There Goes The Bride (20 page)

‘Something for dessert,’ replied Agatha.

A
MONTH LATER
, Agatha dressed with great care for her first date. It was all very exciting. She looked at the photo stuck on her dressing table mirror. It showed a slim man of middle height with thick brown hair and a pleasant smile. And he was none other than Baron, Lord Thirlham; hobbies, fine wines, reading, and country walks.

He had an estate in Oxfordshire and they had agreed to meet in the restaurant at the Randolph Hotel in Oxford.

Agatha was wrapped in a warm dream as she left for her date. She could see the announcement in
The Times.
She would be Lady Thirlham. She would give up the detective agency and become a real lady. She would open fêtes and do good works. People would say how gracious she was. Thirlham was a widower. So much easier, surely, when the man had been married already.

After she had parked her car in the hotel car park, she made her way into the Randolph and through to the dining room.

‘Lord Thirlham’s table,’ said Agatha grandly to the maître d’.

She was ushered to a table at the window. She was exactly on time but his lordship had not yet put in an appearance. Agatha had planned to drink very little because she was sure she would be motoring home. The agency gave strict advice that couples should take time to get to know each other first. But a quarter of an hour passed and there was still no sign of the baron. Agatha ordered a stiff gin and tonic.

After another quarter of an hour had passed, she was just about to leave when a small round man was ushered up to the table. Agatha looked at him in amazement. ‘Lord Thirlham?’

‘That’s me,’ he said, sitting down and shaking out his napkin. He must have sent a photo of himself when he was younger, thought Agatha dismally. His hair was grey. His face was round with rather protruding eyes and a small pursed mouth. In fact, thought Agatha, he had probably sent in a photo of one of his friends.

He smiled at her and said, ‘The purpose of this dinner is to find out about each other, so I will tell you all about myself.’

And so he did – in long, studied periods, pausing only from the fascination of his own life story to order food and wine. He began with his childhood, his nanny, his brother and two sisters, his school, university, army and yackety, yackety, yack, unaware that Agatha was no longer listening.

At last, Agatha could not bear it any longer. As the coffee arrived, she rose to her feet.

‘Going to powder your nose?’ he said.

‘Sure.’

Agatha made her way out to the desk and said to the concierge, ‘Could you tell the maître d’ to bring my share of the bill. I wish to pay it now. Do not let my dining companion know I am leaving.’

Payment completed, Agatha fled out into the night. She had paid a very large amount to the dating agency. They would certainly hear from her in the morning.

The agency was full of apologies. They pointed out that their contract stated that if Agatha had not met anyone suitable in a year’s time, then two thirds of her money would be refunded.

Hope seemed to spring eternal in Agatha’s bosom. Perhaps the next one would be the man of her dreams. She had told the agency that the next photograph she received must be a proper picture of her date.

For a time, it seemed as if no one on the agency’s books found the idea of Agatha Raisin appealing. Then one morning she received a letter from the agency along with a photograph and description. Her next hopeful was a university lecturer. His photograph showed a tall thin man of her own age wearing glasses and dressed in a tweed jacket and flannels. He had a rather frog-like mouth. His name was John Berry. May as well give it a try, thought Agatha.

The meeting was to be in London at a restaurant in Chinatown. Agatha decided to take the train up to town. She was wearing a comfortable trouser suit and flat walking shoes. She planned to visit a hairdresser in London prior to the meeting because she always felt more confident with her hair just newly done.

Memories of Sylvan made her feel uneasy as she entered the restaurant. She could not help wondering how many of the staff had been smuggled into Britain.

She recognized her date from his photograph. He rose and gave her a charming smile. Agatha brightened.

Her brightness dimmed a little after she had sat down and he said cautiously, ‘You know the rules are that on our first date we should each pay for our own meal.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Agatha.

He suggested they should order the cheapest set menu for two. Agatha wondered how he could afford to hire such an expensive agency. He was wearing the tweed jacket he had worn in the photo over an open-necked Hawaiian shirt.

‘It says in your résumé,’ he began, ‘that you are a businesswoman. What kind of business?’

‘I run a detective agency,’ said Agatha.

‘You’re a snoop!’ he exclaimed.

‘I am a private detective,’ said Agatha coldly. ‘People hire me to –’

His eyes flashed behind his thick glasses. ‘You snoop for the government,’ he said.

‘I do not!’

‘You lot always lie. It’s because I organized the march to that nuclear power station.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘Don’t you rubbish me. I bet my phone’s tapped. You’re just the type they would employ – some posh, rich bourgeois female.’

‘You are talking absolute bollocks,’ shouted Agatha. ‘You’re paranoid!’

‘Don’t you dare call me paranoid. I know you lot.’

‘Before I get up and walk out of here,’ said Agatha evenly, ‘just tell me why you hired this expensive agency to find you a mate?’

‘Because my father died and left me a packet. I want someone of similar tastes to fight the fight with me.’

Agatha took out her wallet and counted out the money to cover her half of the bill.

‘Get stuffed,’ she roared and stood up and marched out of the restaurant.

That’s definitely it, she thought. She had booked herself into a hotel for the night. She planned to go to the agency in the morning and give them a piece of her mind.

In the morning, she walked from her hotel to the Diamond Dating Agency in South Molton Street. She found the office in chaos. Two debutante-looking girls were packing files into boxes. One had obviously been crying. ‘Where is Amanda?’ asked Agatha, remembering the name of the owner.

‘Gone bankrupt,’ said one of the girls. ‘Just like that. We’re to pack up and get out.’

‘What? I want my money back,’ roared Agatha. ‘Where is Amanda Carlson?’

