About the Author
M. C. Beaton has been hailed as the "new Queen of Crime" (The Globe and Mail). Chosen as the British guest of honor at Bouchercon 2006, she is the author of seventeen previous Agatha Raisin novels, the Hamish Macbeth series, and an Edwardian mystery series published under the name Marion Chesney. Born in Scotland, she currently divides her time between Paris and the English Cotswolds.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1 Agatha Raisin was bored.
Her detective agency in the English Cotswolds was thriving, but the cases were all small, niggling and unexciting, and yet took a great deal of time to solve. She sometimes felt if she had to deal with another missing cat or dog, she would scream.
Dreams and fantasies, that cushion she usually had against the realities of life, had, to her astonished mind, disappeared entirely. She had dreamed so long about her neighbour and ex-husband, James Lacey, that she would not accept the fact that she did not love him any more. She thought of him angrily as some sort of drug that had ceased to work.
So although it was only early October, she tried to fill her mind with thoughts of Christmas. Unlike quite a number of people, Agatha had not given up on Christmas. To have the perfect Christmas had been a childhood dream whilst surviving a rough upbringing in a Birmingham slum. Holly berries glistened, snow fell gently outside, and inside, all was Dickensian jollity. And in her dreams, James Lacey kissed her under the mistletoe, and, like a middle-aged sleeping beauty, she would awake to passion once more.
Her friend, the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bloxby, had once pointed out that Christmas was to celebrate the birth of Christ, but Agatha’s mind shied away from that. To her, Christmas was more Hollywood than church.
Christmas advertisements were already appearing on television, and supermarket aisles were laden with Christmas crackers, mince pies and puddings.
But something happened one crisp morning early in the month to take her mind off Christmas.
She was sitting in her office in Mircester, going through the files with her secretary, Mrs. Freedman, wondering whether to handle another dreary job herself or to turn it over to one of her two detectives, Phil Marshall and Patrick Mulligan. Her erstwhile detective, young Harry Beam, was now studying at Cambridge, and Agatha missed his hard-working energy.
“I nearly forgot,” said Mrs. Freedman, “but this letter arrived for you. It’s marked ‘personal,’ so I didn’t open it.”
Agatha picked it up. The handwriting on the envelope was spidery and there was no return address. She opened it. She read: Dear Mrs. Raisin,I have learned of your prowess as a detective through the local newspapers and I wonder if you might find time to call on me. I think a member of my family is trying to kill me. Isn’t the weather warm for October?Yours sincerely,Phyllis Tamworthy The paper was expensive. The address in raised italic script at the top gave the address of the Manor House, Lower Tapor, Gloucestershire.
“Nuts,” said Agatha. “Barking mad. How are our profits?”
“Good,” said Mrs. Freedman. “It is amazing how grateful people are to get one of their pets back.”
“I miss Harry,” sighed Agatha. “Phil and Patrick don’t mind the divorces, but they do hate searching for animals. They think it’s all beneath them, and I think it’s beneath me.”
“Why don’t you employ a young person to cope with the missing animals? A girl, perhaps. Girls are very keen on animals.”
“That’s a very good idea. Put an ad in the local paper and we’ll see if we can get anyone. Say we want a trainee.”
A week later, Agatha, after a long day of interviews, felt she would never, ever find someone suitable. It seemed as if all the dimmest girls in Mircester fancied themselves as detectives. Some had come dressed in black leather and stiletto-heeled boots, thinking that a Charlie’s Angels image would be appropriate. Unfortunately, with the exception of one anorexic, the rest were overweight with great bosoms and buttocks. Weight would not have mattered, however, if any of them had shown the least spark of intelligence.
Agatha was about to pack up for the day when the door to her office opened and a young girl entered. She had blonde hair that looked natural and pale-blue eyes fringed with thick fair lashes in a neat-featured face. She was conservatively dressed in a tailored suit, white blouse and low-heeled shoes.
“Yes?” asked Agatha.
“My name is Toni Gilmour. I believe you are looking for a trainee detective.”
