Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye (22 page)

‘That’s the curse of these small cottages,’ mourned Agatha. ‘I will not be defeated. I know: I’ll have a marquee in the garden.’

‘Won’t that be cold?’

‘No, not these days. They put in heaters. I’ll have clothes rails for the coats and a bar. They can’t go through the kitchen. I’ll have some sort of canvas tunnel up the
side of the house which will lead straight into the marquee.’

‘This is all going to cost you a fortune,’ said Toni. ‘You could have hired a suite at the Hilton for less.’

‘It’s going to be Christmas in my home, and that’s that.’

George Pyson was, at that moment, pacing up and down his mother’s drawing room. ‘Out with it,’ she said at last.

‘It’s this girl.’ George ran his hands through his thick hair. ‘I’m keen on her but she’s very young.’

‘How young?’

‘Just newly eighteen.’

‘That
is
an age difference. Now if you were forty-five and she was thirty, it really wouldn’t matter. But eighteen! What’s her name?’

‘Toni Gilmour.’

‘Antonia Gilmour. Is she one of the Guiting Power Gilmours?’

‘No, she is one of the council estate in Mircester Gilmours and I’ll bet she was actually christened Toni.’

‘Does she work?’

‘As a detective for Agatha Raisin.’

‘That woman who gets herself into the newspapers? What’s she like, this Raisin woman?’

‘Tough, pushy, good hair, good legs, small eyes.’

‘American?’

‘British.’

Mrs Pyson studied her son with a worried crease between her brows. She was a small, dainty woman with thick white hair and a neat figure.

‘The point is this,’ she said. ‘If by any chance she is in love with you –’

‘She’s not. But she could be.’

‘The fact is that the person one loves at eighteen is hardly the person one is going to be in love with at twenty-four.’

‘I think she’s old for her years.’

‘She won’t be a virgin, not these days.’

‘I think she is, Mother. She has that untouched look.’

‘That untouched look could simply mean, “Don’t touch me, George.”’

‘I should never have told you. I should have known you wouldn’t approve.’

‘Is she by any chance related to that young man who hanged himself?’

‘That was her brother.’

‘Oh,
George!’

Bill Wong had romantic troubles as well. He had covered a burglary at a lingerie shop called Naughties in Mircester. A pretty sales assistant called Jade had taken his fancy.
They had been out together a couple of times since the burglary.

Agatha had told Bill he could bring a girlfriend to her dinner and so he had invited Jade. He wondered uneasily what Agatha would make of her. She had dyed red hair of a violent colour and wore
the minimum of clothes, even on cold days. She chewed bubble gum a lot. Her bubble gum was colour-coordinated to suit whatever she was wearing. If Jade was wearing purple, then she chewed purple
bubble gum; if red, red bubble gum and so on. But she had large blue eyes and a perfect complexion and very long legs.

There’ll be such a crowd, Agatha won’t even notice her, Bill reassured himself. She’ll be so taken up with James Lacey she won’t, in fact, notice anyone else.

The next day, Agatha was returning to the office with Phil when she saw Alison on the other side of the street and hailed her. Alison crossed to meet her.

‘I hear you’ve sold the place at last,’ said Agatha. ‘Congratulations.’

‘May I talk to you?’

‘Of course. We’ll go for a coffee. I won’t be long, Phil.’

Over coffee, Alison said, ‘It’s weird. We’ve all dreamed so long of the freedom that money would bring us, but we’re all still huddled together at the manor, waiting
there until the builders arrive and we’ll be forced to leave. Jimmy sits surrounded by travel brochures but he never books anything. Bert drinks and smokes a lot and plays games on his
computer. He barely talks to me.’

Alison’s eyes were red-rimmed with recent crying.

‘Any of you thought of therapy?’

‘No, I hate that idea.’

‘Why don’t you go away yourself? You’ve got your own money. Go off, say, for a week, somewhere sunny.’

‘I couldn’t leave Bert.’

‘If he’s drinking and playing computer games all day long, then he’s left you.’

‘Maybe I’ll try that.’

They’ll never get rid of the dreadful Phyllis, thought Agatha, as she made her way up to her office. She put them all in an emotional prison and they don’t even want to get out.

Three days before Agatha’s Christmas dinner, Mrs Pyson heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the drive of her house. A young girl came into view driving a rental
van.

Mrs Pyson went out to meet her.

