Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye (25 page)

Mrs Bloxby, wife of the vicar of Carsely, looked nervously at her visitor. ‘Yes, Mrs Raisin is a friend of mine, a very dear friend, but she is now very busy running her
detective agency and does not have spare time for –’

‘But this is such a good cause,’ interrupted Arthur Chance, vicar of Saint Odo The Severe in the village of Comfrey Magna. ‘The services of an expert public relations officer
to bring the crowds to our annual fête would be most welcome. Proceeds will go to restore the church roof and to various charities.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘It would do no harm to just
ask,
now would it? It is your Christian duty.’

‘I hardly need to be reminded of my duty,’ said Mrs Bloxby wearily, thinking of all the parish visits, the mothers’ meetings and the Carsely Ladies’ Society. Really, she
thought, surveying the vicar, for such a mild, inoffensive-looking man he is terribly pushy. Arthur Chance was a small man with thick glasses and grey hair which stuck out in tufts like horns on
either side of his creased and wrinkled face. He had married a woman twenty years his junior, Mrs Bloxby remembered. He probably bullied her into it, she thought.

‘Look! I will do what I can, but I cannot promise anything. When is the fête?’

‘It is a week on Saturday.’

‘Only about a week away. You are not giving Mrs Raisin any time.’

‘God will help her,’ said Mr Chance.

Agatha Raisin, a middle-aged woman who had sold up her successful public relations business to take early retirement in a cottage in the Cotswolds, had found that inactivity
did not suit her and so had started up her own private detective agency. Now that it was successful, however, she wished she had more time to relax. Also, the cases which poured into the detective
agency all concerned messy divorces, missing children, missing cats and dogs, and only the occasional case of industrial espionage. She had begun to close the agency at weekends, feeling she was
losing quality time, forgetting that when she had plenty of quality time, she didn’t know what to do with it.

For a woman in her early fifties, she still looked well. Her hair, although tinted, was glossy and her legs were good. Although she had small eyes, she had very few wrinkles. She had a generous
bosom and a rather thick waist, which was her despair.

On Friday evening, when she arrived home, she fussed over her two cats, Hodge and Boswell, kicked off her shoes, mixed herself a generous gin and tonic, lit a cigarette, and lay back on the sofa
with a sigh of relief.

She wondered idly where her ex-husband, James Lacey, was. He lived next door to her but worked as a travel writer and was often abroad. She rummaged around in her brain as usual, searching for
that old obsession, that old longing for him, but it seemed to have gone forever. Agatha, without an obsession, was left with herself; and she forgot about all the pain and misery that obsession
for her ex had brought and remembered only the brief bursts of elation.

The doorbell shrilled. Agatha swung her legs off the sofa and went to answer the door. Her face lit up when she saw Mrs Bloxby standing there. ‘Come in,’ she cried. ‘I’m
just having a G and T. Want one?’

‘No, but I’d like a sherry.’

Sometimes Agatha, often too aware of her slum upbringing, wondered what it would be like to be a lady inside and out like Mrs Bloxby. The vicar’s wife was wearing a rather baggy tweed
skirt and a rose-pink blouse which had seen better days. Her grey hair was escaping from a bun at the back of her neck, but she had her usual air of kindness and dignity.

The pair of them, as was the fashion in the Carsely Ladies’ Society, always called each other by their second names.

Agatha poured Mrs Bloxby a sherry. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s been so busy.’

A brief flicker of guilt crossed Mrs Bloxby’s grey eyes. ‘Have you still got that young detective with you, Toni Gilmour?’

‘Yes, thank goodness. Excellent worker. But I think we will need to start turning down cases. I really don’t want to take on more staff.’

Mrs Bloxby took a sip of sherry and said distractedly, ‘I knew you would be too busy. That’s what I told him.’

‘Told who?’

‘Mr Arthur Chance. The vicar of Saint Odo The Severe.’

‘The what?’

‘An Anglo-Saxon saint. I forget what he did. There are so many of them.’

‘So how did my name come up in your discussion with Mr Chance?’

‘He lives in Comfrey Magna –’

‘Never been there.’

‘Few people have. It’s off the tourist route. Anyway, they are having their annual village fête a week tomorrow and Mr Chance wanted me to beg you to publicize the event for
them.’

‘Is there anything special about this vicar? Any reason why I should?’

‘Only because it’s for charity. And he is rather pushy.’

