“He had calmed down a bit by the time I took them to the airport this morning, but it doesn’t bode well for a successful honeymoon, does it?”
“Your timing was pretty poor, Gustav,” said Agatha, holding her phone in one hand while stroking Hodge with the other. She was sitting in the sunshine in her back garden, the cat curled up in her lap. Boswell was crouched on the grass staring intently at nothing at all in the shadows beneath a hydrangea. “Charles has been so stressed that it might have been kinder at least to give him a chance to relax while he’s away. You could have waited.”
“Would you have waited?”
“I might have,” Agatha lied.
“Bullshit,” Gustav cursed. “Whose side are you on? This is a dirty war and we have to fight dirty.”
“All right,” said Agatha. “I need to see this document. Can you photograph it with your phone and send it to me?”
“Already done,” said Gustav and hung up.
Agatha lifted Hodge off her lap and set him down on the grass beside Boswell. He joined in the staring for a moment, then swiped the other cat on the head with a paw before scampering off with Boswell hot on his heels. Agatha stared at her phone. Gadgets and electronic gizmos were not her strong suit, but she was sure she could retrieve Gustav’s photo if she just thought about it for a second or two.
“Not working today?” James’s head appeared above the hedge between the gardens.
“Late start,” Agatha explained. “Toni’s coming to pick me up and we’re going to talk to a woman who thinks she has a poltergeist.”
“Spooky.” James smiled. “But you have to take these things seriously around here. There are plenty of locals who still believe in witches, fairies and ghosts.”
“I know,” Agatha agreed. “I’ve come across quite a few of them. James, would you be a sweetheart and help me with this wretched phone?”
“Of course. Why don’t you come round? I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
They sat together drinking coffee at a small table in James’s neat garden. James tapped and swiped at Agatha’s phone and then handed it back to her.
“The document is there on your screen. Just tap to open it,” he said. “The text will be quite small but you should be able to read it.”
“Thank you, James,” said Agatha. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what we were saying the other night. About us being too hasty about the divorce.”
“I have, too,” James admitted, “and I came to the conclusion that when we got married I was an old bachelor, set in my ways, maybe not prepared for the changes that marriage would bring. In your own way, perhaps you were too.”
“I think you’re right,” said Agatha, “apart from the ‘old’ bit. So that’s something else we agree on—something else we have in common.”
She looked at her phone and tapped the icon on the screen. The document that opened was headed “Barfield House Luxury Hotel and Spa.” She stared at it, her mouth set in a grimace.
“Are you all right, Aggie?” asked James. “Bad news?”
A car horn sounded in the street.
“That must be Toni,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “I have to go.”
“Well don’t let the ghosties scare you too much,” he joked, and stooped to give her a peck on the cheek. They embraced, holding each other in a hug for a heartbeat or two, then Agatha backed away and smiled.
“Let’s talk more later,” she said.
“Yes,” said James. “Let’s do that.”
Toni was sitting waiting behind the wheel of her little car when Agatha jumped into the passenger seat. The windows were open and Toni was wearing a flower-patterned summer dress and sunglasses. Her arms were bare.
Agatha smoothed the skirt of her own forest-green suit, settling the hem just above her knee. She had always had good legs and knew how best to show them off with skirts and heels that worked together to flatter their shape. Her concession to the warm spell of weather had been to abandon tights, shave her legs with particular care and apply a light touch of fake tan—not enough to imply a leisurely fortnight spent lazing in the Mediterranean sun, but just sufficient to banish the pallid winter hue. Toni clearly knew nothing about preparing for the seasons. She had jumped into that dress as soon as the sun came out, but because she was naturally slim and pretty, anything she wore looked great. Agatha pursed her lips and gave her a sideways look.
“That outfit’s a bit summery, isn’t it?” she said.
“Do you think so?” said Toni. “It’s just that the weather has been so warm. I can dash home for something else if you like, but I felt like I wanted something different. I needed a change.”
“A change…” Agatha mused. “Yes, of course you did. We all need a change now and again, don’t we? You don’t need to dash home, Toni, you look fabulous.”
“And you look very elegant, as always,” said Toni. “You look like the boss, like you’re in control.”
