M Beaton: There Goes The Bride

‘Dunno.’

‘Why is there all this security? I mean, state of the art burglar alarms, electronic gates and those Alsatians?’

Jerry spat in the direction of Agatha’s feet. ‘It’s a wicked world, lady.’

‘But not that wicked,’ put in Toni. ‘I mean, were you asked to be on your guard against any people in particular?’

‘Why don’t you take your questions and shove them up -’

‘Now, now,’ admonished Agatha in her best Carsely Ladies’ Society manner. ‘Ladies present.’

‘Oh, yeah. Where?’

‘Come on,’ said Toni. ‘This moron doesn’t know anything.’

‘Have you got a police record?’ asked Agatha.

He took a menacing step towards her. ‘Get out of here or I’ll turn the dogs loose.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Toni urgently, tugging at Agatha’s sleeve.

Agatha reluctantly walked back with her to the house. She took out her mobile phone and called Patrick.

‘I’m still on the road back,’ said Patrick. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ said Agatha. ‘I wondered if you could use your police contacts to find out if the kennel man here has a police record. His name is Jerry Carton.’

‘I’ll try. Bill’s in the car in front of me on the motorway. I’ll follow him to Mircester and see if he’ll look up the files.’

Agatha thanked him and rang off.

She and Toni walked back into the drawing room. Toni looked around and sighed. ‘This is not what I expected of the middle classes.’

‘Just like any other class,’ said Agatha. ‘They come in all flavours and some of them are horrible.’

‘Did you read any Betjeman at school?’

Agatha thought of the violent comprehensive she had gone to, where most of the day was taken up fighting off bullies and trying to hear what teachers were saying above the racket made by the pupils in the classrooms.

‘I hope you’re not going to turn all intellectual on me,’ said Agatha. ‘I used to get a lot of that from James.’ James, she suddenly thought, where are you now?

‘It’s the poet John Betjeman. I remember reading a poem, “The Subaltern’s Love Song”. Betjeman had a crush on a girl called Joan Hunter Dunn. She died recently at the age of ninety-two.’

‘What on earth has that to do with anything?’ grumbled Agatha.

‘Well,’ said Toni, ‘you know what things were like in my home. I had a picture of the middle classes as portrayed in that poem: a picture of secure, solid homes, money, adoring parents welcoming suitable young men to take me to the club dance. But it’s not like that at all.’

‘To be fair,’ said Agatha, ‘the sorts of people who get into trouble so that we have to go detecting are usually not very normal.’ Then she thought of some of James’s friends and repressed a shudder. She had to admit to herself that she had taken early retirement and moved to the Cotswolds because she had been following a dream of classy security.

‘There are good people around,’ she added. ‘Take Mrs Bloxby. People like that.’

Sylvan came into the room. ‘This is all very tiresome,’ he said. ‘Questions, questions, questions. And now I suppose you have more.’

Agatha glanced at her watch. ‘Why don’t I take you to lunch?’

‘That would be fine. And your pretty assistant?’

Agatha glared at Toni, who said hurriedly, ‘Actually, if you don’t mind I’d rather go back into the town to find out what I can there.’

‘We can walk down to the pub,’ said Sylvan. ‘I’ve eaten there before. The food’s quite good.’

The pub in the centre of Downboys was called The King Charles. A badly executed painting of Charles II swung in a rising wind outside the old inn. It was a Tudor building, whitewashed with black beams, bulging at the front with age.

‘There’s a free table just over there,’ said Sylvan, propelling her towards it.

‘Do they take an order for drinks here or do I have to go to the bar and get it?’

‘We get our drinks first and then a waitress will come round for our order.’

‘I’ll get them,’ said Agatha. ‘My treat. What are you having?’

‘A half of lager.’

The bar was blocked by villagers. One man turned round on his bar stool and saw her. He whispered something to his companions and they all swivelled round.

‘If you’ve had a good look,’ said Agatha, ‘then make way. I want to get my order in.’

They shuffled off their bar stools and left a space for her. Suddenly everyone fell silent. The barman was a small fussy man wearing a blazer, white shirt and cravat over grey flannels. His face was fake-tanned and his teeth cosmetically whitened. Agatha guessed – as it later turned out, correctly – that he was someone who had retired from show business to open a pub.

She ordered a gin and tonic for herself and a half of lager for Sylvan and walked back to the table.

A buzz of conversation rose again.

‘Cheers,’ said Sylvan.

‘Don’t you ever speak French?’ asked Agatha. When she had dreamed about him, he had always murmured to her in French.

‘When I am speaking to a French person, yes – otherwise, why bother?’ He handed her a menu. ‘The roast beef and Yorkshire pudding is very good,’ he said.

Agatha thought of her waistline, but she was very hungry, so she smiled and said she would try it.

Sylvan raised a hand. A waitress promptly appeared.

‘What will be your pleasure, sir?’

‘You, you gorgeous creature.’

The waitress, who was thin and spotty, giggled with delight. As if aware that Agatha Raisin’s eyes were boring into him, Sylvan gave the order. Agatha detested men who flirted with waitresses, or indeed anyone, whilst in her company.

‘I’m glad of this opportunity to talk to you,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘And I am glad of that.’

‘For a start, you know George Bross-Tilkington. Why all the security?’

‘It’s become a dangerous world. He’s a rich man. There were several burglaries in the village a few years ago. That’s when he began to take precautions.’

And what of Felicity? I’ll need to interview her two previous fiancés. Are you sure they broke off the engagements and not the other way around?’

‘So I was told. Would you like some wine?’

Just a short time ago, Agatha would have said yes, hoping for a romantic lunch, but now she was in full detective mode. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I want to keep a clear head. So what was Felicity really like?’

‘Very beautiful.’

‘I want to know about her character.’

‘I don’t think she had much of a character. She worked so hard on her appearance – beauticians, hairdressers, personal trainer, all that.’

‘But James is an intelligent man. Surely beauty wasn’t enough.’

‘Felicity had a special talent. Here’s our food. I am very hungry. Let’s leave the questioning for a little.’

The roast beef was delicious. Agatha ate a bit but then she felt she simply could not wait to find out what Felicity’s special talent had been.

‘What talent?’ she demanded.

‘She was very good in bed.’

Agatha slowly put down her knife and fork. ‘How do you know?’

He gave a very Gallic shrug and his eyes sparkled with amusement.

‘You mean, you had her?’

Again that shrug. Oh, James, thought Agatha miserably, was I not good in bed?

‘But that was surely not enough,’ she protested. ‘He told me he wanted out of the marriage.’

‘Ah, but he is an honourable man. The date was set, the ring was on the finger. He is much older than Felicity and runs on a different set of ethics. Now, if Felicity had changed her mind, she would have cancelled the wedding even at the last minute.’