Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley (18 page)

Agatha awoke in the grey light of dawn. Memory came flooding back immediately. Her mouth was dry with a raging thirst and her head ached.

She felt lax and immeasurably sad. She had achieved her ambition, her dreams, and got James to take her to bed, but she had not wanted it to be like this, when they were both drunk and hardly
knew what they were doing. A tear rolled down one cheek and plopped on the sheet. She twisted round and looked at him. He was sleeping neatly and quietly, his face looking younger in repose.

The worst thing she could now do, she reflected, was to make anything of what had happened. She was old enough and experienced enough to know that James would never even have dreamt of kissing
her had he not been extremely drunk. She would need to treat it as everyday, as lightly as she could.

If only she could reach out to him and continue the love-making of the night before. But he might reject her and she could not bear that. She got up, feeling stiff and sore after so much
unaccustomed sexual exercise, and went and ran a bath and stayed soaking in it for a long time.

When she returned at last to the bedroom, the bed was empty. James put his head round the door and said, ‘Just going to have a bath, darling,’ and went off whistling. He’s
taking it lightly, thought Agatha, and I must do the same.

She dressed in a blouse and skirt and made her face up carefully, her own face looking strange to her in the mirror.

She then went through to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette.

The newspapers plopped through the letterbox and she went to get them. Must cancel these, she thought, and the milk.

James came in as she was reading them. He stooped and kissed her cheek. ‘Anything about the murder?’ he asked.

‘Just a bit about Deborah being charged but not much more yet,’ said Agatha, suddenly shy, not able to look directly at him.

‘We’ll take the papers along with us and have breakfast outside,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll get some grapes or something and go and visit Charles. Do you think
he’ll pay us?’

‘I didn’t think of that,’ said Agatha. ‘Should he?’

‘Oh, I think so. I mean, we’re going to have to pay that farmer for the damage, along with a fine and court costs. If Fraith doesn’t offer anything, I’ll bill him on
behalf of both of us. Coming? You’d better put on a sweater or a jacket or something. It looks a bit chilly.’

Agatha went to get a sweater, glad all at once that they were going to have breakfast outside, among people.

As they tucked into bacon and eggs in a hotel dining-room, James eyed Agatha across the table. She looked smaller, vulnerable and very withdrawn. She would not meet his eyes. They had been very
drunk the night before, admittedly, and he should do the gentlemanly thing and not refer to it, but her passion and generosity had been amazing. Quite amazing. Who would have thought that Agatha,
of all people . . .

The thought broke off as Agatha said, ‘Do you think there’ll be anything in the newspapers about us?’

‘Not unless the police tell them. We’ll be present at the trial as witnesses, so our part in it will come out then.’

‘Should we phone the papers ourselves?’

He laughed. ‘Maybe not. Better to keep a low profile. Perhaps we’ll make a career of it – Raisin and Lacey, detectives, set up our own bureau of investigation.’

Agatha’s face lit up. ‘Why not?’

‘Are you serious? I was only joking.’

‘I don’t see why not. We make a good team.’

‘We’ll think about it. Now, if you’re finished, let’s go and see Charles.’

Sir Charles was sitting up in bed at the end of a long ward. His head was bandaged and he looked very white. But he gave a wan smile when he saw them. ‘Nice to see my
saviours,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it odd that if Deborah hadn’t called you in, I’d probably be dead?’

‘Very odd,’ said James, depositing a bag of grapes on the bedside table. ‘Why aren’t you in a private room?’

‘Why pay out money when I’ve been paying taxes all these years?’

James decided in that moment that Charles would not think of giving them any money at all unless they asked for it, so he said, ‘You’ll be getting our bill. Sorry, but it’s
going to be a bit steep. You see, in our race to rescue you, we damaged some of your neighbour’s crops.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Just send it in. The land agent will see to settling it.’

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Agatha.

‘I’m feeling more silly and stupid than anything,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Absolutely shiters, in fact. Gustav told me Deborah was creepy. She must have been totally deranged
and I never even guessed it. Then my aunt said she was common and that put my back up. I don’t like snobbery.’

‘And yet in a way, it was Deborah’s snobbery and ambition that drove her to murder,’ said James.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sir Charles peered in the bag and plucked off a grape from the bunch and began to eat it.

