M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

“It might be a good idea. I mean, I’m rotting here in

Carsely.”

“When you talked about your life in London, I always

got the impression you were rotting there without knowing it.

You’ve got friends here. Something always seems to be happening to you.”

“I could do it for a bit. See how it works. I wouldn’t

sell up here till I was sure.”

“Aggie, he has got to you, you silly old thing.” Agatha winced at that “old” but said defensively, “In

any case I mean to string him along. It’s a good way of getting

to know him better. Then I can be sure.”

“I think that’s a damn dangerous thing to do.” “Why? If he does try to blackmail me, then I’ll go

straight to the police.”

“Aggie, blackmailers create violence. You’ve gone potty.” But Agatha had begun to build a dream up in her head of

being back working in London. Why not go for Bond Street?

Start with a splash. Big party. Get all the celebs. She could practically smell the petrol fumes of Bond Street, the scent from the perfume counter at Fenwick’s, the glowing pictures in the art galleries, the glittering jewels in Asprey’s window.

And perhaps, just perhaps, if he kissed her again like that, the bright pictures of James would fade and die.

“If you don’t want to know any more about it…” she began huffily.

“Oh, I do. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need my help soon. Listen to that storm, Aggie. You’re surely not going to send me home tonight.”

“You can sleep here… in the spare room.”

The phone rang. Agatha picked up the kitchen extension. It was Mr. John, his voice warm and concerned. “I just wanted to know you were all right.”

“Yes, I’m fine. Why?”

“This terrible storm. There are trees down everywhere. Have you electricity?”

“No, but I’ve a gas cooker and candles.”

“I’m very excited about our business project and would like to talk some more about it. Why don’t you drop over here tomorrow afternoon at three, say?”

“Yes, I’d like that. Get off!” Charles had crept up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.

“What’s going on?” demanded the hairdresser sharply. “Who’s there?

“No one,” said Agatha. “Just a mosquito. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”

She swung round on Charles. “What did you do that for? That was John.”

“I guessed as much. You are getting into deep water, Aggie.”

“I’m not,” she protested huffily. She took a Sarah Lee apple pie out of the freezer and put it in the oven. “I should have put that on earlier,” she said. “Let’s go sit and relax.”

As they went into the living-room, all the lights came on again. “Good,” said Charles, “we can watch telly.”

He switched it on and flicked the channels until he came across a rerun of “Hill Street Blues” and settled down happily to watch.

“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to see that,” aid Agatha crossly. “And it is my television set.”

“Shh!”

So they watched “Hill Street Blues” and then there was a Barbra Streisand movie and Charles was addicted to Barbra Streisand. While he watched, Agatha let dreams of a new life curl around her brain rather like the smoke which was beginning to curl under the kitchen door. She had forgotten about the apple pie and it was only as smoke began to drift between them and the television set that she realized with a squawk of alarm what had happened. She ran to the kitchen and switched off the oven and opened the door and windows. Sweet cool air drifted in. She walked out into the garden. The rain had stopped and a little chilly moon sailed overhead through ragged clouds. She stood breathing in the fresh air until all the smoke had cleared from the kitchen. The pie when she removed it was a blackened mess. She threw it into the garbage and then began to diligently clean the surfaces of the kitchen.

By the time she had finished cleaning, the movie had ended and Charles was watching “Star Trek, The Next Generation,” an early one, to judge from the beardless and baby-faced Commander Riker.

“Charles,” said Agatha crossly. “It’s late and the storm’s over. You can go home.”

“I haven’t got Sky Television and I haven’t seen this one.”

“Home, Charles.”

He left grumbling. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, “but you don’t deserve my concern.”

The next day was almost chilly and the residents of Carsely, like the rest of the British Isles who had been bitching for weeks about the heat, began to bitch instead about the cold.

Agatha dressed carefully in a tailored suit and silk blouse and headed for Evesham. Her dreams of the day before had faded and would have stayed faded had John not immediately taken her in his arms when she arrived and given her another of those warm, passionate kisses full on the mouth.

She felt quite weak at the knees as she sat down. His bruises appeared to be fading fast and his eyes were as blue, as intensely blue, as ever.

“Have you thought any more about my business proposition?” he asked.

Agatha flexed her public relations muscles. She described how she thought they should go big from the word go, open in Bond Street, say. She outlined how she would go about rousing interest so she could get it into as many newspapers as possible. “And do you know what we’ll call it?”

“I thought just Mr. John.”

“No, we’ll call it the Wizard of Evesham.”

He looked at her thoughtfully and then began to laugh. “I like that. It’s catchy. I like it a lot.”

All afternoon, they talked busily. Then he sent out for Chinese food. Before dinner, he opened a bottle of pills and popped two in his mouth. “Is that your medicine?” asked Agatha.

“No, they’re vitamin pills, a multi-vitamin called Lifex. I swear by them. I keep a supply in the shop. You should try them.”

Agatha picked up the bottle and shook one out. “I’m not very good at swallowing pills,” she said, looking at the large brown gelatine capsule in her hand. “I would choke on something this size. What do they do for you?”

“I find they give me a lot of energy. Let’s eat.”

They talked busily over dinner, firing ideas for their new venture back and forth across the table. Agatha at last said reluctantly that she should get home.

If he had asked her to stay with him, Agatha probably would have succumbed, but he only gathered her back into his arms as he said good night and again sent her senses spinning with one of those kisses, fuelling the hopelessly romantic side of Agatha to boiling point.

She decided as she drove dreamily home that all her suspicions of him had been unfounded. What were they based on after all? One frightened village woman who had probably had a crush on him, had probably written him a silly love letter or something like that and her bad-tempered husband had found out.

There was a message from Charles on her Call Minder but she did not want to phone him, did not want anything to burst the rosy bubble in which she floated. Mr. John-no, John-stop calling him that silly hairdresser’s name-had said he had taken the liberty of making an appointment for her for the following day. Soon she would see him again.

Agatha in love meant an Agatha who could not make up her mind what to wear. Although she started her preparations early the next day, she at last left in a rush, wearing a coat over a sweater and skirt and having torn off more dressy ensembles, feeling she looked as if she were trying too hard.

She would need to steer him to a good interior decorator, she thought, looking round the salon in a proprietorial way. And no receptionist like the dreadful Josie, but no one too glamorous either.