M. C. Beaton - Something Borrowed, Someone Dead: An Agatha Raisin Mystery

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To the Golden Voice of Scotland, Grant Mackintosh, and Desmond King, with affection

Contents

Chapter One

The recession was biting deeper into private detective Agatha Raisins finances. The bread-and-butter work of her agency, the divorces, missing teenagers, even missing dogs and cats, was drying up as people preferred to go to the police for free help, and men and women in unhappy marriages opted to wait before paying Agatha to find proof of evidence for divorce.

Her agency staff consisted of two young people, Toni Gilmour and Simon Black, as well as retired policeman, Patrick Mulligan, elderly Phil Marshall, and secretary Mrs. Freedman.

Despite the hard times, Agatha could not bring herself to lay any of them off. She spent more time at her cottage in the village of Carsely in the Cotswolds, smoking, drinking gin and tonic and playing with her cats, Hodge and Boswell. Her ex-husband, James Lacey, who had the cottage next door, wrote travel books and was often absent, her police detective, Bill Wong, was too busy to call, and her other friend, Sir Charles Fraith, had not called on her for over a month.

So one sunny morning, instead of going into the office, she trudged up the road to the vicarage to pay a call on her closest friend, Mrs. Bloxby, the vicars wife. The two women were in sharp contrast. Mrs. Bloxby wore old-fashioned lady clothes: drooping skirts and blouses in summer and washed-out woollens in winter. She had brown hair, mild eyes, and very beautiful hands. Agatha had bearlike eyes in a round face. She had very good skin and glossy brown hair worn short. Her figure was quite good apart from a rather thick waistline and her legs were excellent.

Come in, Mrs. Raisin, she said. Ive just made some coffee. We can have it in the garden. Both women addressed each other by their second names, a practise once used by the now defunct Ladies Society.

Agatha sat in a chair in the sunny vicarage garden. Behind the garden wall lay the church graveyard, old mossy tombstones reminding one detective in her early fifties that life was fleeting.

Mrs. Bloxby came out to join her, carrying a tray with the coffee and a plate of Eccles cakes.

I made these this morning, said the vicars wife.

Id love one but I cant, said Agatha gloomily. All this inactivity is going straight to my waistline. Oh, what the hell!

She picked up a cake and bit into it.

Mrs. Bloxby looked at her friend anxiously. She felt she could hardly pray to God to send down a case for Agatha, as that possibly would involve a lot of misery for some people. Her husband often complained that people shouldnt pray for specifics, but, thought Mrs. Bloxby, there was often comfort in trying because the answer could be no but, on the other hand, something might happen.

Scotland Yard once claimed that some people are murderees. Mrs. Bloxby could not have imagined that in a village not far away from Carsely was a widow who would cause such hatred as to spur someone to murder her and give Agatha Raisin a new case.

* * *

Mrs. Gloria French lived in the village of Piddlebury, a charming place of old cottages, nestling in the Cotswold hills. She was a jolly widow with dyed blond hair, rosy cheeks and a raucous laugh. The perpetual smile on her wide mouth never quite reached her prominent pale blue eyes. She had recently moved to the Cotswolds from London and had thrown herself into village life with great energy. She baked cakes for the Womens Institute. She delivered the Church Times. She organised parties to raise money to repair the old church. In short, she seemed indefatigable.

Glorias cottage had a thatched roof and latticed windows. The latticed windows were a recent addition, Gloria thinking that plain glass was not, well, cottagey enough. Nestling among the profusion of flowers in her garden were plastic gnomes.

Inside, the living room and kitchen were decorated with many copper pans and fake horse brasses. Some bad watercolours hung on the walls, Gloria being an enthusiastic amateur artist. If you are very good, she was fond of saying, I will give you one of my pictures, but the ungrateful villagers hoped they were never going to be considered good enough.

She favoured tight dresses of shiny material over a body stocking, giving her figure a sausage-like appearance. Gloria was determined to marry again. She ruthlessly pursued the few eligible men in the village with the exception of Jerry Tarrant, head of the parish council, who had complained about the amount of scent she wore by saying, Were supposed to get a whiff as we walk past you, not when we drive past you at sixty miles an hour, for Gloria sprayed herself daily from top to bottom in LAir Du Temps.

Everyone hoped she would settle down, as they were used to newcomers trying to take over and immersing themselves in what they believed was village life.

The vicar, Guy Enderbury, however, was delighted with her efforts. Not only had Gloria raised a healthy sum of money for the church restoration but also she read to the elderly and took them on shopping trips.

He found it hard to understand why she was becoming so unpopular, and appealed to his wife, Clarice.

Said Clarice, Shes pushy, but its not only that. She borrows things and doesnt give them back. When people ask for their belongings, she swears blind the items are her own property.

Such was the case. The items were hardly ever very expensive, a teapot here, a set of knives there, things like that.

Had she not been such a formidable character, people would have stopped lending her things, but when she loomed up on their doorsteps, they often weakly gave in, just wanting to be rid of her.

As Agatha was drinking coffee with Mrs. Bloxby, Gloria applied another slash of red lipstick to her large mouth and headed for the cottage of Peter Suncliff. Peter was a retired engineer and a widower. He was a tall powerful man in his early sixties with a good head of white hair and a craggy face. Gloria considered him top of her list as husband material.

He opened the door and looked down at Gloria. What? he demanded curtly.

The vicars calling round and I am out of sherry, said Gloria. She tried to move past him, into his cottage, but he barred the way. I wondered if I could borrow a bottle.

Theres no need for that, said Peter. The village store is still open, or had you forgotten? They sell sherry. Or had you forgotten that as well? And, with that, he slammed the door in her face.

Gloria turned away, baffled. Then she thought he was probably shy and was frightened of betraying his real feelings.

She was just leaving when she was accosted by Jenny Soper. Jenny was also a widow, small and dainty, with a good figure and a round face with dimples under a head of curly black hair. Oh, Gloria, she said. Do you remember you borrowed a bag of flour from me? Do you mind replacing it?

What? Oh, that? Whats a bag of flour between friends?

We are not friends, said Jenny.

Gloria ignored her and strode on to the village stores. Jenny followed her. Im telling you, shouted Jenny, I want you to replace that bag of flour. Buy one now and give it to me.

No, I havent enough money on me at the moment, said Gloria. Really, Jenny! Youre all flushed. What a lot of fuss over a mere bag of flour.

Youre a greedy cow! said Jenny. I wish someone would kill you! She stomped off.