“Applicants are supposed to apply in writing.”
“I know. But you see, I’ve just made up my mind to try for the job.”
Actually, Toni had been lurking in the street outside for a good part of the day, studying the girls who came out after their interviews, examining their faces and listening to what they said. She gathered that no one had got the job. She deliberately calculated that if she turned up last, then a desperate Mrs. Raisin might take her on.
But Agatha was anxious to get home to her cats and relax for the weekend.
“Go away and write your application,” she said. “Send in copies of your school certificates plus a short description of why you think you might be suited for the job.”
Agatha half-rose from her seat behind her desk but sat down again as Toni said, “I have brought my school certificates with me. I am well educated. I work hard. People like me. I feel that is important in getting facts.”
Agatha scowled at her. Agatha’s way of getting facts was usually either by lying or emotional blackmail or outright bullying.
“It’s not glamorous,” said Agatha. “Your job will be to try to find missing dogs and cats. It’s tedious work and you will often find that the animal has been killed on the road or has probably been stolen. When did you leave school?”
“Last June. I’m seventeen.”
“Are you employed at the moment?”
“Yes, I work at the pharmacy counter at Shalbeys.” Shalbeys was one of the local supermarkets. “I work the late shift.”
“The difficulty is that I need someone to start right away.”
“That’s all right,” said Toni. “I can get the sack.”
“Don’t you want to go to university?”
“I can’t bear the idea of having a bank loan for my studies around my neck for years. Mrs. Raisin, it would do no harm to give me a trial.”
“I don’t like the idea of you trying to get the sack. You’ll be letting your employers down.”
“There are plenty of girls to take my place. I think I am showing initiative. You cannot want a detective who plays by the rules the whole time.”
Agatha realized how tired she was. Toni had a clear, precise manner of speaking, hardly ever heard in the local youth these days, where the glottal stop was considered de rigueur.
“All right. Report here on Monday morning at nine o’clock. You’d better wear flat shoes and clothes you don’t mind getting messed up.”
“How much will I be paid?” asked Toni.
“Six pounds an hour and no overtime while you are a trainee. But do well and I’ll give you a bonus. You may claim reasonable expenses.”
Toni thanked her and left.
“Odd girl,” commented Agatha.
“I thought she was nice,” said Mrs. Freedman. “Quite old-fashioned.”
Toni cycled to her home in one of Mircester’s worst housing estates. She pushed her bike up the weedy garden path and propped it against the wall of the house. Then she took a deep breath and let herself in. Her brother, Terry, was sitting slumped in front of the television with a bottle of beer in one hand and a fish supper in the other. “Where’s Mum?” asked Toni.
“Passed out,” said Terry. Unlike his slim sister, Terry was a mass of bulging muscles. A scar from a knife fight in a pub marred his right cheek.
Toni went upstairs and looked in her mother’s bedroom. Mrs. Gilmour was lying fully clothed on top of the bed. An empty vodka bottle lay on the bed beside her. The air stank of sweat and booze.
Toni went to her own room and took off the suit she had borrowed from a friend. She hung the suit away carefully and then put on jeans and a clean T-shirt.
Downstairs, she took down a denim jacket from a peg on the wall and put it on. She opened the door and began to wheel her bike back down the garden.
Her brother appeared in the doorway behind her. “Where you goin’?” he shouted.
“Work. Late shift,” yelled Toni. “Remember that stuff called work? Why don’t you get yourself a job, you wanker?”
Agatha was about to put a packaged curry into the microwave for her dinner when the doorbell rang. When she opened her front door she saw her friend Mrs. Bloxby carrying a box of books.
“These books were left after the sale at the church,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “They’re the old green-and-white Penguin detective stories. I thought you might like to have them.”
“Suits me fine. Come in and put them on the kitchen table. I plan a lazy weekend and you’ve saved me a trip to the bookshop.”
Mrs. Bloxby sat down at the kitchen table. Agatha looked at her friend with sudden concern. The vicar’s wife looked tired. The lines under her gentle eyes were more pronounced, and strands of wis...