“That’s just as it should be,” said Agatha as they set off. She closed the car window, despite the heat of the sun scorching through the windscreen. Toni gave her a quizzical look and Agatha made a wind-rush gesture against the window.
“Ruins the hair,” she said, “and gives you the complexion of a round-the-world sailor.”
Pulling out onto the A44, they joined light traffic heading north-west towards Moreton-in-Marsh. Prior to snapping up her cottage in Carsely, Agatha had considered moving to Moreton. It was an ancient market town, a settlement having existed on the site for more than two thousand years, yet it seemed somehow more modern than Carsely. The scattering of thatched roofs that graced a few of the buildings in the centre of Carsely were nowhere to be seen in Moreton. The buildings there were of the same mellow Cotswold stone but the roofs were all either stone tiles or slate. Moreton was also bigger than Carsely, yet it still retained the undeniable charm that had lured Agatha away from the glitz and clamour of London life.
As they passed the inevitable clusters of galleries and antique shops, the impressive flank of the Redesdale Market Hall loomed in front of them. Agatha checked her watch against the nineteenth-century black-and-white clock face on the tower that crowned the hall and decided that one of them was not quite right. She cast an eye at the black-and-gold face of the even older clock on the Curfew Tower to their right. That was also slightly different. She opted to back her battery power against the ancient clocks. The differences, after all, were minimal.
Turning right, they headed up the high street past the Black Bear Inn. To the left of the wide thoroughfare was the market area, giving way to an avenue of trees and the imposing presence of the Old Police Station, which the police had long since surrendered to private residences. The high street was very straight, as was the road they turned onto, heading towards Batsford.
“This is all very pretty,” said Toni, admiring the trees that were now almost in full leaf at either side of the road, and the public park rolling into fields that looked lush and green in the spring sunshine. “It’s an incredibly straight road.”
“An old Roman road,” said Agatha. “They knew the quickest route was the straightest route, so they didn’t bother much with curves and corners. I think we turn off to the left here.”
They pulled off the main road onto a farm track that led to a stone-built farmhouse with a tiled gabled roof, dormer windows nestling just below the ridge line. The car tyres crunched on the stone-chip driveway and Toni parked by a bed of roses that decorated the front of the house. Agatha stepped gingerly out of the car. She hated stone chips. They destroyed delicate high heels. Toni strode forward and rang the doorbell.
“Mrs. Jessop?” said Agatha to the woman who opened the door. “I’m Agatha Raisin, and this is my associate Toni Gilmour.”
“Oh, I am pleased to see you.” Mrs. Jessop gave them a welcoming smile and shook their hands. “Please, do come in.” She led them along the hallway towards the back of the house.
She looks, thought Agatha, in good shape. Probably mid to late sixties, slim build, about the same height as myself, well dressed in a neat cardigan and tweed skirt, carefully coiffured hair and modest make-up. This is not the shambling old wreck I expected. She seems quite robust—not the sort to go to pieces over hearing a few bumps in the night.
“Come into the kitchen,” said Mrs. Jessop. “This is where I’ve been having the problem. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be lovely,” said Agatha.
The kitchen was clearly newly fitted, with plenty of wall and base unit cupboards and marble work surfaces arranged around a large wooden kitchen table with six high-backed wooden chairs. Agatha and Toni sat at the table while Mrs. Jessop reached up to open a cupboard door. She hesitated.
“There, you see?” she said. “This is what I’m talking about. This is where I keep the tea caddy and cups, and now they’ve gone.” She opened and closed a few more doors, then crossed to the other side of the kitchen and did the same until she finally found the tea.
“I know it seems silly,” she said, busying herself with a kettle and teapot, “but things in these cupboards are being moved about. I sort it all out just the way I like it, and when I next open a cupboard, it has all changed!”
“How annoying,” said Agatha. “That would drive me crazy.”
“Oh, I’m not crazy, Mrs. Raisin,” Mrs. Jessop assured her. She set a china teapot on the table, along with cups, a milk jug and sugar bowl. “Something very strange is going on around here—something very sinister.”
