M Beaton - There Goes The Bride

‘I didn’t mean the weather,’ grumbled Agatha. ‘I meant your new members.’

‘Oh, they’ll adjust. Newcomers are always bitten by the village-dream bug,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘They’ll soon settle down. At the moment, it’s very nice for me because they compete in the size of their donations to charity. You are looking quite miserable. What about your holiday?’

‘I’ll tell you about it,’ said Agatha, sinking down on to the sofa in the living room, ‘but if you tell anyone else, I’ll have to kill you.’

‘As bad as that?’

‘Worse.’

As Agatha told her about the police inspector, Mrs Bloxby tried hard not to laugh but eventually collapsed into giggles. ‘You’re being a bit cruel,’ said Agatha huffily.

‘Please don’t be angry,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I haven’t laughed in ages.’

‘I’ve given up the detective agency.’

‘Surely not because of one silly man in Istanbul?’

‘It’s not that. The Sylvan case finished me. I just blundered around while others showed their intelligence.’

‘Is Toni the trouble?’

‘Why should she be?’

‘She’s bright and photogenic. You were used before her arrival to always being the one in the newspapers.’

‘I’ve lost confidence and I really want to get away from it all.’

‘But what will you do?’

‘Settle down, read, travel, lots of things.’

‘I could do with your expert help.’

‘At what?’

‘I am planning a charity drive for the local regiment. They are being sent out to Afghanistan and they need lots of things, from paperbacks to shaving cream. I got a whole list from the adjutant.’

‘What have you done so far?’

‘We’ve put a box outside the village shop for people to leave things.’

‘Such as?’

‘There’s a list pinned up. Shaving cream, razors, paperbacks, all sorts of things.’

‘I’ll have a look when I’m next at the shop and see if I can think of something,’ said Agatha.

The next morning Agatha strolled along to the shop. She bought some shaving cream and disposable razors and threw them in the box outside.

‘You are Mrs Raisin, aren’t you?’ said a male voice behind her. Agatha swung round. A tall man stood looking down at her. He had thick grey hair, glasses and a clever face. ‘I am new in the village,’ he said. ‘May I introduce myself? My name is Bob Jenkins.’

Agatha looked up at him warily. The fear that Sylvan might send someone else after her still haunted her. She did not sleep well at nights, thinking every rustle in the thatch was someone on the roof, looking for a way in.

‘I hear you are a detective,’ he said. His voice was warm and pleasant.

‘Not any longer,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve given all that up.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s too long a story.’

‘I am on my way to the Red Lion. They’ve started serving coffee in the mornings. Care to join me?’

Agatha hesitated. There was nothing sinister-looking about him. Surely nothing could happen to her in her own village and at the local pub.

‘All right,’ she said cautiously.

Seated over coffee in the outdoor smoking section of the pub, Bob told her he had recently moved into the village.

‘What brought you to Carsely?’ asked Agatha.

‘Retirement. I was a schoolteacher for years. I thought it would be marvellous to get away from noisy classes and difficult children. But I find time hanging heavily on my hands. I need a hobby or something.’

‘Don’t you have a wife?’ asked Agatha.

‘My wife died ten years ago.’

‘Children?’

‘One son in Australia.’

‘Aren’t you tempted to go out and join him?’

‘He’s married and his wife doesn’t like me much. Never mind about all that. Why did you give up detecting?’

Agatha did not want to explain it was because she felt like a failure. She said instead that she had wanted to enjoy some quality time.

‘And what will you do?’ he asked.

Agatha smiled. ‘Find a hobby, just like you.’

He laughed. ‘We could fish.’

‘Boring.’

‘Hunt?’

‘Can’t ride.’

‘Agatha – may I call you Agatha?’

‘Please do.

‘I feel perhaps neither of us are really country people.’

‘You’re from town?’

‘Not London. Manchester. I read about the case of that Frenchman in the newspapers. That must have been scary. Tell me about it.’

So Agatha did, without her usual exaggerations and embellishments.

‘How frightening,’ he said when she had finished. ‘You must be scared someone else will come after you.’

Agatha eyed him narrowly. ‘Could be you.’

‘My cottage is full of dreary old photographs of me with various pupils and colleagues. You are welcome to see them any time. It’s a new line when you think of it. Instead of saying, come and see my etchings, I can say, come and see a lot of faded old school photographs. So what do you plan to do with the rest of the day?’

‘I’m supposed to be thinking up a fund-raiser for that regiment,’ said Agatha, ‘but I can’t really get interested in good works.’

‘You don’t need to worry. I was speaking to one of the soldiers who came yesterday to collect the box from the village shop before putting down a new one. The adjutant has arranged a big parade in Mircester with people going around collecting donations. I don’t really think you need to bother.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘We could go into Oxford and take a punt out on the river.’

Agatha hesitated. She hadn’t had time to check him out. But the day stretched out before her, long and empty.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You’re on.’

It was to be the first of many dates. Agatha and Bob seemed to be inseparable. Mrs Bloxby was anxious and yet could not find any fault in Bob Jenkins, and Agatha looked more relaxed and happy than she could remember ever seeing her.

And then two months after Agatha had first met Bob, she called in at the vicarage with a sparkling diamond ring on her engagement finger.

‘So you are really going to get married?’ asked Mrs Bloxby, after Agatha had described the proposal and how happy she was.

‘We’re really going to see if we suit first,’ laughed Agatha. ‘We’ve taken a self-catering place in Normandy. We’re going away for a couple of weeks.’

‘Do be careful, Mrs Raisin. It all seems to have happened so fast.’

The village of Saint Claire in Normandy was off the beaten track. It was far from the sea and stuck in the middle of acres of farmland.

When they had unpacked their luggage, Agatha asked, ‘Do you speak French, Bob?’

‘Yes, fairly well.’

‘Good, we’ll get in some groceries and find some woman to clean.’

‘Agatha, that will not be necessary. We can clean the place ourselves.’

‘Then let’s find a café and have something to eat.’

He laughed. ‘We’ll find a grocery shop and cook our meals ourselves. I am sure you are a good cook.’

‘Bob, I have plenty of euros. There is no need to scrimp and save.’

‘Sit down, my dear, and listen to me. When you are my wife, you will need to do all the things a wife does. So why not start now?’

‘Because we’re on holiday!’ howled Agatha.

‘There, now. You’re tired after the journey. We’ll talk about this later.’

‘I tell you what,’ said Agatha desperately, ‘I’ll do the shopping myself. You just relax.’

‘Can you speak French?’

‘I can point at things in English.’

Agatha seized her handbag and shot out of the door.

She walked into the village and straight into the central brasserie. It was full of men in working clothes, who all turned and stared at her. She retreated and sat at a table outside and lit a cigarette.