The girl jumped down and held out her hand. ‘I’m Toni Gilmour. I’m a friend of your son.’

‘And what can I do for you, Miss Gilmour?’

‘George kindly gave me some pieces of furniture from your home. I don’t need them now. I’m buying my own stuff.’

‘Leave them in the van and come inside. I’ll phone the village and get a couple of young men to put the stuff back in the attic.’

She certainly looks presentable enough, thought Mrs Pyson. Toni had let her long hair grow and it was now swept back in a French pleat. She was wearing corduroy trousers, a leather jacket,
half-boots and a cashmere sweater she had found in a thrift shop.

‘Would you like some tea?’ asked Mrs Pyson after she had telephoned for help to move the furniture.

Toni looked trapped but she murmured, ‘Yes, thank you. Can I help you?’

‘No, I have help.’ Mrs Pyson rang a bell on the table beside her. A tall girl with Slavic cheekbones came into the room.

‘Tea,’ said Mrs Pyson. ‘And some of those biscuits, Svetlana, that I bought the other day at the church sale.’

When Svetlana had left, Mrs Pyson said, ‘I never really approved of the European Union, but I must say, with the influx of immigrants from Eastern Europe one can get all the help one needs
these days. I believe you are a detective. How did you meet my son?’

As Toni talked, Mrs Pyson studied her. Clear voice. Practically no accent at all. Such a pity she was so young.

The tea arrived. ‘What do you plan to do with your life?’ asked Mrs Pyson. ‘I am sure all young girls want to get married.’

‘I shall never marry,’ said Toni.

‘Nonsense. Why?’

‘Careers last. Men don’t.’

‘So young and so cynical! So what do you plan to do?’

‘It’s difficult,’ said Toni. ‘Mrs Raisin gave me a break. She got me a flat, a car and she is paying me a good wage. And yet . . .’

‘And yet?’

‘I feel awfully grateful to her and to George.’

‘And it is weighing you down?’

Toni looked at her gratefully. ‘You see, I’ve been thinking how nice it would be to be a real detective.’

‘Aren’t you one already?’

‘Yes, but I mean join the police force. It’s awful knocking on doors and asking questions when I don’t really have any authority.’

‘Is that why you are returning the furniture? Because you do not want to be grateful to my son?’

Toni coloured up. ‘Something like that.’

‘Well, you must do what you want. I see two young men have arrived. We’d better go out and supervise the unloading.’

When Toni had left, Mrs Pyson sat down again, feeling sad. ‘Poor George,’ she said. ‘Why couldn’t he pick on someone his own age?’

Agatha left Patrick, Phil, Toni and Mrs Freedman to run the agency just before the day of her Christmas dinner. She was already feeling exhausted. So many trips to get just the
right stuff. Up to London again to find Christmas crackers that had interesting things inside them instead of the usual paper hats and plastic toys.

Then, what to wear? Black was flattering to her middle-aged figure but surely too funereal. Tiny little skirts were in fashion and her legs were good. But women like herself dressed in too
youthful a style ended up looking older. She settled at last on a black velvet skirt with slits up both sides and a cherry-red silk blouse with a plunging neckline. The skirt demanded high heels
and her hip was getting worse.

But this one night must be the best and everything must be sacrificed for it. She bought a pair of high-heeled sandals in black patent leather.

Miss Simms, Carsely’s unmarried mother, was in a quandary. Her latest ‘gentleman friend’ had just told her he was going back to his wife. Miss Simms had told
Agatha she was bringing him along. She desperately needed an escort. She chewed nervously at her false nails, remembered what they had cost and poured herself a stiff vodka and Red Bull
instead.

There was a knock at the door. Miss Simms opened it. One of those young men who sell dusters and other household stuff round the doors started his spiel: ‘Here is my card. I am
unemployed.’

Miss Simms didn’t listen. Instead she eyed him up and down. He was well built with thick brown hair and a square pleasant face. She interrupted him. ‘Come in for a drink. I’ve
got a suggestion to make.’

Mrs Bloxby and her husband did not often row. But on the eve of Agatha’s dinner party they found themselves shouting at each other.

‘I’ve told you and told you,’ yelled the vicar, ‘that I will not go to the Raisin female’s party and that’s that. I have promised to lead the carol service at
Ancombe.’

‘You knew all about this party,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘You only took on this carol service to get out of it.’

‘I did not.’