“You said when we spoke on the phone that you believed you were being visited by a poltergeist,” said Toni. “Have you seen this ghost?”
“Yes, I’ve seen him all right,” Mrs. Jessop admitted. “As plain as you can see me.”
“Did you see him in the kitchen?” Agatha asked.
“No, he comes in here at night to do his mischief.”
“So where have you spotted him?” asked Toni.
“Out there,” said Mrs. Jessop, pointing to the large window that looked out over a stone-chip garden path, beautifully maintained flower beds bursting with spring colour and an immaculate lawn. “In the garden. That is his place, after all.”
“You talk like you know who he is,” said Agatha.
“Oh, I do,” Mrs. Jessop replied, reaching into her cardigan pocket to produce a slightly faded, lightly creased black-and-white photograph. It showed herself as a much younger woman, standing beside a powerfully built man wearing jeans, boots and a checked shirt. He had wavy dark hair, a full beard and, even in this old photo, the most captivating eyes Agatha had ever seen. She could not imagine them to be anything other than a sharp, electric blue.
“Who is this?” Toni asked.
“You mean who was this,” Mrs. Jessop corrected her. “That is John Cornish, my gardener. He died twenty-five years ago.”
“And he’s been … appearing in your garden?” Toni swallowed hard, staring wide-eyed at the photo. Agatha frowned at her, a clear signal to man up.
“Regular as clockwork,” said Mrs. Jessop. There was the unmistakable crunch of boots on stone chips. “That,” she whispered, “will be him now…”
The heavy tread grew louder, subduing all other sounds. The three women sat perfectly still, holding their breath, as the figure of a man drifted into view outside the window—dark wavy hair, a full beard and a checked shirt. He stopped, turning slowly towards them. Agatha felt a paralysing chill run down her spine as he fixed her with eyes of such a startling, intense blue that she could not break his gaze. An instant later, he turned away, resuming a steady pace until he was out of sight beyond the window. A blanket of silence smothered the kitchen. A tear came to Mrs. Jessop’s eye and Toni was sitting bolt upright, pale and frozen to the spot.
“Snakes and bastards!” cried Agatha, jumping to her feet. “I’m not having this!” She grabbed the photograph and headed for the back door. Ignoring the stone chips scuffing the heels of her shoes, she stomped out into the garden, where she spotted the figure just a few yards ahead of her.
“Hey, you!” she called. “John Cornish! What are you doing here?”
The figure turned to face her. She avoided his eyes and stood her ground even as she felt her knees begin to fold.
“Doin’ the garden, ain’t I?” said Cornish. “What’s it to you?”
“I am Agatha Raisin, private investigator.”
“What you got to investigate in my garden?” said Cornish, walking towards her.
“This!” said Agatha, holding up the photograph.
“Where’d you get that?” Cornish asked. “That’s my old dad with Auntie Joan.”
“Your father?” said Agatha, with a sigh of relief. “You’re not dead, then?”
“Is that what she’s been tellin’ you?” Cornish laughed, stroking his beard. “Think I’d better shave this off. Beards is trendy nowadays, right? Makes me look the spitting image of my old man, though. He’d be about my age in that photo. Taught me all I know about gardens, he did.”
“She really does think you are him.”
“Ah.” Cornish nodded. “Things ain’t always what they seem, eh?”
“She thinks you’re a ghost who sneaks in at night and rearranges her cupboards.”
“Ah,” Cornish repeated. “I should ’ave guessed. Kitchen’s new. She keeps forgettin’ where she put things. Auntie Joan’s not been herself recently.”
“She’s your aunt?”
“Not really, but I grew up around this house, what with my dad workin’ here. She liked me to call her auntie and always treated us like family. Uncle Tom did the same until he passed a couple of years back and left her on her own. Suppose that’s when she started to lose it.”
“She seems perfectly all right. She doesn’t seem confused at all.”
“Like I said—things ain’t always what they seem. Do me a favour, would you? Keep her occupied for a little while an’ I’ll sneak indoors to the bathroom and get rid of this.” He tugged at his beard.
Agatha headed back inside. After a few minutes spent reassuring Mrs. Jessop and Toni that there was no ghost stalking the garden, Cornish breezed into the kitchen, freshly shaved.
