M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

She phoned Mrs Bloxby and told her the news. ‘When did you meet him?’ asked the vicar’s wife.

‘Just today.’

‘Mrs Raisin!’

‘No, this is the real thing.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mustafa Kemal.’

There was a little silence and then Mrs Bloxby said, ‘That’s odd.’

‘What’s odd?’

‘Mustafa Kemal was the name of Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey. Are you sure it isn’t another of Sylvan Dubois’s associates?’

Agatha felt suddenly cold. ‘I’ll call you back.’ She thought about how easily she had been picked up. She clung on to the handbasin, feeling dizzy. Then she straightened up and squared her shoulders. She accosted the first waiter at the entrance to the restaurant and hissed, ‘Call the police.’

He looked at her, puzzled, and then signalled to the maître d’, who listened to her demand for the police. ‘He’s an impostor and he’s out to kill me,’ said Agatha desperately. ‘I’ll go back and join him but don’t alert him.’

She went back to the table, a smile pinned on her face. There was another noisy act and she was glad that it was impossible to speak.

In record time, two policemen and one policewoman entered the restaurant. Agatha heaved a sigh of relief as the maître d’ pointed at their table.

To Agatha’s amazement, the two policemen began to laugh, although the policewoman looked grim.

They all spoke in rapid Turkish and then Mustafa was led away while the policewoman took his place. ‘Come outside with me,’ she said in English.

Agatha followed her out and down the stairs. ‘There is a café over there where we can talk,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell them I said anything. I said I would stay behind to comfort you.’

‘What’s it all about?’ asked Agatha.

‘Who did he say he was?’

‘A tax inspector called Mustafa Kemal.’

‘He is a police inspector from Karakoy, taking a few days’ holiday. His name is Demir Oguz and he is married with six children. He is a famous seducer of women. I am sorry. Of course my male colleagues think it is all very funny. What made you call us?’

Agatha wearily told her the story of Sylvan Dubois and the subsequent attempt on her life. She ended by saying, ‘I don’t think I’m any kind of detective at all. I should have recognized his name as fake.’

‘You are a woman in a foreign country,’ said the policewoman. ‘It was an easy mistake to make. Now I will take you back to your hotel.’

‘Your English is excellent,’ said Agatha.

‘That’s why I was brought. When they heard an Englishwoman had called us, they took me with them.’

‘Why does the police inspector have such good English as well?’

‘His wife is from Manchester – poor thing.’

Back in her hotel room, Agatha sank down on the edge of the bed and eased off her high heels. What a fool she had been! She remembered the chance meeting with Erol and how he had turned out to be such a gentleman. Perhaps that was why she had accepted the invitation from the fake tax inspector so easily.

Suddenly the idea of giving up detective work flooded her brain with relief. No more shocks and alarms. No more nasty divorce cases. She would make Toni, Patrick and Phil joint owners. She would settle down in the village and potter about.

She rose to her feet and began to pack. She did not want to stay any longer in Istanbul in case she ran into whatever his name was again.

‘You’re going to do what?’ demanded Sir Charles Fraith.

Agatha had arrived home to find her friend in residence.

‘You heard. I’m fed up with the whole thing.’

‘But what will you do?’

‘I came down to the Cotswolds to retire and that is exactly what I am going to do now.’

‘You’ll die of boredom. What happened in Istanbul?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But you’re back early?’

‘The weather turned cold.’

Charles studied her face. ‘Now why do you look exactly like a woman disappointed in love?’

‘Stop fantasizing. I am going into the office to break the news to them. It will give me a wonderful feeling of freedom.’

‘For a couple of days,’ said Charles cynically.

Agatha called her staff to meet in the office at 5 p.m. They were all there when she arrived – Toni, Phil, Patrick, Mrs Freedman and the two relative newcomers, Paul Kenson and Fred Auster.

She replied briefly to questions about her holiday and then said, ‘I have decided to retire.’

‘Why?’ asked Toni.

‘I need some quality time. You, Toni, Patrick and Phil, will become joint owners. Paul, Fred, Sharon and Mrs Freedman, you will continue to work as usual.’

After the first exclamations of dismay were over, Toni began to feel quite cheerful. She always felt that Agatha was looking over her shoulder. Paul and Fred each privately thought it would be a relief to have bossy Agatha out of the way. Patrick accepted it philosophically. Phil was genuinely distressed. He was in his seventies and felt he owed a lot to Agatha for having hired a man of his age. Thanks to her, he had been able to find a comfortable life with little treats which he could not otherwise have afforded on his pension alone.

‘Are you having a retirement party?’ asked Toni.

‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll just leave quietly.’

And to their amazement, that is exactly what Agatha did.

BACK AT HER cottage, Agatha found Charles had left. He had written a message in lipstick on her bathroom mirror: ‘Big Mistake!’ Agatha crossly wiped it off.

She decided to visit Mrs Bloxby. But the meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society was in full swing. Agatha blinked in surprise. It was so long now since she had attended a meeting that she barely knew anyone. Particularly with the credit crunch and people unable to pay their mortgages, the population of all Cotswold villages was shifting and changing. Apart from Miss Simms, Carsely’s unmarried mother, and still secretary of the group, it was hard to hear one Gloucestershire accent.

The incomers, from their clothes and accents, were obviously well off. Fresh from the towns, they were all determined to play the part of village ladies – all to the benefit of Mrs Bloxby, who had new blood to fund her various charities.

Agatha was a celebrity but the newcomers ignored that fact. Each one, with the exception of Miss Simms and Mrs Bloxby, seemed determined to outdo the others in becoming the leading lady of the village.

I’m one of them now, thought Agatha gloomily, so I may as well make the best of it. But over tea and cakes after a discussion on raising funds for the Red Cross, the women seemed to vie with one another over material possessions. ‘We’re having a sauna,’ said one, and another chimed in with ‘We’re having a swimming pool put in the old barn.’ Mrs Bloxby anxiously studied Agatha’s downcast face.

When the meeting was over, Mrs Bloxby whispered, ‘Do stay, Mrs Raisin.’

But when the other women saw Agatha settling back in her chair, with the exception of Miss Simms, they all sat down again.

‘I’ll leave and come back,’ whispered Agatha.

She went out and walked around the village. Rain was falling steadily and the evening was chilly. Miss Simms tottered beside her on her high heels. ‘It’s not the same at all,’ she complained. ‘Lot of toffee-nosed slags. Are you going to walk all night?’

‘Maybe,’ said Agatha.

‘Then I’m off.’

When Agatha felt she had spent enough time out in the cold, she returned to the vicarage.

‘What a shower!’ she exclaimed, parking her umbrella in the stand in the hall.

‘Shower? It’s been raining steadily,’ said Mrs Bloxby, helping her off with her coat.