M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

‘Well, it’s not too far to Brighton,’ said James.

Does he feel nothing? wondered Agatha, studying his profile. We were married, we made love, and yet here we are like a couple of old bachelors.

Beau Square was actually not a square but a cul-de-sac with pretty little painted houses fronting on the cobbled street.

A stout grey-haired woman answered the door. ‘We wish to speak to Olivia,’ said Agatha.

‘Are you from the press?’

‘No, here is my card. Olivia knows me.’

‘Wait there,’ she said, slamming the door in their faces.

She was gone so long that they began to fear that Olivia was not going to see them, but the door eventually opened and they were ordered inside.

Olivia was in a pleasant downstairs living room. She had lost weight but she seemed composed.

‘This is my sister, Harriet,’ said Olivia, introducing them. ‘Harriet, Agatha was the detective I once hired to try to find out what happened to my dear daughter. James was engaged to her.’

‘I remember you from the wedding,’ said Harriet, fixing James with a cold eye. ‘Too old for her by half, that’s what I thought.’

‘Please sit down, both of you,’ said Olivia. ‘Could you give us a minute or two, Harriet?’

Harriet stomped out. Olivia sighed. ‘My sister is very protective of me.’

‘We wondered,’ said Agatha, ‘if you knew why on earth Sylvan would kill your daughter on her wedding day?’

‘The trouble is,’ said Olvia, ‘the police still can’t figure out how he did it. He had a perfect alibi.’

‘Do you think your daughter knew about the smuggling and said something – like, she would tell her new husband?’

‘My daughter was an innocent, through and through. Just a child, really. My husband and I had separate bedrooms and sometimes she would come into my bedroom at night and ask me to read her a story, just like she used to do when she was little. The police think Sylvan hired someone to kill her.’

‘What I can’t understand, Olivia,’ said Agatha, ‘is how you could possibly not suspect something criminal was going on?’

‘How could I? George made so much money from real estate in Spain. He said he loved his boat. I get seasick, so I was happy when he went off on his own or with Sylvan. Sylvan! I still find it hard to believe. We were both dazzled by him. Felicity wanted to get married. A white wedding was her great dream. She was quite childlike. The headmistress at her school said she was a trifle retarded. But she was so sweet. She cost George a fortune getting her whole appearance altered. Liposuction, the best plastic surgeon in California, personal trainer, everything of the best. Sylvan said men never noticed a woman had no brains provided she was beautiful.’

James flushed dark red. ‘Sylvan said an older man was just what she needed. When I think of it, all he did was pull the strings like a puppet master,’ said Olivia. ‘I’ve cried and cried until I can’t cry any more. Do you think they will ever find Sylvan?’

‘I hope so,’ said Agatha. ‘My great fear is that he’ll find me first. Do you miss your husband?’

‘I don’t know. He became such a bully. I got so used to being shouted at and ordered around, it feels strange – empty, somehow. I can’t really think of him. I’m sorry he had to die so terribly but to think he was still consorting with the man who may have got my daughter killed…’

Harriet came into the room and said gruffly, ‘You’d better leave.’

‘I feel that was a wasted journey,’ said James, as they took the long road home.

‘Not really,’ said Agatha. ‘I don’t think Olivia is any sort of actress. I think she’s a bit simple herself. I feel a loose end has been tied up.’

‘What about dinner when we get back?’ suggested James.

‘All right. But just the pub will do.’

‘You can’t smoke, you know.’

‘Oh, yes, I can. He’s got patio heaters.’

Charles turned up and joined them for dinner. It was an easy, companionable meal. What on earth would today’s feminists make of me? thought Agatha. They would point out that I have a successful business and friends. Why do I need a man? Sex. Well, they would point out, sex is easily come by. But it’s love I want, thought Agatha. It’s love that causes the high and fills up the brain with golden thoughts so that one feels invulnerable. It’s love that makes all the tiresome maintenance of a middle-aged woman easy.

But one thing she had learned the hard way: no more dating agencies.

After a few weeks, Agatha received a letter with the heavily embossed heading ARISTO DATING. They said they had taken over the premises of the Diamond agency. Diamond had sold them their list of clients. Would Agatha like her details erased? If not, they could introduce her to some very suitable men. There would be no fee unless she found someone she liked.

Hope again sprang in Agatha’s bosom, although a voice of common sense was telling her to forget it. But Christmas was slowly approaching. She did not want to be alone. She conjured up a vision of a tall handsome man who owned a pleasant country mansion with dogs and wood fires. They would go for long walks and return in the evening to a companionable dinner. And then later, they would walk up the stairs to the master bedroom hand in hand, and he would say…

‘I’ve finished, Agatha,’ called her cleaner, Doris Simpson. The bubble of Agatha’s dream burst as she went to pay Doris. But the dream came back during the day.

She finally e-mailed the agency and said any man they considered suitable should e-mail her along with a photograph.

A reply came the following day. His name was Geoffrey Camden. He was tall and rangy with thick grey hair. He was standing on the steps of a country mansion with two gun dogs at his heels. He wrote that he was a widower who liked shooting, fishing and visits to the London theatres. He had seen her photograph and read her details.

Agatha thought that Mrs Bloxby would probably tell her to forget the whole thing, but she felt she had to talk to someone. It was Sunday evening. She phoned the vicar’s wife who said immediately that she would call round. ‘Alf is always like a bear with a sore head by Sunday evening,’ she said. Alf was her husband and Agatha felt that by Sunday evening, the vicar should have been feeling spiritually uplifted.

Mrs Bloxby sank down gratefully on the soft feather cushions of Agatha’s sofa, accepted a glass of sherry, and asked, ‘What’s been happening?’

Agatha had printed off the e-mail. She showed it to her.

‘I think you had better check up on him first and find out if he is who he says he is,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘If he’s got a mansion, he might be in Who’s Who. Do you have a copy?’

‘It’s about five years old. Wait. I’ll get it.’

Agatha came back with the book and searched the pages. ‘Well, I’m blessed. Here it is. Retired army major. Widower. Address, The Grange, Abton Parva, Shropshire. Hobbies – just like the ones in the e-mail. Age fifty-five.’

‘Maybe you should go up to London first and check out this agency. Sniff out if they’re competent.’

‘I think I’ll continue to e-mail him for a bit. I didn’t put down “detective” in my CV for the last agency. I’ll tell him and if that doesn’t put him off, maybe I’ll take a chance.’

By the end of two weeks of e-mails, Agatha felt she knew this Geoffrey very well. He described his country life, talking about the people in the nearby village, about his occasional clashes with the vicar, and mentioned that he planned to go up to London soon.

In the last e-mail, he suggested they meet in London for dinner.

Agatha agreed. To her surprise, he suggested that restaurant in Chinatown where she had met her previous date. Agatha said she would prefer somewhere else.