‘Only that Deborah was determined to be Lady Fraith and run Barfield House,’ explained James.

Sir Charles looked puzzled. ‘But it’s a nasty building, hardly an architectural gem, more like a glorified farm in a way. Still, it’s rather lowering to think it wasn’t
my delicious body she was after. God, I was stupid. Took her to bed, you know. Awful. Like necrophilia.’

James had a sudden vivid memory of a fiery and passionate Agatha and blushed dark red.

‘Sorry,’ said Sir Charles, mistaking the reason for the blush. ‘Always was a bit coarse.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes.

‘Get better soon,’ said James.

‘I will,’ he said faintly. ‘As soon as I can get up, I’m off to the south of France for a holiday.’

Agatha and James packed up and returned to Carsely that evening, James to his cottage, Agatha to hers. Agatha busied herself with household chores, fed the cats, watered the
garden, and then went to the Red Lion, trying not to hope that James would be there. But there were only the locals, who talked to her with the sort of half-smiles which told Agatha that she and
James going off together had been much discussed and that whatever Mrs Bloxby had said about them had fallen on deaf ears.

So I’ve got the reputation of being a fallen woman with none of the pleasure, thought Agatha, and was relieved to escape after a pub meal and get home and go to bed. Before she slipped her
nightgown over her head, she stared in the mirror at a naked body which seemed to be slipping back into a sort of spinsterhood, which looked already to her jaundiced eyes as if it had never, ever
been made love to.

She took a long time to get to sleep and awoke to find the sun high in the sky and the sound of her doorbell jangling through the house.

She put on her housecoat and ran to answer it, blinking up at the tall figure of James.

‘I’ve got something I want to ask you, Agatha,’ he said seriously. And then a voice from a car in the road called, ‘Coo-ee!’

Agatha peered round him and saw getting out of a little red car her former secretary, Bunty.

‘Hi!’ said Bunty, walking up to join them. ‘I was in the area and thought I’d pop in to say hello.’

‘Come in,’ said Agatha wearily to both James and Bunty. She led them into her sitting-room. ‘I’ll go and get coffee,’ she said.

When she carried in a tray of coffee mugs, Bunty and James were laughing about something, Bunty’s fresh young face glowing with health.

All at once Agatha felt so depressed, she thought she would be sick.

She could not bear to sit and watch James being charmed by this young girl, could not bear to have any more evidence that what she had experienced with him was simply a drunken one-night
stand.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Agatha, putting down the tray of coffee very carefully on the table, ‘but I am feeling unwell. I’m sorry, Bunty, but I have got to go and
lie down.’

‘Can I get the doctor?’ asked James, alarmed.

‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘Entertain Bunty for me, would you, James?’

Agatha trailed back to her bedroom, threw her housecoat across the room and crawled back into bed and drew the duvet up over her ears. She was so depressed, she felt she hurt all over. She was
nothing but a silly, middle-aged woman.

She dimly heard the door downstairs slam and a car driving off. They had gone. Maybe they had gone off together for a happy lunch in a pub. Maybe Bunty would ask her to their wedding.

A hand shaking her shoulder made her twist round and stare up.

‘Agatha,’ said James gently. ‘What’s the matter?’

With a great effort, Agatha forced herself to say, ‘Just a headache, James. If I lie quietly for a bit, I’ll be all right.’

‘Would you like me to bring you some aspirin?’

‘No, no. I’ll be fine.’

He stroked her forehead. ‘Poor thing. I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about?’ asked Agatha. ‘The bill for Sir Charles?’

‘Oh, that. No.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Of all the times to pick. I actually came round to ask you to marry me, but you’d better get over your headache first before you
even think about it.’

He turned to walk away.

Agatha sat bolt upright. ‘Are you joking? What was that about marriage? I mean,
marriage!’

He came back and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I know you probably like your independence. It hit me last night. We get on very well. The fact is, it all seemed a bit lonely without
you. Agatha! What are you doing, Agatha?’

She had started to unbutton his shirt.

‘Agatha, what about your headache?’

‘What headache?’ asked Agatha as she pulled him down on top of her.

An hour later, James said dreamily, ‘I don’t know why, but I seem to remember your telling me that you had walked out on your husband but not divorced
him.’

