There Goes The Bride (25 page)

Dinner included a floor show of mainly traditional Turkish acts. The show started with a too-thin belly dancer whose act seemed to go on forever. Then there was a Black Sea troupe who balanced knives on their noses and threw them at a target. It was very loud and noisy and conversation was limited.

Agatha excused herself and went in search of the toilets. She had a sudden desire to share the news that she was in love. She was so sure she was in love.

She phoned Mrs Bloxby and told her the news. ‘When did you meet him?’ asked the vicar’s wife.

‘Just today.’

‘Mrs Raisin!’

‘No, this is the real thing.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mustafa Kemal.’

There was a little silence and then Mrs Bloxby said, ‘That’s odd.’

‘What’s odd?’

‘Mustafa Kemal was the name of Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey. Are you sure it isn’t another of Sylvan Dubois’s associates?’

Agatha felt suddenly cold. ‘I’ll call you back.’ She thought about how easily she had been picked up. She clung on to the handbasin, feeling dizzy. Then she straightened up and squared her shoulders. She accosted the first waiter at the entrance to the restaurant and hissed, ‘Call the police.’

He looked at her, puzzled, and then signalled to the maître d’, who listened to her demand for the police. ‘He’s an impostor and he’s out to kill me,’ said Agatha desperately. ‘I’ll go back and join him but don’t alert him.’

She went back to the table, a smile pinned on her face. There was another noisy act and she was glad that it was impossible to speak.

In record time, two policemen and one policewoman entered the restaurant. Agatha heaved a sigh of relief as the maître d’ pointed at their table.

To Agatha’s amazement, the two policemen began to laugh, although the policewoman looked grim.

They all spoke in rapid Turkish and then Mustafa was led away while the policewoman took his place. ‘Come outside with me,’ she said in English.

Agatha followed her out and down the stairs. ‘There is a café over there where we can talk,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell them I said anything. I said I would stay behind to comfort you.’

‘What’s it all about?’ asked Agatha.

‘Who did he say he was?’

‘A tax inspector called Mustafa Kemal.’

‘He is a police inspector from Karakoy, taking a few days’ holiday. His name is Demir Oguz and he is married with six children. He is a famous seducer of women. I am sorry. Of course my male colleagues think it is all very funny. What made you call us?’

Agatha wearily told her the story of Sylvan Dubois and the subsequent attempt on her life. She ended by saying, ‘I don’t think I’m any kind of detective at all. I should have recognized his name as fake.’

‘You are a woman in a foreign country,’ said the policewoman. ‘It was an easy mistake to make. Now I will take you back to your hotel.’

‘Your English is excellent,’ said Agatha.

‘That’s why I was brought. When they heard an Englishwoman had called us, they took me with them.’

‘Why does the police inspector have such good English as well?’

‘His wife is from Manchester – poor thing.’

Back in her hotel room, Agatha sank down on the edge of the bed and eased off her high heels. What a fool she had been! She remembered the chance meeting with Erol and how he had turned out to be such a gentleman. Perhaps that was why she had accepted the invitation from the fake tax inspector so easily.

Suddenly the idea of giving up detective work flooded her brain with relief. No more shocks and alarms. No more nasty divorce cases. She would make Toni, Patrick and Phil joint owners. She would settle down in the village and potter about.

She rose to her feet and began to pack. She did not want to stay any longer in Istanbul in case she ran into whatever his name was again.

‘You’re going to do
what?’
demanded Sir Charles Fraith.

Agatha had arrived home to find her friend in residence.

‘You heard. I’m fed up with the whole thing.’

‘But what will you do?’

‘I came down to the Cotswolds to retire and that is exactly what I am going to do now.’

‘You’ll die of boredom. What happened in Istanbul?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But you’re back early?’

‘The weather turned cold.’

Charles studied her face. ‘Now why do you look exactly like a woman disappointed in love?’

‘Stop fantasizing. I am going into the office to break the news to them. It will give me a wonderful feeling of freedom.’

‘For a couple of days,’ said Charles cynically.

Agatha called her staff to meet in the office at 5 p.m. They were all there when she arrived – Toni, Phil, Patrick, Mrs Freedman and the two relative newcomers, Paul Kenson and Fred Auster.

She replied briefly to questions about her holiday and then said, ‘I have decided to retire.’

‘Why?’ asked Toni.

‘I need some quality time. You, Toni, Patrick and Phil, will become joint owners. Paul, Fred, Sharon and Mrs Freedman, you will continue to work as usual.’

After the first exclamations of dismay were over, Toni began to feel quite cheerful. She always felt that Agatha was looking over her shoulder. Paul and Fred each privately thought it would be a relief to have bossy Agatha out of the way. Patrick accepted it philosophically. Phil was genuinely distressed. He was in his seventies and felt he owed a lot to Agatha for having hired a man of his age. Thanks to her, he had been able to find a comfortable life with little treats which he could not otherwise have afforded on his pension alone.

‘Are you having a retirement party?’ asked Toni.

‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll just leave quietly.’

And to their amazement, that is exactly what Agatha did.

B
ACK AT HER
cottage, Agatha found Charles had left. He had written a message in lipstick on her bathroom mirror: ‘Big Mistake!’ Agatha crossly wiped it off.

She decided to visit Mrs Bloxby. But the meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society was in full swing. Agatha blinked in surprise. It was so long now since she had attended a meeting that she barely knew anyone. Particularly with the credit crunch and people unable to pay their mortgages, the population of all Cotswold villages was shifting and changing. Apart from Miss Simms, Carsely’s unmarried mother, and still secretary of the group, it was hard to hear one Gloucestershire accent.

The incomers, from their clothes and accents, were obviously well off. Fresh from the towns, they were all determined to play the part of village ladies – all to the benefit of Mrs Bloxby, who had new blood to fund her various charities.

Agatha was a celebrity but the newcomers ignored that fact. Each one, with the exception of Miss Simms and Mrs Bloxby, seemed determined to outdo the others in becoming the leading lady of the village.

I’m one of them now, thought Agatha gloomily, so I may as well make the best of it. But over tea and cakes after a discussion on raising funds for the Red Cross, the women seemed to vie with one another over material possessions. ‘We’re having a sauna,’ said one, and another chimed in with ‘We’re having a swimming pool put in the old barn.’ Mrs Bloxby anxiously studied Agatha’s downcast face.

When the meeting was over, Mrs Bloxby whispered, ‘Do stay, Mrs Raisin.’

But when the other women saw Agatha settling back in her chair, with the exception of Miss Simms, they all sat down again.

‘I’ll leave and come back,’ whispered Agatha.

She went out and walked around the village. Rain was falling steadily and the evening was chilly. Miss Simms tottered beside her on her high heels. ‘It’s not the same at all,’ she complained. ‘Lot of toffee-nosed slags. Are you going to walk all night?’

‘Maybe,’ said Agatha.

‘Then I’m off.’

When Agatha felt she had spent enough time out in the cold, she returned to the vicarage.

‘What a shower!’ she exclaimed, parking her umbrella in the stand in the hall.

‘Shower? It’s been raining steadily,’ said Mrs Bloxby, helping her off with her coat.

‘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.’