‘She’s most horribly upset. She’s at her house.’

‘And where is her house?’

‘It’s at Kynance Mews in Kensington. Just along beside the vet’s place.’

Agatha took a taxi over to Kensington, marched down the mews and rang the bell at Amanda’s door. A curtain upstairs twitched but no one came to answer the door.

Agatha shouted through the letter box: ‘Open this door or I’ll make such a scene all your neighbours will know about your bankruptcy.’

She heard footsteps descending the stairs inside. The door opened and Amanda stood there. She was a handsome woman in her forties with an hourglass figure and sculpted hair.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said bleakly. ‘I might have known. Come in.’

Agatha followed her into a downstairs living room. Her quick eye took in what she privately thought of as landlord’s ‘posh’ furnishings: pseudo mini country house.

‘You don’t even own this place,’ complained Agatha. ‘And I want my money back. I must have been mad. Ten thousand pounds and so far all I’ve met are a couple of freaks.’

‘I am sorry. I haven’t any money.’

‘I bet you have. You’re the sort that hides cash away from the income tax. You either get it or I will go straight to the newspapers.’

‘You bitch!’ hissed Amanda. ‘Wait here.’

Agatha waited impatiently. At last Amanda came down the stairs and handed her a packet of notes. ‘It’s all there,’ she said sulkily.

Snatching the packet and stuffing it in her handbag, Agatha went out and slammed the door behind her.

It was only after she had collected her car from the car park at Moreton-in-Marsh station and was driving down to Carsely that she realized she should have asked for her file back and insisted that all her details be erased from the computer at the agency.

But she was reluctant to make the long journey back. She was also strangely reluctant even to phone. Agatha felt like a fool. She went to see Mrs Bloxby instead and told that lady for the first time of her futile attempts to find a mate.

Mrs Bloxby was tempted to burst out laughing at Agatha’s descriptions of the two men she had met, but Agatha looked so upset, she didn’t dare. When Agatha had finished, she said quietly, ‘Did you not check out the agency first?’

‘I should have done, but it seemed so respectable. It was right near where I used to have my office. They advertised in all the main glossy magazines. I got my money back. I’d better put it down to experience and just get back to work.’

‘Is finding a man so important to you, Mrs Raisin? I always thought of you as being self-sufficient.’

Agatha sighed. ‘It would be great to have someone to go on holiday with, to have someone at the end of the day to talk over cases with.’

‘Sometimes someone appears when you least expect it,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Mr Lacey was looking for you yesterday.’

‘Oh, what did
he
want?’

‘I suppose he just wanted to talk to you.’

‘I can’t ever look at him the same way again,’ said Agatha. ‘First he ends our marriage because he wants to be a monk. Then he decides to get engaged to a girl nearly half his age and almost
flaunts
her in front of me. I feel nothing for him now.’

‘But you used to discuss things with him. Has there been any sighting of Sylvan?’

‘Nothing, last heard.’

Agatha went back to her cottage. She dug some fish out of her freezer and defrosted it before cooking it for her cats. They had barely touched the hard food she had left for them.

Then she went next door and rang James’s bell. He opened the door and smiled at her. ‘I was looking for you yesterday.’

‘I was up in town,’ said Agatha. She followed him in and sat down on the sofa.

‘Coffee?’

‘Drink.’

‘Okay. I suppose it’s a G and T. But don’t smoke!’

When he came back with her drink, he asked, ‘No news of Sylvan?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Are you absolutely sure that Olivia knows nothing?’

‘The police seem pretty sure. I wonder if she’s got any money of her own, because the police will want to seize what they can, claiming the house and everything were the results of crime.’

‘It might be an idea to go and see her. I’ll come with you, if you like.’

Agatha groaned. ‘I can hardly bear the thought of that long journey to Downboys.’

‘I’ll drive.’

‘All right. Tomorrow, though. I’d better get into the office and see how things are going.’

Downboys looked every bit as bleak as Agatha remembered it to be. They drove to the house. But there was a for sale sign outside and no one was at home.

They went to the pub and asked if anyone knew where Olivia had gone. A woman said that Olivia had gone to stay with her sister in Brighton and Mrs Fellows or Mrs Dimity, her former cleaners, might have the address.

Mrs Fellows found the address after a long search. ‘It’s in number five, Beau Square, near the Steyne.’

‘Well, it’s not too far to Brighton,’ said James.

Does he feel nothing? wondered Agatha, studying his profile. We were married, we made love, and yet here we are like a couple of old bachelors.

Beau Square was actually not a square but a cul-de-sac with pretty little painted houses fronting on the cobbled street.

A stout grey-haired woman answered the door. ‘We wish to speak to Olivia,’ said Agatha.

‘Are you from the press?’

‘No, here is my card. Olivia knows me.’

‘Wait there,’ she said, slamming the door in their faces.

She was gone so long that they began to fear that Olivia was not going to see them, but the door eventually opened and they were ordered inside.

Olivia was in a pleasant downstairs living room. She had lost weight but she seemed composed.

‘This is my sister, Harriet,’ said Olivia, introducing them. ‘Harriet, Agatha was the detective I once hired to try to find out what happened to my dear daughter. James was engaged to her.’

‘I remember you from the wedding,’ said Harriet, fixing James with a cold eye. ‘Too old for her by half, that’s what I thought.’

‘Please sit down, both of you,’ said Olivia. ‘Could you give us a minute or two, Harriet?’

Harriet stomped out. Olivia sighed. ‘My sister is very protective of me.’

‘We wondered,’ said Agatha, ‘if you knew why on earth Sylvan would kill your daughter on her wedding day?’