M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

Then later that day, the Spanish detectives were replaced by English detectives from the Special Branch. She had to go through the whole story again. One detective said, ‘The press are clamouring outside. We’re not against getting this in the newspapers because it will put everyone on the alert. We’re offering a reward for the capture of Sylvan Dubois.’

‘Give me a mirror,’ ordered Agatha.

A nurse brought her a hand mirror and Agatha squeaked in horror. Her face was covered in red sores from the chloroform and her hair was lank and dull.

‘I must have make-up,’ she cried. ‘And a hairdresser.’

Agatha’s story made all the television channels and all the newspapers in Europe and Britain.

Maria, back in a gypsy encampment high up in the Pyrenees, read Agatha’s exploits and was glad she had escaped. She had been in love with Sylvan, besotted by him, right up until the evening when she realized he was a murderer.

Roy Silver felt sulkily that he could have done with some of that publicity and that Agatha should have taken him to Barcelona.

Charles and Mrs Bloxby were appalled at how near death Agatha had been. Sitting in the vicarage garden, Charles said, ‘I saw Agatha on television last night and she looked so white-faced.’

‘That was probably thick make-up,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘She said that she believed she was chloroformed and that burns the skin. I wonder where Mr Lacey is?’

James was at that moment sitting beside Agatha’s bed, giving her a lecture. ‘I could hardly believe my eyes when I read about you,’ he said. ‘You should have gone straight to the police.’

‘Oh, stop nagging,’ said Agatha. She was starting to feel more cheerful. ‘I was beginning to wonder about my detective abilities, but I have really proved myself.’

‘You were more like a tethered goat than a detective,’ said James. ‘Anyway, they say you can go home tomorrow, so I’ve decided to act as bodyguard.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ said Agatha, studying his handsome face and wondering why she didn’t feel a thing for him.

‘Did Olivia say anything now? Does she know who killed her daughter?’

‘She believes it was Sylvan. Evidently she genuinely knew nothing about the smuggling.’

Agatha did not return to a hero’s welcome from the police. Mircester was furious with her, as was Hewes. Thanks to a good lawyer supplied by James, she escaped being up in court on a charge of obstructing the police in an investigation.

Then she had to straighten out affairs at the agency. The two new detectives, Paul Kenson and Fred Auster, had complained about anyone as young as Toni being the boss and had been refusing to take orders.

Agatha, rattled by her interview with the police, blasted them and threatened both of them with the sack and then sent them scurrying off to do the jobs they had previously refused. James was calling at the office in the early evening to take her out to dinner. Agatha was looking forward to being seen with a handsome man – but that was all.

Well, that was all until James graciously extended the invitation to include Sharon and Toni. Toni took one look at Agatha’s face and said hurriedly that neither she nor Sharon was dressed to go out to dinner. But James was so insistent that Agatha felt obliged to urge them to join them.

Sharon had shaved her eyebrows and pencilled in two arches, giving her round face a look of surprise. She had also acquired a nose stud. Her red-dyed hair was streaked with blonde and her generous breasts slipped out of a low-cut blouse. Toni was wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans. But the pair of them were in high spirits and James smiled on them indulgently.

It was then Agatha wished she had a man of her own. James had turned into a sort of big brother, Charles came and went, and Roy made occasional visits. But someone of her very own by her side, thought Agatha dreamily, would mean company in her old age, would mean a protector as well, because the shadow of Sylvan was always there to haunt her.

‘What are you thinking about?’ demanded James suddenly.

‘Oh, this and that,’ answered Agatha vaguely. But she had just remembered hearing about an exclusive dating agency. It cost a lot of money and catered to the rich. ‘I’ll try that,’ said Agatha out loud.

‘Try what?’ asked Sharon.

‘Something for dessert,’ replied Agatha.

A MONTH LATER, Agatha dressed with great care for her first date. It was all very exciting. She looked at the photo stuck on her dressing table mirror. It showed a slim man of middle height with thick brown hair and a pleasant smile. And he was none other than Baron, Lord Thirlham; hobbies, fine wines, reading, and country walks.

He had an estate in Oxfordshire and they had agreed to meet in the restaurant at the Randolph Hotel in Oxford.

Agatha was wrapped in a warm dream as she left for her date. She could see the announcement in The Times. She would be Lady Thirlham. She would give up the detective agency and become a real lady. She would open fêtes and do good works. People would say how gracious she was. Thirlham was a widower. So much easier, surely, when the man had been married already.

After she had parked her car in the hotel car park, she made her way into the Randolph and through to the dining room.

‘Lord Thirlham’s table,’ said Agatha grandly to the maître d’.

She was ushered to a table at the window. She was exactly on time but his lordship had not yet put in an appearance. Agatha had planned to drink very little because she was sure she would be motoring home. The agency gave strict advice that couples should take time to get to know each other first. But a quarter of an hour passed and there was still no sign of the baron. Agatha ordered a stiff gin and tonic.

After another quarter of an hour had passed, she was just about to leave when a small round man was ushered up to the table. Agatha looked at him in amazement. ‘Lord Thirlham?’

‘That’s me,’ he said, sitting down and shaking out his napkin. He must have sent a photo of himself when he was younger, thought Agatha dismally. His hair was grey. His face was round with rather protruding eyes and a small pursed mouth. In fact, thought Agatha, he had probably sent in a photo of one of his friends.

He smiled at her and said, ‘The purpose of this dinner is to find out about each other, so I will tell you all about myself.’

And so he did – in long, studied periods, pausing only from the fascination of his own life story to order food and wine. He began with his childhood, his nanny, his brother and two sisters, his school, university, army and yackety, yackety, yack, unaware that Agatha was no longer listening.

At last, Agatha could not bear it any longer. As the coffee arrived, she rose to her feet.

‘Going to powder your nose?’ he said.

‘Sure.’

Agatha made her way out to the desk and said to the concierge, ‘Could you tell the maître d’ to bring my share of the bill. I wish to pay it now. Do not let my dining companion know I am leaving.’

Payment completed, Agatha fled out into the night. She had paid a very large amount to the dating agency. They would certainly hear from her in the morning.

The agency was full of apologies. They pointed out that their contract stated that if Agatha had not met anyone suitable in a year’s time, then two thirds of her money would be refunded.

Hope seemed to spring eternal in Agatha’s bosom. Perhaps the next one would be the man of her dreams. She had told the agency that the next photograph she received must be a proper picture of her date.

For a time, it seemed as if no one on the agency’s books found the idea of Agatha Raisin appealing. Then one morning she received a letter from the agency along with a photograph and description. Her next hopeful was a university lecturer. His photograph showed a tall thin man of her own age wearing glasses and dressed in a tweed jacket and flannels. He had a rather frog-like mouth. His name was John Berry. May as well give it a try, thought Agatha.