M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

Agatha had really planned to serve a candlelit dinner at home but she said airily, ‘I’ll think of somewhere.’

But Mrs Bloxby’s remarks had caused her to think it might be better to take him out to a restaurant. And she was sure a Frenchman would not appreciate her microwave cuisine. She booked a table at the hotel in Mircester and then did little work that day, fitting it in between visits to Evesham to go to the beautician’s and then round to the hairdresser’s, Achille. Her favourite hairdresser, Jeanelle, was on holiday, so the manager, Gareth, took over, pointing out that her roots were showing. Tinting meant more time than Agatha felt she had to spare, but it just had to be done.

She eventually arrived home in a panic and tore everything out of her wardrobe looking for the perfect outfit. At last dressed in a slinky black velvet gown and high heels, and with a cashmere stole over her arm, she descended to await Sylvan’s arrival.

The day had been exhausting and she fell asleep, only to be awakened later by the ringing of the doorbell. She started up. The cats had been sleeping on her lap and her gown was covered in cat hairs.

Seizing a clothes brush, she hurriedly brushed down her dress and then opened the door. Sylvan stood there smiling broadly, and holding a large bouquet of red roses.

‘How beautiful!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘Go into the sitting room and fix yourself a drink and I’ll put these in water.’

She seized the clothes brush from where she had left it on the hall table and attacked her dress again in the kitchen after running water in the sink and placing the bouquet in it.

She returned to join Sylvan. ‘I took a drive around the Cotswolds,’ he said. ‘Very beautiful.’

‘They say it hasn’t changed in three hundred years,’ said Agatha, ‘but I think that’s too romantic a view. They didn’t have supermarkets and all-night shopping three hundred years ago. Mind you, on a quiet day the villages look much as they must have done long ago. That golden Cotswold limestone stands up to the weather very well. The shops are feeling the pinch. Very few Americans, what with the weak dollar.’

Sylvan finished his glass of whisky. ‘Shall we go? I am very hungry. Or are we eating here?’

‘No, I’ve booked us a table in Mircester.’

Sylvan said he would drive. Agatha eased herself into the passenger seat of his Jaguar sports car, suppressing a moan of pain as her arthritic hip protested violently.

James Lacey had just returned home. He watched, startled, as they drove off, swore under his breath and decided to find out from Mrs Bloxby just what Agatha was about dating a murder suspect.

‘What puzzles me,’ said Agatha, mindful of her detective duties, ‘is why you told me that the baby was Olivia’s and yet Olivia told me the baby was George’s and he had smuggled it in. Surely the police would have found that out and charged him.’

‘Felicity was Olivia’s daughter. Olivia has the birth certificate. There was no need to smuggle any baby in. She is a very respectable matron and thinks a man having an illegitimate baby is better than a woman having one. Very English.’

‘Could George have been smuggling something else? Drugs, say, or cigarettes?’

‘George is just what you see – bluff and honest and very respectable.’

‘Your friendship with them surprises me. When we had dinner in Hewes, you talked about all sorts of glamorous people and celebrities. What is the attraction of the Bross-Tilkingtons?’

‘I was very ill just after I met them. My fair-weather friends were apt to stay away, but George and Olivia stuck by me until the treatment was over. We became very close.’

‘This whole business at Downboys must have shocked you all badly. You know the area. What’s going on? Why did they hire an ex-IRA man like Sean?’

Sylvan sighed and raised his shoulders and spread his hands. ‘My dear Agatha, as far as they were concerned, he was a local yachtsman and an odd-job man. Nothing sinister there.’

‘But there must be something sinister,’ protested Agatha. ‘Who killed Felicity?’

He leaned across the table and took one of her hands in a warm clasp. ‘Are you surprised, considering the way Felicity went on? Probably some rejected lover.’ His thumb stroked the palm of her hand. ‘Let’s talk about something more interesting. Why on earth did you become a detective?’

‘I drifted into it by accident. I solved a few cases and then decided to set up my own agency.’ Agatha gave him several highly embroidered descriptions of cases she had worked on.

By the time the meal was over, Agatha felt herself sinking into the warm bath of obsession again. Everything about Sylvan fascinated her – his lean figure, his very Frenchness.

Outside the restaurant, she suggested they take a cab because they had drunk quite a lot, but Sylvan only laughed and said he was an expert driver.

As they drove down into Carsely, Agatha’s heart was beating hard as she checked over her body. Legs and armpits shaved, check; condoms in the bedside table, check; toenails cut, check…

‘Did you leave all the lights on?’ asked Sylvan as he drew up outside Agatha’s cottage.

‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘Oh, snakes and bastards, it must be Charles. He has a key. I’ll soon get rid of him.’

She anxiously hurried to get out of the bucket seat of the sports car and tumbled out on the ground.

Sylvan laughed as he helped her to her feet. ‘Ah, the penalties of age,’ he said, and Agatha felt just as if he’d thrown cold water over her.

She opened the door and marched into the sitting room to find not only Charles but James.

Charles leaped to his feet and kissed Agatha on the cheek. ‘Have a nice time, darling?’ he asked. ‘I’ve put my stuff in the bedroom. Thought I’d stay for a bit. James has come to say goodbye. He just got back today but he’s off again tomorrow. Hello, Sylvan. Police let you out, did they?’

Sylvan for a moment looked furious. Then he laughed easily and said, ‘I was never in police custody. Excuse me.’

He drew Agatha back into the hall and whispered, ‘You should have told me you had a lover.’

‘He’s not my lover,’ muttered Agatha fiercely. ‘I’ll get rid of him.’

‘No, chérie, it doesn’t matter. I am going to France with my boat in two days’ time but I will be back a week on Saturday. Why not join me in Hewes on the Sunday for lunch and we will make up for lost time? I’ll meet you at the Chinese restaurant at one o’clock.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

‘Yes, I’ll see you there,’ croaked Agatha when she could. ‘But can’t you stay? You can’t go all the way back to Hewes tonight.’

‘I’ll be fine. Bye.’

Agatha stood on the doorstep and watched him roar off into the night.

Then she went back inside to confront James and Charles.

But James forestalled her by saying icily, ‘Have you gone mad? There have been three murders down there and Sylvan Dubois must be involved in some way. Are you going to believe that he and the Bross-Tilkingtons are entirely innocent?’

‘I’ll bet he was only trying to seduce you to shut you up,’ said Charles.

Overwrought, Agatha, not usually given to swearing, told them both to go and perform impossible physical acts on themselves and stalked upstairs to bed.

Later, when she lay awake, she heard Charles coming up the stairs to go to the spare room. She thought he might come into her room to argue with her, but his door closed behind him and then there was silence.

At last, Agatha’s anger died down as she began to feel obscurely that she’d had a lucky escape.

When she went into the kitchen in the morning, Charles was playing on the floor with her cats. He looked up at her and smiled. ‘Still mad at me?’