‘I talked to the vicar’s wife over in Ancombe and she told me you were quite pressing about wanting to help. Her husband is taking the carol service and yet you offered to help when
no help was needed.’

The vicar looked mulish.

‘Let’s put it this way. I’m not going.’

‘Let’s put it this way,’ shouted Mrs Bloxby. ‘I am tired, sick and tired of your selfishness. I wear myself out with parish visits which you should be making. You control
the purse strings. When did I last have a new dress? When did we last have a holiday?’ And with that, the vicar’s wife burst into tears.

‘Oh, I am so sorry.’ The vicar’s voice trembled. ‘I never thought . . .’

He handed her a clean handkerchief and then wrapped his arms around her. ‘Don’t cry. We shall go to Agatha’s and you can have a splendid new dress. And . . . and after all the
Christmas services are over, why don’t we take a short holiday, somewhere sunny?’

Mrs Bloxby detached herself from him and dried her eyes. ‘Do you promise?’

‘With all my heart. I do love you. You must know that.’

She gave him a weak smile.

‘Now, what about a cup of tea?’

A frosty gleam appeared in his wife’s eyes.

‘I’ll get it,’ said the vicar hurriedly. ‘I’ll get it!’

Agatha’s nerves were on edge. The great day had arrived, but the weather was unseasonably warm and there was no sign of James. The men were erecting the marquee in a
depressing drizzle.

Toni, Doris Simpson and Mrs Bloxby arrived to help. The rooms were already decorated but Agatha had decided to put the tree in the marquee so they would all need to wait until the men were
finished.

Toni, sitting at the kitchen table, wrote out place cards on stiff cardboard. She also wrote on the cards that a bus had been hired to take the Mircester guests home at midnight and that the
same bus would bring them back the next day to pick up their cars. Doris had previously taken Agatha’s cats to her home because Hodge and Boswell were spending too much of their cunning time
trying to get at the huge turkey lying in all its glory on the kitchen counter.

Crates of champagne and wine had arrived. The caterers were supplying extra tables, tablecloths, plates and glasses.

At last the men came in to say the marquee was ready, just as Roy arrived from London in an all-white suit with a sprig of holly in his lapel.

They carried the large tree, propped outside the front door, along the canvas tunnel at the side of the house and into the marquee. Then they returned to the house to go up to the spare room
where the tree decorations were stored and carry them to the marquee as well. Roy had brought an overall with him to cover his precious suit. He whistled happily as he started by pinning a silver
star on the top of the tree. ‘I see you’ve got coloured lights,’ he shouted down. ‘Too naff. White lights are the new black.’

‘Coloured lights,’ insisted Agatha grimly. ‘Oh, do get a move on!’

By five o’clock, Agatha got Roy to open a bottle of champagne. The chef was already busy in the kitchen, roasting the turkey and shouting at his assistants.

‘Do you think a dinner will ever come out of this chaos?’ moaned Agatha.

‘It’ll be all right on the night,’ said Roy.

‘This is the night, you cloth head.’

‘No need to be a bitch, Aggie, just because there’s no sign of your ex.’

‘If James doesn’t come, it’s all the same to me,’ protested Agatha, suddenly feeling sick at the thought he might not arrive and the waste of all this expense.

The guests were due to arrive at seven o’clock for drinks in the marquee, followed by dinner at eight.

Doris Simpson and Mrs Bloxby went home to change and Agatha and Toni retreated upstairs to do the same.

Roy shouted after them that he was going to write a large sign saying ‘Agatha’s Party’ and put it over the entrance to the tunnel. ‘Otherwise,’ he called up the
stairs, ‘they’ll be ringing the doorbell and you’ll need to go out in the rain to show them where to go.’ Roy thought happily of the snow machine resting in the small van he
had hired. He couldn’t wait to see Agatha’s face.

Half an hour later, Roy called again that the barman had arrived along with the first guests, but where was Agatha?

At quarter past seven, Agatha made an appearance in the marquee and quickly scanned the guests. No James. Toni was wearing a simple black sheath with a broad scarlet belt round her slim waist.
Her hair was brushed down on her shoulders. George Pyson was talking to her. Mrs Bloxby was resplendent in a pretty smoky-blue chiffon dress, smiling up at her husband, her face radiant. Now
that’s real love, thought Agatha wistfully.

Soon, with the exception of James, everyone had arrived. Agatha longed to postpone the dinner for a little longer but felt sure the temperamental chef in the kitchen would murder her.