Agatha smiled. ‘You look like a woman who has just been bullied. Tell you what, we’ll drive over there tomorrow morning and I will tell him one resounding no and he won’t
bother you again.’

‘That is so good of you, Mrs Raisin. I am not very strong when it comes to saying no to good works.’

In the winter days, when the rain dripped down and thick wet fog covered the hills, Agatha sometimes wondered what she was doing buried under the thatch of her cottage in the
Cotswolds.

But as she drove off with Mrs Bloxby the following morning, the countryside was enjoying a really warm spring. Blackthorn starred the hedgerows, wisteria and clematis hung on garden walls,
bluebells shook in the lightest of breezes, and a large blue sky arched overhead.

Mrs Bloxby guided Agatha through a maze of country lanes. ‘Here we are at last,’ she said finally. ‘Just park in front of the church.’

Agatha thought Comfrey Magna was an odd, secretive-looking village. There were no new houses to mar the straggling line of ancient cottages on either side of the road. She could see no one on
the main street or in the gardens or even at the windows.

‘Awfully quiet,’ she commented.

‘Few young people, that’s the problem,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘No first-time buyers, only last-time buyers.’

‘Shouldn’t think houses would be all that expensive in a dead hole like this,’ said Agatha, parking the car.

‘Houses all over are dreadfully expensive.’

They got out of the car. ‘That’s the vicarage over there,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘We’ll cut through the churchyard.’

The vicarage was an old grey building with a sloping roof of old Cotswold tiles, the kind that cost a fortune but that the local council would never allow anyone to sell, unless they were going
to be replaced with exactly the same thing which, of course, defeated the purpose.

As they entered the churchyard, Agatha saw a man straightening up from one of the graves where he had been laying flowers. He turned and saw them and smiled.

Agatha blinked rapidly. He was tall, with fair hair, a lightly tanned handsome face, and green eyes. His eyes were really green, thought Agatha, not a fleck of brown in them. He was wearing a
tweed sports jacket and cavalry-twill trousers.

‘Good morning,’ said Mrs Bloxby pleasantly, but giving Agatha’s arm a nudge because that lady seemed to have become rooted to the spot.

‘Good morning,’ he replied.

‘Who was that?’ whispered Agatha as they approached the door of the vicarage.

‘I don’t know.’

Mrs Bloxby rang the bell. The door was opened by a tall woman wearing a leotard and nothing else. Her hair was tinted aubergine and worn long and straight. She had rather mean features – a
narrow, thin mouth and long narrow eyes. Her nose was thin with an odd bump in the middle, as if it had once been broken and then badly reset. Pushing forty, thought Agatha.

‘You’ve interrupted my Pilates exercises,’ she said.

‘We’ve come to see Mr Chance,’ said Mrs Bloxby.

‘You must be the PR people. You’ll find him in the study. I’m Trixie Chance.’

Oh dear, thought Mrs Bloxby. She often thought that trendy vicars’ wives did as much to reduce a church congregation as a trendy vicar. Mrs Chance was of a type familiar to her: always
desperately trying to be ‘cool’, following the latest fads and quoting the names of the latest pop groups.

Trixie had disappeared. By pushing open a couple of doors off the hall, they found the study. Arthur Chance was sitting behind a large Victorian desk piled high with papers.

He rushed round the desk to meet them, his pale eyes shining behind thick glasses. He seized Agatha’s hands. ‘Dear lady, I knew you would come. How splendid of you to help
us!’

Agatha disengaged her hands. ‘I have come here,’ she began, ‘to say –’

There was a trill of laughter from outside, and through the window Agatha could see Trixie talking to that handsome man.

‘Who is that man?’ she demanded, pointing at the window.

Arthur swung round in surprise. ‘Oh, that is one of my parishioners, Mr George Selby. So tragic, his wife dying like that! He has been a source of strength helping me with the organization
of the fête, ordering the marquees in case it rains. So important in our fickle English climate, don’t you think, Mrs Raisin?’

‘Certainly,’ gushed Agatha. ‘Perhaps, if you could call Mr Selby in, we could discuss the publicity together?’

‘Certainly certainly.’ Arthur bustled off. Mrs Bloxby stifled a sigh. She knew her friend was now dead set on another romantic pursuit. She wished, not for the first time, that
Agatha would grow up.

