So they sat in comfortable silence, sipping their wine, Agatha with her head on his chest, listening to the beating of his good heart.
“You know,” she said after a while, “I sometimes think the biggest mistake we made as a couple was getting divorced.”
“You may well be right,” he agreed, “but it’s clearly tomorrow’s wedding that’s making you think about it.”
“I guess so,” she said. “I seem to have been thinking of little else lately.”
“Then we need to think of a way to get it out of your system.”
“Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“That typical man thing—trying to find a solution to the problem. Sometimes there isn’t a practical answer. Some problems just don’t have solutions.”
“Well, I don’t think that should stop us from trying to find them. Even if we never get to a solution, we will surely learn more about the problem.”
“You sound like you’re delivering one of your lectures about your travel or military history books.” Agatha sat up and smiled, holding out her glass for a refill. “But thank you for trying.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Charles? No, that ship sailed a long time ago. It’s the whole wedding charade that I can’t get out of my head. I still care about what happens to him.”
“Of course you do. So why don’t you go to the wedding? I shall come with you as your partner.”
“Don’t be silly. We haven’t been invited.”
“Now who’s being silly?” James laughed. “When did a little thing like the lack of an invitation ever stop Agatha Raisin from doing what she wanted?”
Agatha sat up straight, her dark eyes glinting in the soft light. The Raisin brain, James realised, was ticking over.
“You need to go home,” she said, trotting towards the stairs. “We don’t have much time. I need to make plans. I need to think about what I’m going to wear—we’re going to a wedding tomorrow!”
* * *
The path through the woods was soft underfoot, vindicating Agatha’s decision to wear the green Wellington boots that were normally kept by her back door, used only for an occasional potter around the garden. They looked utterly ridiculous with her dress, but that couldn’t be helped, and in any case she and James were highly unlikely to come across anyone on this woodland trail. Agatha carried shoes to change into. James was a couple of paces behind, following her through the dappled shade.
They had parked at the Huntsman, a wayside inn on the edge of the Barfield estate, where Agatha and Charles had stopped for a drink once or twice. Agatha had suggested a swift intake of Dutch courage before gatecrashing the wedding, and James had proceeded to explain that the term had originated in the seventeenth century, when soldiers drank Dutch gin to calm their fears and rouse their fighting spirit before battle. With nothing better to do just then, Agatha had listened politely while sipping her gin and tonic in the pub garden. The back of the garden led into the woods, where the path they were walking had been easy to find.
With Gustav having supplied a detailed itinerary of the day, Agatha had decided that the best time to take a look at the proceedings was late afternoon, by which time the day guests would have eaten but the evening guests would not yet have arrived. She and James were aiming to make it in time for the speeches, giving them a good opportunity to study the other guests while the attention of those in the bridal party was distracted.
Long before they reached the end of the path, they could clearly see the wedding big top overwhelming the lawn in front of Barfield House. Agatha had chosen this route in order to get close to the tent without being seen, but they still had a short stretch of grass to negotiate once they broke cover. They surveyed the scene, peering out from behind an ancient oak.
“Some of the side panels are open,” James pointed out. “Must be for ventilation, but it means we might be seen.”
“Maybe,” said Agatha, “but look at the way they’re seated.” She unfolded a piece of paper from her handbag. “Gustav sent me this seating plan. The guests will be facing away from us, looking towards the top table as the speeches are delivered. They’re not likely to notice us, and we won’t be seen from the top table either if we approach the tent from this direction. Our only problem will be getting past him.” She gestured towards a man standing near one of the open side panels, wearing a black suit and bow tie.
“Black tie?” James frowned. “Evening wear is hardly the right thing for—”
“He’s not a guest, James,” Agatha tutted. “Look at the way his biceps fill his sleeves. He’s security.”
“Security guards at a wedding?” said James. “Who are these people—the Mafia?”
“They’re not well liked, that’s for sure,” said Agatha, “but there’s no need for guards here. It’s just another way for the Brown-Fields to show off, I suppose. I can deal with him. Follow my lead.”
Agatha marched out onto the lawn. The bright afternoon sunshine immediately illuminated the pale blue of her dress, highlighted with an elegantly slim black trim at the round neckline and the ends of the short sleeves. She marched straight towards the tent with James in close support. At the edge of the open side flap, she paused and began hauling one foot out of its Wellie. The guard spoke firmly yet quietly, clearly briefed for today’s event to use his discretion rather than his muscles.
“Excuse me, madam. Are you official wedding guests?”
“Of course we are, young man!” Agatha laughed in a shrill upper-crust accent. “We are old friends of Sir Charles.”
James gave Agatha’s performance an almost imperceptible nod of approval. She smiled as she cocked a leg to slip on a shiny black stiletto, and nodded back. It was his turn.
“Yes, old friends,” said James. He didn’t have to try quite so hard with the accent. “I was his history tutor at Cambridge, you know.”
“But you look like you came from the direction of the woods,” said the guard.
“Oh, it’s terribly discreet in those woods,” said Agatha in a hushed voice. “Perfect for a bit of … you know … outdoors rumpy-pumpy!”
The guard’s eyebrows shot up. He pointed to her boots. “But you have Wellies with you…”
“It’s a bit muddy in there, so we came prepared,” Agatha explained, smoothing her hair.
“Premeditated rumpy,” said James, giving the guard a wink as they breezed past into the tent.
Agatha and James accepted glasses of champagne from a tray offered to them by a waiter and picked a spot not too far from the open tent flap from where they could survey the whole of the big top. Some of the guests were, like them, standing with glasses in hand, having left their tables to chat with friends. The majority sat at round tables, each laid for eight guests, the white tablecloths crowded with wine bottles and glasses. The tables were arranged on a taut carpet of canvas ground sheets around a huge area of wood-laid dance floor. The bridal party sat, as Agatha had expected, on a slightly raised podium. An army of catering staff marching out of the tent laden with crockery and cutlery indicated that the meal was over. Agatha was not surprised that the event was running precisely to schedule. Normal weddings seldom did, but this was not a normal wedding. This was Mary Darlinda Brown-Field’s wedding.