“I need you here,” said Agatha, rising to leave. “I need you as my eyes and ears in this house. If we work together, maybe we can find a way to drag Charles out of this mess.”
“Very well.” Gustav directed her to a small door that led to a courtyard at the side of the house. “You had best leave this way. Less chance of you being spotted.”
Once back in her car, Agatha drove past the big top and on down the avenue of trees, slowing to a halt by the main gates. She scrabbled in her bag for her mobile phone.
* * *
Roy Silver was sitting in his office at Pedman PR, idly gazing out of the window at the London traffic grumbling in gridlocked paralysis three storeys below. He sipped lapsang souchong from a china cup, enjoying the smoky pine flavour of the tea and contemplating the misery of joining the turmoil of commuters to make his way home. The warm spring weather was overheating the city, and if it continued, as it was forecast to do, the fumes and dust in the streets would become unbearable.
His phone rang and he reached a languorous arm across the desk.
“Roy, it’s me,” came the voice of Agatha Raisin. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Aggie, darling!” trilled Roy. “How lovely to hear from you. Are you enjoying the weather up there in the Cotswolds? It’s becoming horribly oppressive in the city. It’s playing havoc with my sinuses and it doesn’t help that I am absolutely rushed off my poor little feet.”
“Cut the crap, Roy. You’ve never done a proper day’s work in your life.”
“Oh, times have changed, my dear,” said Roy with a forced laugh. “Since you so kindly brought me in to handle Wizz-Wazz the Donkey, I have hardly had a moment to myself.”
“I doubt that very much. I know you have an entire team working on that account and that you will be raking in a fine profit from it. So you owe me, and it’s payback time.”
“Well, I may be able to spare a few moments. What’s it all about?” Roy sighed, then suddenly perked up. “Not another juicy murder, is it?”
“No. I want you to use every London contact you have to find out what hold the Brown-Fields have over Sir Charles Fraith.”
“But Aggie,” complained Roy, “we’ve been into all of that already. The old blimps at his club and those buzzards at the banks are giving nothing away.”
“Try harder, Roy. There is a contract of some sort. Tempt some young lawyer out for a drink and ply him with tequila. Tell people that you’re looking to instruct new lawyers or accountants for your business and pump them for information. Twist a few arms. Cheat. Lie. Blackmail. The gloves are off. We have to know.”
“That all sounds terribly serious,” Roy said, his voice laced with delight at the thought of the intrigue. “I’ll get on to it straight away.”
Agatha eased her car out onto the road and set off for her cottage in Carsely. She had promised herself time and time again that she would not involve herself in Charles’s affairs. He had let her down so badly. He hadn’t even told her about getting engaged. How could he have treated her like that? And Gustav and Charles’s aunt have snubbed me so many times, she told herself, that I really shouldn’t care about them either. Yet none of them deserves Darell and Linda Brown-Field, or Mary Darlinda. I mean—Darlinda! Really? I simply can’t abandon Charles, no matter what sort of trouble he’s in. I have to do something!
Agatha smiled as she felt a warm glow in her chest. Now that she had committed herself, now that she was about to do battle, she felt more alive than she had done for months.
* * *
“I got us some sandwiches,” said Toni, offering Agatha a choice of two paper-wrapped parcels. “Coronation chicken or ham salad?”
Agatha chose the ham salad with a nod of thanks. Bearing in mind their exchange earlier that day, she had been treading lightly ever since Toni had arrived to pick her up. She had kept the tone of her voice soft and tried to maintain a calm atmosphere in the car. They were parked on a tree-lined street, which, judging by the size of the houses and the expensive cars parked in their driveways, was in a solidly affluent area of Oxford. The building opposite which Toni had parked was newer than the larger, mainly Victorian homes farther down the street, part of a terrace of four recently built compact town houses on a spacious corner plot that must at one time, Agatha surmised, have been occupied by a single mansion house. Each was three storeys, with a wooden front door standing alongside a wide garage door.
“It’s the one at the end,” said Toni, unwrapping her sandwich. She placed the digital camera with its long lens on the dashboard behind the steering wheel. “Patrick says the car that dropped the male visitor belongs to a local cab company. They pick up a Mr. Smith from the station, deliver him to this address and collect him later. He pays cash. I guess Smith is probably not his real name.”
She tucked into her sandwich. Outside it was growing dark, and the harsh light from the street lamps was tempered only slightly by the tinted glass of the car windows. It was not a flattering light, Agatha decided, yet her young companion still managed to look amazing. How could anyone look that good in this light? How could anyone look that good while she was eating a coronation chicken sandwich? Not for the first time, Agatha felt a pang of jealousy. A couple of years ago, they could have walked into a room together and she knew she would easily have stolen Toni’s thunder. Now, she thought, I could diet for a week, have my hair and make-up done perfectly, wear killer heels, knockout diamonds and that sheer silk dress with the plunging neckline, and I would still be invisible next to Toni.
Toni was wearing a simple black sweater and black jeans—practical attire for this sort of work. Agatha had intended to wear a pair of black cotton trousers, but over the past few weeks a series of microwaved lasagnas, more often than not with chips and half a bottle of Merlot, meant that no matter how hard she clenched her own teeth, the teeth of her trouser zip refused to come together. The black skirt she had chosen instead was only marginally less troublesome to fasten. She nibbled at the corner of her sandwich, feeling her waistband tighten with every swallow.
“Toni,” she said softly, “about earlier today. I—”
“Don’t,” Toni interrupted, turning to face her. “Your apologies always sound insincere.”
“What do you mean, insincere?” Agatha bristled. “My apologies are never insincere! My apologies are amongst the best in the business!”
“That’s much better.” Toni giggled. “That sounds more like the Agatha I know. I don’t want to work for a meek and mild Agatha Raisin. That would just be too boring.”
“Well.” Agatha relaxed and smiled. “Let’s just say we both said some things and leave it at that. Friends?”
“Friends,” said Toni. “Wait—look there! That’s the car!”
She grabbed the camera as a blue saloon car drew up and disgorged a single passenger, clearly male, of average height and wearing a coat with a high collar turned up. He hurried up the three steps to the front door, which was opened to allow him entry without him even breaking stride.
“That was smooth,” said Toni. “I’m not surprised Simon couldn’t get a photo. I’ve got nothing either.”