George Selby entered the study behind the vicar. He smiled at Agatha. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he asked. ‘Mr Chance can be very persuasive.’

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ said Agatha, thinking she should have worn a pair of heels instead of the dowdy flat sandals she was wearing.

But Agatha’s heart sank as the events were described to her. There was to be entertainment by the village band and dancing by a local group of morris men. The rest consisted of
competitions to see who had created the best cake, bread, pickles and relishes. The main event was the home-made jam tasting.

She sat in silence after the vicar had finished outlining the events. She caught a sympathetic look from George’s beautiful green eyes and a great idea leaped into her mind.

‘Yes, I can do this,’ she said. ‘You haven’t given me much time. Leave it to me.’ She turned to George. ‘Perhaps we could have dinner sometime in the coming
week to discuss progress?’

He hesitated slightly. ‘Splendid idea,’ said the vicar. ‘Plan of campaign. There is a very good restaurant at Mircester. Trixie, my wife, is particularly fond of it. La Belle
Cuisine. Why don’t we all meet there for dinner on Wednesday? Eight o’clock.’

‘Fine,’ said Agatha gloomily.

‘I suppose so,’ said George with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

Agatha’s staff, consisting of detectives Phil Marshall, Patrick Mulligan, young Toni Gilmour and secretary Mrs Freedman, found that the usual Monday morning conference
was cancelled. ‘Just get on with whatever you’re on with,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve got a church fête to sell.’

Toni felt low. She had been given another divorce case and she hated divorce cases. But she lingered in the office, fascinated to hear Agatha Raisin in full bullying mode on the phone.
‘Yes, I think you should send a reporter. We’re running a real food campaign here. Good local home-made produce and no supermarket rubbish. And I can promise you a surprise. Yes, it
is
Agatha Raisin here. No, no murder, hah, hah. Just send a reporter.’

Next call. ‘I want to speak to Betsy Wilson.’

Toni stood frozen. Betsy Wilson was a famous pop singer. ‘Tell her it’s Agatha Raisin. Hello, Betsy, dear, remember me? I want you to open a village fête next Saturday. I know
you have a busy schedule, but I also happen to know you are between gigs. The press will all be there. Good for your image. Lady-of-the-manor bit. Large hat, floaty dress, gracious – come on,
girl, by the time I’m finished with you I’ll have you engaged to Prince William. Yes, you come along and I’ll see if I can get the Prince.’ Agatha then charged on to tell
Betsy to arrive at two o’clock and to give her directions to Comfrey Magna.

‘Thick as two planks,’ muttered Agatha, ‘but she’s coming.’

‘But she’s famous!’ gasped Toni. ‘Why should she come?’

‘Her career was sinking after that drugs bust,’ said Agatha. ‘I did a freelance job and got her going again.’

She picked up the phone again. ‘News desk? Forget about the healthy food. Better story. Fête is to be opened by Betsy Wilson. Yes. I thought that would make you sit up.’

Toni waited until Agatha had finished the call and asked, ‘Can you really get Prince William?’

‘Of course not, but that dumb cow thinks I’m capable of anything.’

At dinner on the Wednesday night, only Trixie Chance greeted Agatha’s news that Betsy Wilson was to open the fête with delight. George Selby said anxiously,
‘But the village will be overrun by teenagers and press. It’ll be a disaster.’

Agatha felt panicky. She now had the nationals coming as well as the local newspapers.

‘I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘Vicar, you open the fête with a prayer. Get yourself a good sound system. Think of the size of the congregation. I’ll get Betsy to
sing “Amazing Grace”. Set the tone.’

The vicar’s eyes shone. ‘I can see it now,’ he said, clasping his hands as though in prayer.

‘Yes, so can I,’ said George. ‘Mess and rubbish everywhere.’

Trixie squeezed his arm. ‘Oh, Georgy Porgy don’t be a great bear. Little Trixie is thrilled to bits.’

She’s five feet eight inches, thought Agatha sourly, and people who refer to themselves in the third person are always crashing bores.

‘It’ll be marvellous,’ said Agatha. ‘It’ll really put Comfrey Magna on the map!’

She wondered how she could manage to engineer an evening with George on his own. Mustn’t seem too
needy.
Men could smell needy across two continents.

In vain during the meal did George try to protest against the visit of the pop star. The vicar and his wife were too excited to listen to him.

What was worse, George was beginning to look at her with something like dislike in those grass-green eyes of his.