“Auntie Joan!” he called. “Any more tea in that pot? I’m parched.”
“Of course, John!” Mrs. Jessop’s face lit up at the sight of him. “You’ll be wanting a biscuit or two, I should think. I’ve got your favourites … somewhere.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Raisin.” Cornish winked a sparkling blue eye at Agatha. “I’m round here most days. I’ll look after her.”
The tale of the ghostly gardener kept everyone at Raisin Investigations amused over the following days. There was a spate of practical jokes, mostly aimed at Toni, Agatha not being well renowned for tolerating jokes at her expense: spring-loaded spooks popping out of her desk drawers and eerie messages from the spirit world appearing on her computer screen. The pranks, Agatha knew, were perpetrated by Simon, but he appeared to have cleared up the phantom dumper case, promising to have his report ready for the next catch-up meeting, and was throwing himself into whatever other work came his way, so she allowed the fun to run its course. She had Toni find out about Mrs. Jessop’s circumstances, and since she appeared to be a woman of means, she ordered a bill to be prepared for their time. “Business is business,” she reminded herself, although somehow she never quite got round to sending the bill to Mrs. Jessop.
Agatha had spent the morning at home, sifting through paperwork at the kitchen table and mulling over yet another conversation she had had with James the previous evening about rekindling their relationship. She knew that she was leading him, having been the one who had first raised the matter, but he didn’t seem at all reluctant to follow. But what, she thought, do I really want? Is this thing with James just a reaction to what Charles has done? What would Charles have to say about it? She could practically hear his voice.
“Hello, Aggie.”
She could hear his voice! She looked up to see the lithe figure of Sir Charles Fraith standing in her kitchen. He was, as always, immaculately dressed. His crisp pale-yellow short-sleeved shirt showed off his sun-bronzed face and arms and his fine fair hair had taken on golden Mediterranean highlights. At one time the sight of him looking as handsome as he did at that moment might have set Agatha’s pulse racing. She was strangely disappointed that all she now felt was mild annoyance at the intrusion.
“How did you get in?” she demanded.
“Keys,” he said, holding up the spare set Agatha had given him sometime in the distant past.
“Aren’t you on your honeymoon?”
“Got back last night.”
“What do you want?”
“Look, after all that’s happened, I can understand you feeling a bit frosty towards me, sweetie—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“All right, all right. I just wanted to say how sorry I am for everything—and to apologise for Mary coming round here before we left. I heard about the fracas you had. I would promise that it won’t happen again, but I really have no control over her whatsoever. Quite frankly, she is driving me mad.”
“I can imagine,” said Agatha, watching him run his hand through his hair. That was a bad sign—a telltale Fraith trait that meant he was feeling particularly stressed, anxious and upset. “Sit down.” She sighed. “You look like you could use a drink.”
They were sitting with glasses of gin and tonic, beginning to relax into each other’s company, Charles relating ever more disturbing stories of his young wife’s outrageous behaviour, when the doorbell rang. Agatha opened the front door to find Chris Firkin standing on the step.
“Chris!” she said. “You’re back.”
“I am indeed.” He grinned. “Are you ready to go?”
“Go?” Agatha asked. “Go where?”
“Lunch—I promised you lunch as soon as I got back and…” The smile faded from his face when he spotted Charles standing in the hallway.
“Hello, Chris.” Charles nodded. Agatha sensed a distinct awkwardness between the two men. “Don’t mind me, old chap. I was just leaving.”
He brushed past Agatha and Chris, pausing on the garden path for a moment.
“Thank you for listening, Aggie,” he said. “Let’s stay in touch.”
“What was all that about?” Chris asked, stepping into the hall.
“Oh, nothing,” Agatha said. “He’s just having a few problems with—”
“His tenants? That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve just been hit with a massive rent increase for the workshop I rent on his estate.”
“I think that’s more to do with his wife than with Charles.”
“Whatever. It’s all part of the decision that I’ve made to—”
“Agatha, darling, are you there? It’s about last night.” James had skipped over the garden fence and appeared in the doorway. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you had company. I’ll talk to you some other time.”
