M Beaton: A Spoonful of Poison

“In Paris, at my friend Sylvan’s party. Is he here?” He looked around the room. “He’s probably held up by the fog. So I have your blessing?” asked James, studying Agatha intently.

“Yes, James.”

“You don’t think I’m too old for her? She’s only thirty-two.”

“Doesn’t matter for a man. Has she been married before?”

“No.”

That’s odd, thought Agatha. How does anyone that beautiful get to thirty-two without being married?

Others began to cluster round. Agatha saw Mrs. Bloxby and went over to her. “How do you feel, Mrs. Raisin?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

Agatha looked at her friend in dawning relief. “Do you know, I feel just fine. I really do. Now that I’m here and I’ve met her, it’s all rather pleasant. James seems like a different person to me now. For the first time in my life, I’m over men.”

They were joined by Bill Wong and the staff of the agency and they all began to talk shop.

Mrs. Bloxby joined her husband, who was standing moodily in a corner of the room.

“Can we go now?” he asked.

“Now, really, Alf. We can hardly go now. The party’s just begun.”

Agatha was aware of James standing beside her and turned round. “Do you really wish me well?” he asked.

“Of course. Were you hoping I would be jealous?”

“Something like that.”

“But you are in love?”

“Oh, yes. She listens to everything I say and takes an interest in my work, particularly military history. Instead of the travel books, I might suggest doing a series of guides to famous battlefields.”

“I always listened to you,” said Agatha defiantly.

“I remember one occasion talking to you about the Crimean War and your eyes glazed over.”

“I listened to every word!”

“When was it?”

“Can’t remember. I never was good at dates. Was that the one with the longbows?”

“That was Agincourt. See? You haven’t a clue.”

“James, darling. You’re neglecting your other guests.” Felicity took his arm.

“So I am. Talk to you later, Agatha.”

“Wait a bit. When are you getting married?”

“Next April,” said James. “Coming to see me off, Agatha?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. Where is it to be held?”

“In Downboys in Sussex at the local church.”

“I’ll be there.”

Agatha watched them uneasily as they moved about the room. Why did he hope I would be jealous? wondered Agatha. If I were really in love with someone, for example, it wouldn’t even cross my mind to make James jealous.

Roy Silver arrived. He was wearing a dark blue silk shirt and dark blue trousers.

“You look as if you’re ready for bed,” commented Agatha.

“It shows what you know. This is the latest thing. You’ve become very provincial, Aggie. Though I must say, you’ve never looked better. Hair extensions?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you didn’t get them done cheap. A friend of mine went to a Mr. Bert and he said bits started to fall off in no time at all.”

Agatha, who had gone to Mr. Bert, decided to change the subject.

“That’s the fiancee over there.”

“She’s very beautiful. Except for the mouth.”

“What’s up with her mouth?”

“Too thin and something reptilian about it. Now who is that who’s just arrived?”

Agatha looked across to the doorway. Sylvan had arrived. He could not possibly be anything other than French. He had a beaky nose, a thatch of fair hair streaked with grey, hooded eyes, a mobile mouth and expressive long thin fingers. As James rushed to meet him, Agatha noticed that all Sylvan’s expressive gestures were Gallic. He had a tall slim figure with broad shoulders and tiny hips.

A little glow started in Agatha’s stomach. A minute before she saw Sylvan, she was aware of her feet beginning to hurt. Now she did not notice the discomfort. Everyone else at the party seemed to fade. In her dazzled mind, Sylvan seemed to be illuminated by a spotlight.

James led Sylvan forward. “Agatha, may I introduce Sylvan Dubois? Sylvan, Agatha Raisin.”

“Aha. Your first wife.” Sylvan took Agatha’s hand. “How on earth did he let you get away?”

Agatha smiled. “James is about to have a very beautiful young second wife.”

“Pah! Me, I find the mature woman infinitely attractive.”

His grey eyes were flirtatious as he looked down at her.

“Do you live in Paris?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what do you do for a living?”

“Nothing much. My father had a factory for manufacturing bottles. He left it to me when he died. I have an excellent manager, so I have quite a lot of free time.”

His English was excellent but spoken with an attractive French accent. “So what do you do with your free time?”

“Let me see. I get up in the morning, have breakfast, wash and dress and go out to meet friends at the local brasserie. We put the world to rights. Then I have a late lunch and go back to my apartment, where I read and then get changed again and go to the theatre or a cinema.”

“And what about Mrs. Dubois?”

“Alas, there isn’t one.”

“Was there one?”

“A long time ago.”

“And what happened?”

He looked amused. “So many questions. But you are a detective, so I suppose it comes naturally to you. Now I have-how do you say-a predicament. A bit of your hair has just floated into my glass of champagne. Do I mention it?”

“You just have,” said Agatha, turning fiery red.

He eased it out with one long finger and dropped it on the floor. “You should have got your extensions done in Paris. Don’t look so upset. The effect is still dazzling. Do you think James will want to marry you again?”

That distracted Agatha from worrying about her hair. “Why?” she asked in amazement.

“My friend James is an intelligent man and little Felicity is oh, so boring. At the moment, he can only see her appearance. He needs someone like you.”

Agatha wanted to say, “And I need someone like you,” but said instead, “Are you here for long?”

“I am driving back to Paris tonight. I only came for this. I shall see you at the wedding.”

James and Felicity joined them. “Come and meet some of the others, Sylvan,” said Felicity, hooking her arm in his and leading him away.

“Do be careful, Agatha,” whispered James.

“What about?”

“Sylvan has the reputation of being a ladykiller.”

“Then he can kill me anytime,” said Agatha.

“Now you’re being silly.”

“Don’t call me silly. You always used to run me down.”

“No, I did not. You love playing the victim, Agatha.”

“I am not a victim,” howled Agatha.

There was a sudden silence in the room. Then everyone started chattering loudly again.

Agatha stomped off to join the comforting presence of her friend, Mrs. Bloxby. “Where’s your husband?” asked Agatha.

“He had a headache and left,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “What upset James?”

“He was warning me against Sylvan.”

“But he need not worry. You’re over bothering about men, aren’t you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby anxiously.

“Oh, sure,” said Agatha.

Agatha looked across the room and her eyes fastened on Sylvan talking to a radiant Toni. Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me,” she said.

Mrs. Bloxby watched as her friend deftly cut out Toni and led Sylvan away, watched as she laughed and talked and tossed her hair, unaware of the fact that bits of her extensions were floating off. She gave a sigh.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bill Wong.

“It’s Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “She’s off again!”

Sylvan announced after half an hour that he had to leave. “I’ll see you at the wedding, Agatha,” he said.