Agatha felt a stab of cold fear in her stomach. It had all been so long ago. The last time she had seen Jimmy Raisin had been over thirty years ago, when she left him as he lay in a drunken
stupor. He was bound to be dead by now.

She forced herself to laugh. ‘No, you’re mistaken,’ she said. ‘Jimmy died of drink ages ago.’

‘So whose house shall we live in?’ he asked. ‘They’re both the same size.’

‘Yours, I think,’ said Agatha, promptly forgetting about Jimmy. ‘You’re the one with the most possessions. All those books.’

‘Did you hear about Mrs Mason?’

‘Oh, her,’ snorted Agatha. ‘The cheek of it, telling Deborah I was a phony. What about her?’

‘She’s devastated about her niece. She’s moved off to live with her sister, not Mrs Camden, another one in Wales, and she’s putting her house up for sale. It looks as if
the Carsely Ladies’ Society will be looking for a new chairwoman. Interested?’

‘No,’ said Agatha lazily. ‘My managing days are over.’

‘So,’ said Mrs Bloxby happily two days later, ‘I am delighted that you and James are getting married in our church. It will be quite an event for the village.
But I was saying to Alf the other day that for some reason I thought you were separated from your husband, not divorced.’ Alf Bloxby was the vicar.

Again, that stab of fear in Agatha’s stomach, but she decided to ignore it and said, ‘Jimmy’s been dead for years.’ Then she began to worry. Would the vicar expect to see
the death certificate? She would need to try to find out what had happened to Jimmy. The wedding was set in three months’ time. She and James were seeing an estate agent that very afternoon
to put Agatha’s cottage on the market. She had come such a long way from the days when she had worked as a waitress to support a drunken and increasingly violent husband. The vicarage
sitting-room was calm and quiet, with shadows from the sun-dappled leaves in the old garden outside flitting across the walls. Carsely belonged to another world. She refused to think about Jimmy.
She was marrying James, and no one was going to stop her.

Bill Wong called that evening just as Agatha was getting ready to go out for dinner with James.

‘I saw the announcement of your wedding in the local paper,’ said Bill. ‘Congratulations. Have you had a divorce?’

‘I don’t need a divorce,’ snapped Agatha. ‘My husband’s dead.’

‘Agatha, I’m pretty sure you told me you had left him years ago and you didn’t know whether he was alive or dead.’

‘Just because you’re a policeman doesn’t mean you’ve got total recall,’ said Agatha. ‘You’re going to be invited to the wedding, of course.’

Bill leaned forward, his features solemn. ‘Agatha, I’m your friend and I know you well and I know what you feel for James Lacey. Take my advice and get on to a detective agency and
get them to trace your husband and find out where he is.’

‘Are you deaf?’ shouted Agatha. ‘I’ve told you. He’s dead. I’m marrying James Lacey and I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop me!’

The next morning, Roy Silver dropped in for a chat with Bunty.

‘Haven’t you any work to do?’ asked Bunty.

‘Loads,’ said Roy cheerfully. ‘Reluctant to get started, that’s all.’

‘I called on your friend, Agatha Raisin, a few days ago,’ said Bunty.

‘How is the old bat?’

‘She wasn’t very well. But her fiancé entertained me.’

‘Her what? I phoned her last night and she said nothing about the engagement.’

‘Fact. One James Lacey, quite a dish, too. It was in the local paper yesterday. My ma phoned me with the news.’

‘Well, well,’ said Roy thoughtfully and drifted off to his own office.

He sat behind his desk and stared into space. He had phoned Agatha at the urging of Mr Wilson, his boss, who wanted Agatha back. Agatha had been rude and dismissive, had told Roy not to call her
again, had told him she was tired of his creepy sycophantic ways, and a few other hard words.

He remembered when he used to work for Agatha’s PR firm, Agatha once telling him over a drink that she had walked out on her husband, that she did not know where he was. Of course, that
had been some time ago, and maybe Agatha had either heard of her husband’s death or divorced him. Still . . .

What a lovely way it would be to pay Agatha back if by any chance she had lied to James and intended to commit bigamy. Would do no harm to find out. He pulled forward the Yellow Pages and began
to run his thumb down a list of detective agencies.