James made himself scarce and Agatha turned to Chris again.
“You were saying?” she asked. “What decision?”
“The decision to go,” Chris explained. “This is what I’ve been trying to talk to you about. You know I’ve been doing all this work with electric cars? Well, I’ve been offered the chance to work with some of the best engineers in the field. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“That’s wonderful, Chris!” Agatha congratulated him.
“It’s like a dream come true for me,” he said, “and I want you to be part of it. Come with me, Agatha. Come with me to California.”
“California? Are you serious?”
“Never more so.” He clasped Agatha’s hands. “This is a chance for both of us to start a whole new life. Please say you’ll think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it.”
“So it’s a yes?” Chris’s eyes were bright with jubilation.
“No, Chris,” said Agatha. “It’s a no. You are a lovely man and I am very fond of you, but I don’t need to start a whole new life. I did that when I left London. My life is here now. I have responsibilities and—”
“James and Charles,” Chris interrupted, crestfallen. “I should have known I couldn’t compete with them.”
“You don’t need to compete with them, Chris. I’m here because I chose to be here, not because of either of them. Maybe, now and then, I still have the odd doubt about whether I belong here, and I don’t know if I will ever truly fit in, but I will never give up trying. This is my home. California is not for me.” She put her arms round him and held him tight, whispering, “I’m so sorry.”
He looked into her eyes and smiled. “That’s it then,” he said, and walked off down the garden path. He did not look back, and she knew she would never see him again.
She sauntered back into the kitchen. She and Charles had not finished their drinks. She was about to pour them away when she shrugged, combined both in one glass and sat down at the table. Why, when what she so regularly longed for was a settled life with a decent man, did she now have three knocking on her door in one day? She took a swig from the glass. Men had such poor timing. Her phone rang. It was Gustav. Typical, thought Agatha—the prince of poor timing, right on cue.
“Has Sir Charles visited you today?”
“Yes, he left some time ago. Why?”
“Did he mention the party?”
“I guess he didn’t get round to it. What party?”
“It’s that bloody woman again. She’s throwing a huge party here at the house. A masked ball, would you believe? She’s celebrating her birthday with a three-day event—a restaurant binge in London, followed by a day’s shooting here and then a masked ball with the theme ‘Versailles.’”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Fun? Are you insane? We are to be having two dozen guests for the shoot. There’s nothing in season at the moment, so they’ll be shooting clays, and you know what a mess that makes. They’ll be staying here for two nights, with a further seventy attending the party. And she didn’t say a word about it to me! A hundred guests at a damn-fool costume-and-mask fiasco!”
“Party pooper,” said Agatha, taking another swig. “When’s it all happening?”
“This weekend! There are decorators here now, pimping up the ballroom, and the caterers have started delivering their gear already.”
“I doubt I’ll get an invitation,” Agatha reasoned, “but it would be a shame to miss it. Could be a good chance to check out some of her friends. Can you get me in?”
“Of course.”
“Good. We’ll talk later in the week.”
As soon as Agatha hung up on Gustav, she poured the remains of her drink down the sink and phoned Toni at the office.
“What are you doing on Saturday? No plans? Good—keep it that way. Meet me in the King Charles opposite the office in half an hour. There’s a theatrical costume hire place in Steventon. We need to pop down and have a chat with them.”
On the day of the party, Toni arrived at Agatha’s cottage in the late afternoon. Their visit to the costume outfitters earlier in the week had been enormously entertaining but also a valuable learning experience. They knew that they would not be able to get into their imitation seventeenth-century gowns without each other’s help. Having wrestled with buttons, zips, fasteners and ties to get dressed, they retreated to separate bedrooms to work on their make-up and finishing touches.
Agatha was ready first and waited for Toni downstairs in the living room. She took a look at herself in the mirror above the fireplace. Her hair, actually a wig that fitted like a guardsman’s helmet, was a cascade of brown curls sitting on top of her head and making her appear nearly a foot taller. Her face was powdered almost white, with dark liner accentuating her eyes and lipstick of a shockingly vibrant red that she would never normally dream of wearing. The pale make-up faded gently on her neck, around which she wore a triple string of fake pearls. A flourish of white lace trimmed the long sleeves and neckline of her tight royal-blue bodice, which was cut square and low, pushing her breasts into a daring display of cleavage. Below the bodice, layer upon layer of gold skirt, etched with a flower pattern, descended to trail the floor at her feet. She gave herself a nod of approval, noting with satisfaction that the wig gripped her head tightly enough not to wobble. She hitched her bosom up slightly and turned just as her assistant walked into the room.
