay with me.”
She hugged him tight. “I would love that,” she said. They went inside together and the light in the study window clicked off.