The room fell silent as a liveried master of ceremonies announced the father of the bride and Darell Brown-Field rose to speak.
“I would like to begin,” he said, “by saying how proud I am of my beautiful daughter…”
“Which daughter’s that?” whispered a woman to Agatha’s left, giggling with a friend. “And why’s she not here?”
Agatha turned her attention to the bride. Mary was wearing her dark hair up, with a cascade of ringlets falling to the nape of her neck. Diamond earrings dazzled above an equally impressive diamond necklace, their combined sparkle far outshining the gaudy chandeliers that hung from the ceiling of the big top. Her dress, what Agatha could see of it, was white silk, with a plunging neckline that left her arms and most of her shoulders bare. Agatha had always conceded that Mary had a good figure and wore clothes with a certain style, and her bridal outfit appeared to be no exception.
Charles was seated next to his bride. He was immaculately dressed in a crisp black morning suit, gold waistcoat and blue tie, matching the outfit worn by his father-in-law. As if he knew he was being watched, he turned his head and spotted Agatha. He forced a smile and raised his glass. The movement caught the attention of Mary, who followed his gaze and stared with disbelief. She shot a look of sheer malice across the room. Agatha calmly responded by slowly tilting her champagne glass, pouring the contents onto the canvas floor. With her father droning on, oblivious to all but the sound of his own voice, Mary gesticulated to the master of ceremonies and nodded in Agatha’s direction.
“The game’s up, James,” said Agatha. “Time to go.”
She stopped outside the tent to remove her shoes. The security guard grinned, started to say something and then froze under Agatha’s thunderous glare. She hurried off towards the woods. James scooped up her Wellies, shrugged at the guard and strode after her.
* * *
That evening Agatha fed Boswell and Hodge, slipped into a light jacket and sauntered down her garden path into Lilac Lane. The lilacs after which the street was named, and which dominated most of the front gardens of her neighbours’ cottages, were not quite in flower yet, but yellow daffodils bobbed their heads in the gentle breeze, complementing the golden forsythia flowers and brightening the gathering dusk. She had declined James’s offer of dinner and he had retreated to his own cottage, years of experience with the notorious Raisin mood swings warning him that his company was not required.
Agatha strolled out into Carsely High Street and headed up the hill, admiring the straggle of terraced cottages, some under thatch and some with slate roofs, all with walls of yellow Cotswold stone glowing in the twilight. She passed the butcher’s, the post office and the general store and carried on, pausing only when she came to the low wall surrounding the vicarage garden. As she looked up at the church steeple, towering protectively over the village, she heard her name being called.
“Agatha! Hello, my dear. How are you?”
Margaret Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, was walking up the garden towards her, holding a handful of freshly cut daffodils.
“Contemplating a religious experience?” she asked, looking up towards the steeple. “It never fails to impress, I find. At any time of day, in any light, there’s something warm and solid and comforting about it.”
“I agree,” said Agatha. “About the church steeple, I mean, not the religious experience.” Then she realised she was talking to a vicar’s wife. “I’m sorry … I don’t mean that … Well, you know me…”
“Yes, I do.” Mrs. Bloxby smiled, dismissing Agatha’s apology with a wave of her free hand. “Why don’t you come in? We can have a glass of sherry.”
“Thanks,” said Agatha. “I’d like that.”
Mrs. Bloxby led the way into the vicarage and pointed towards the drawing room. “You know where the bottle and the glasses are kept,” she said. “You pour while I pop these in a vase to cheer up Alf’s study. He’s at a function at his other church tonight. I managed to duck out of it.”
Agatha poured their drinks and settled into an armchair beside the window. Mrs. Bloxby bustled back into the room and settled herself in a matching chair. She picked up her sherry and they clinked glasses then took a sip. Agatha looked across at a large table that was groaning under the weight of dozens of elaborately iced cakes.
“The Carsely Ladies’ Society Bake Off,” Mrs. Bloxby explained. “We’ll be judging them after church tomorrow. There’s still time to enter, if you like.”
“Probably best not,” said Agatha. “Who could forget the quiche incident?”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Bloxby said. “Murder and mayhem. You have certainly spiced up our lives since arriving in Carsely, Agatha. I was thinking of you today. The wedding, of course. Wondering how you were coping with it all. Sounds like it was a sumptuous affair.”
“It was. I was there.”
“Really? I shouldn’t have thought Sir Charles’s bride would have agreed to you being invited.”
“She didn’t. I wasn’t exactly invited. I just felt I had to see it for myself.”
“You gatecrashed the wedding of the year!” Mrs. Bloxby laughed. “That’s wonderful! I shall look out for you in the background when the photos appear in those society magazines. What is it the youngsters call it nowadays—‘photo bombing’?”
“I doubt I’ll be in any photos.” Agatha smiled. “I wasn’t there for very long. I wanted to see him and…”
“Let him know you still care?” said Mrs. Bloxby, who had had enough fireside chats with Agatha to appreciate the depth of her feelings for Sir Charles Fraith. She had had similar chats with Sir Charles. She’d got through a lot of sherry over the years.
“I do still care,” said Agatha. “Not in a romantic way. Not any more. But he has been a big part of my life and I hate to see him being treated like this.”
“He’s still in a bad situation, then?”
“It seems worse than ever. I want to find a way to help him, but I know she’ll try to stop me. I’m really not sure what I can do. Sometimes I feel totally out of my depth. Maybe I should turn my back on all of this—forget about Charles, forget about Carsely, forget it all and head back to London.”
“That would be a shame, Agatha,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “You would be sorely missed, and I think you know you would never forgive yourself for running away. But you don’t really mean it anyway, do you? You’re not a quitter.”
“You’re right,” Agatha agreed. “There are lots of people here I really like and just one, at the moment, that I really hate.”
“Then you should concentrate on the people you like.”
“I will—but first I need to deal with the one who’s really pissing me off: Lady Mary Fraith.”
“So the battle lines are drawn.” Mrs. Bloxby sipped her sherry. “It is always very awkward trying to involve oneself in whatever goes on between a husband and wife.”
“Not for a private detective,” said Agatha. “It’s pretty much my professional stock in trade.”