Toni had arranged her long blonde hair in golden ringlets that swept her shoulders. She had naturally pale skin and wore little make-up save for a light-pink lipstick and a stick-on mole on her upper lip. Agatha touched a tentative finger to her own upper lip, still tender from the vicious waxing she had given it earlier in the day. At her age, she had to pay a painful price for a smooth complexion, and wondered if that was something Toni could ever understand, gifted as she was with alabaster skin and a hair-free face. Toni’s gown was similar to Agatha’s but in contrasting tones of pink. She looks like a true princess, thought Agatha, while I look like a pantomime dame!
“Wow! You look brilliant!” said Toni, glancing down at her chest. “I’m really not as well equipped to wear these dresses as you are…”
“Not at all,” said Agatha, buoyed by the compliment. “You look sensational. That mole will come off again, won’t it? We need to wear these as well, of course. Can’t afford to be recognised.” She handed Toni a sequinned eye mask. Their masks tied behind their heads with silk ribbons. Others, she knew, might have masks mounted on slim sticks that could be held in front of the face or whisked aside as the wearer chose, but the clandestine nature of their party intrusion meant that they needed permanent disguises.
As their taxi pulled up near the grand entrance to Barfield House, they could see a line of guests queuing patiently on the stone steps to be admitted. Most of the ladies were dressed in a similar fashion to Agatha and Toni. The men sported long wigs of waves and curls, and flamboyant coats that reached almost to their knees with lace cuffs that hung even lower. Knee breeches, stockings and fancy shoes were the order of the day and most wore outfits perfectly suited to the occasion. Agatha did spot a couple of Elizabethans, who were slightly out of time, and even a pirate, but all the guests could be given credit for entering into the spirit of things.
“Gustav is on the door, checking the invitations, just as he said he would be,” said Toni in a hushed voice.
“You sent him our photo,” said Agatha, “so he’ll recognise us. Watch for his signal.”
They approached the queue and could immediately hear the cause of the hold-up. A distraught young woman was searching her handbag for her invitation and pleading with Gustav to fetch Mary, who would vouch for the fact that she was a bona fide guest. Gustav was taking fiendish delight in refusing to do so and barring her entrance. He spotted Agatha and Toni about to join the end of the queue and nodded to the side. Agatha gave him a surreptitious thumbs-up.
“Let’s take a walk in the grounds until all that fuss dies down,” she said in a loud voice, leading Toni off towards the side of the house. “The butler’s pantry,” she added softly. “Gustav has left the door unlocked for us.”
Having come through the butler’s pantry to the rear of the hall, they entered the ballroom through the smaller side door. Mary was greeting her guests at the double doors approached from the main part of the hall. Her outfit was far grander than either Agatha’s or Toni’s, her hairpiece decorated with costume jewellery, her purple bodice studded with glittering fake gems and trimmed with silvery silk, the skirt a sea of rolling purple silk waves. Charles was standing close by, dressed more like a footman than the lord of the manor. Mary’s father was also in attendance, his long dark wig, gold coat, gold breeches, white stockings and white shoes decorated with gold bows far outshining his son-in-law. Behind his mask, Charles looked achingly awkward. Agatha tried not to smile at his obvious discomfort and the way that Darell had positioned himself to deny him the opportunity to slope off and sulk in his beloved library. She had to try harder to spot Mary’s mother, but eventually recognised her drifting elegantly among the other guests.
The ballroom had, Agatha recalled, many mirrors and a fine Venetian crystal chandelier, but it had been dressed for the evening with printed drapes hanging like tapestries. The glass doors leading to the lawn were open but manned by the same black-suited security staff who had been in attendance at the wedding circus. Up in the minstrels’ gallery a small orchestra was playing, and down by the fireplace the catering staff were building a pyramid of coupe glasses for a champagne fountain beside a white-clothed table with a banner above it that read “Sun King Burger Bar.” Round tables and seats surrounded the main dance floor, with more tables outside on the patio.
Agatha plucked two glasses of champagne from a tray carried by a passing flunkey and handed one to Toni.
“We are here to have a bit of fun,” she said, raising her glass, “but we are also here to mix with Mary Darlinda’s friends and find out whatever we can that might possibly be of use to us. So don’t go dousing yourself in champagne and drawing attention to yourself.”
“No, boss,” said Toni, clinking Agatha’s glass and saluting. “But you have to admit, this does look like fun. I’ve never been to a party like this before. It’s incredible.”
“Like I say,” said Agatha. “Keep a low profile.”
They mingled with other guests, exchanging pleasantries, the room slowly filling with a glittering array of fabulously dressed ladies and extravagantly attired gentlemen. Then the orchestra struck a chord and launched into a waltz. Agatha prided herself on being an excellent dancer and knew that the Strauss waltz being played by the orchestra was around a century too young for a Versailles party, although the dance itself could trace its roots back much farther. Mary and her father took to the floor, waltzing with more confidence than competence, and the other guests gradually joined in, most managing only a fair interpretation of a waltz.
Suddenly a masked young man, tall and slim, was standing in front of Agatha. He took her hand and bowed, an invitation to dance. A young man was choosing her rather than Toni! Agatha handed her champagne to her assistant, grinned, stuck out her tongue and glided off onto the dance floor.
Her partner danced reasonably well, managing to avoid tromping either on Agatha’s toes or on the bottom of her dress. She found that she was leading him rather than him being in charge, but she was enjoying herself nonetheless. He was wearing rather too much of an over-perfumed aftershave, as young men tended to do. Agatha thought that it might suit her more than it did him. Then Toni spun past in the arms of a man Agatha instantly recognised—Charles! He stopped, tapped the young man on the shoulder, and they exchanged partners.
“How on earth did you two get in?” He laughed as they stepped and swirled around the crowded dance floor.
“Easy,” said Agatha. “I managed to gatecrash the wedding. I certainly wasn’t going to miss out on this.”
“Stop!” a voice screeched. “Stop!” The music stopped. The dancers stopped. A hand clawed at Agatha’s shoulder and spun her round. It was Mary.
“It’s you!” she howled, reaching out and ripping off Agatha’s mask. “I knew it! I warned you to stay away!”
“I invited her!” Charles lied.
“Well I’m UN-inviting her!” Mary growled, stepping quickly forward and planting the heels of her hands in Agatha’s chest with a mighty thump. The shove sent Agatha stumbling backwards. She crashed into the champagne fountain just as the catering manager, standing on a ladder, was pouring champagne into the highest glass. Champagne glasses and champagne came raining down on her, soaking her wig and her dress.
“BITCH!” she spluttered, struggling to her feet. She snatched plastic mustard and ketchup bottles off the Sun King Burger Bar and flung herself at Mary, spraying her red and yellow before landing a sharp kick straight to her shin. Mary squealed and clutched her leg. Charles and her father stepped between the two women.
“Was that really necessary, Mary?” yelled Charles. “Honestly, I could cheerfully strangle you sometimes!”
“Stop all this at once!” Darell howled. “What the hell is going on here?”
A strand of Agatha’s champagne-sodden wig flopped down over her nose before the whole top-heavy headpiece toppled forward and hit the floor with a splodge. She ripped off the hairnet that had held her own hair flat and ruffled it into some sort of shape with her hands.
“It’s you,” said Darell. “The Raisin woman!”
“I’m going to change.” Mary sobbed, rushing off.
“I’d start with the chin if I was you,” snarled Agatha, noting with satisfaction Mary’s pronounced limp.
“That’s quite enough, Agatha,” said Charles. “Gustav, get some people to clean up that mess.”
“And you lot!” shouted Darell, waving up at the orchestra. “You’re being paid to play, so get on with it!”
The music restarted, the dancers returned to their partners and the party stuttered back to life. Charles led Agatha out of the ballroom, with Toni in tow.
“I’ll call a taxi,” said Toni, producing her phone. “Better reception outside. I’ll … um … start walking down the drive to meet it.”
Charles stood with Agatha on the steps outside the massive oak front door. Agatha could hear Toni muttering to herself as she walked away. “Don’t go dousing yourself in champagne … drawing attention to yourself … Keep a low profile…”
“That didn’t go entirely as I had hoped,” she said, sitting down on the top step. Charles took a couple of steps down and leant against the stone wall.
“Far more entertaining than I thought it would be.” He chuckled. “Mustard and ketchup? That was inspired.”
“First things that came to hand,” said Agatha forlornly. “What an embarrassment…”
“She hates mustard,” said Charles.
Agatha’s wig slipped out of her hand and tumbled down the steps like a soggy severed head.
“This may never recover.” Charles laughed, stooping to pick it up. “But you will. Come on, I’ll walk with you to meet that taxi.”
Mary flung open her bedroom door and marched into the large adjacent dressing room, ripping off her gown and kicking it across the floor. She pawed at the mustard splattered over her cheek. Agatha Raisin had gone too far this time! Too far! She would suffer for this. She felt tears welling in her eyes and went to wipe them away, then suddenly stopped. Mustard. Mustard in the eyes would be unbearable! How that woman would love her to miss out on the rest of the party with inflamed eyes. That was not going to happen. She would return to the party, laugh and smile and show everyone that a despicable old cow like Raisin could not get the better of her. She headed into her en suite bathroom to shower.
Minutes later, wrapped in a towel, she sat in front of the mirror at her dressing table, bathed in a pool of light, brushing her hair. She was considering what she should wear and how that would affect her choice of make-up when she suddenly had the chilling feeling that she was not alone.
“Hello, Darlinda,” came a voice from the shadows. “You’re missing the party.”
Mary spun round and her eyes widened with terror.
“YOU!” she gasped. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
She leapt to her feet and dashed for the bedroom door, only to find it locked. There was no way out.
Agatha and Charles walked slowly, at a pace dictated by Agatha’s dress. They exchanged few words. They hadn’t made it very far down the drive when Agatha stopped to fish a stone out of her shoe.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Not about Mary … I’m sorry that this is going to make things even worse for you.”
“I can handle it,” said Charles. “Don’t worry about me, sweetie.”
“But I do, Charles,” Agatha said, “and there are things you’re not telling me.”
“Honestly, Aggie, I can’t go into it all with you. I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“I already know some of it,” Agatha admitted. “The spa hotel plan, for instance.”
Charles sighed and admitted that he was sorely troubled by that particular idea. Agatha knew that the taxi Toni had summoned would take an age to arrive, and with Charles all to herself, she continued to press him for details of his situation. She tried to come up with suggestions about how he could rid himself of the Brown-Fields, and their discussion ranged back and forth, Charles maintaining all the while that he was not at liberty to discuss the intricacies of his financial arrangements with his wife and in-laws.
“If they hear that I’ve let out even a whisper about—” He froze as a woman’s scream cut through the stillness of the evening. It came again, and again—shrill, relentless, terrified.
“That’s coming from the stable block,” he said. “This way, hurry!”
Charles ran round the side of the house, past the door to the butler’s pantry, with Agatha, having hitched up her skirts, hot on his heels. At the entrance to the stables they could see a young woman, sobbing hysterically, being comforted by a young man. The stable was brightly lit and Charles stopped in the doorway. Hanging by her neck from a wooden beam was Mary. She was wearing her riding clothes. Her eyes were closed and her head had been forced sideways by the large knot in the thick rope. Her arms were limp by her sides and her legs dangled neatly together.
“Quickly, Charles, there may still be time!” yelled Agatha, dashing past him.
She grabbed Mary’s legs and lifted her, taking the weight off the rope. Charles swiftly righted a stepladder that was lying on its side and climbed up to loosen the rope around Mary’s neck and undo it from the beam. It was clear when they laid the body gently on the stable floor, however, that their efforts were in vain.
Lady Mary Darlinda Fraith was dead.