Agatha Raisin & the Vicious Vet

'I might go' said Agatha.

'Was you friendly with him then?'

'Had dinner with him one night' replied Agatha, 'but not really friendly.'

He drained his tankard and set the empty glass down on the bar. I'd best be getting back. I told the wife I'd only stop for the one. Why not come back and say hello?'

Agatha had a sudden longing to turn round. But Mrs Huntingdon let out a trill of laughter and her dog gave a volley of barks.

I'd like that' said Agatha, picking up her handbag.

She turned at last and gave a casual wave to James before leaving with the farmer.

James Lacey watched her go with some surprise. And he had thought she was pursuing him!

Chapter Four

Snow was falling as Agatha entered the church of St Peter in Mircester the following Monday. She was already wishing she had not come. A doggedness to find out something about the vet's death had prompted this visit. So long as she was worrying about the vet's death, Agatha did not need to worry about James Lacey.

The church was very old, with fine stained-glass windows and a dreadful seventeenth-century altar of some dark wood. Agatha took a pew at the back, unhitched the hassock from its hook, knelt in pretended prayer and then studied the congregation. But all she saw was backs of heads. There seemed to be quite a number of women present. One turned her head. Mrs Huntingdon! And then Agatha recognized the solid bulk of Mrs Mason, the chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies' Society, two pews in front of her. She changed her seat and went to sit next to her.

Mrs Mason was clutching a damp handkerchief in her hand. 'So sad' she whispered to Agatha. 'Such a fine young man'

'Hardly young' said Agatha and received a look of reproach.

The coffin was carried in and placed in the aisle in front of the altar. 'That's Mr Rice, Mr Bladen's partner' said Mrs Mason. 'The one on the left at the front.' Among the men who had carried in the coffin, Agatha saw a burly middle-aged man with curly ginger hair.

'Who is here from the village, apart from us and that Mrs Huntingdon?' asked Agatha.

'Over there to the right, Mrs Parr and Miss Webster.'

Agatha leaned forward. Both women were crying. Mrs Parr was small and quite pretty and Miss Webster of an indeterminate age, possibly late thirties. She recognized Miss Webster as the woman who ran the dried flower shop.

Tm surprised you are all so upset' whispered Agatha, 'after what he did to Mrs Josephs' cat'

'What he did was right' muttered Mrs Mason fiercely. 'That cat was too old for this world'

'I hope no one thinks that about me' said Agatha.

'Shhh!' said a man in front waspishly. The service began.

Mr Peter Rice paid a tribute to his dead partner, the vicar quoted St Francis of Assisi, hymns were sung, then the coffin was raised up again and the congregation filed out after it to the graveyard.

It was strange, thought Agatha, but one never thought of people being buried in old church graveyards any more. A short service in a crematorium was more what was expected. She had always wondered about those churchyard graveside scenes in television dramas and had assumed that the television company had paid a nice sum to the church to dig up an appropriate hole for the show. One always assumed that the old churchyards of England had been full to bursting point since the end of the nineteenth century.

Snow fluttered down among the leaning gravestones and a magpie swung on the branch of a cedar and cocked a curious eye at the proceedings.

'That's his ex-wife' said Mrs Mason. A thin, grey-haired woman with a weak face was looking bleakly straight in front of her. She was wearing a fox coat over a red suit. No mourning weeds for her.

But the graveside service was so moving and so dignified that Agatha thought there was a lot to be said for staking your claim to your six-by-four in a country churchyard. When the service was over, she muttered a goodbye to Mrs Mason and set out in pursuit of the vet's ex-wife, catching up with her at the lych gate.

'My name is Agatha Raisin' she said. I gather you are poor Mr Bladen's wife'

1 was' said Mrs Bladen a trifle impatiently. It is really very cold, Mrs Raisin, and I am anxious to get home'

'My car is just outside. Can I drop you somewhere?'

'No, I have my own car'

'I wonder if we could have a talk?' said Agatha eagerly.

A look of dislike came into Mrs Bladen's eyes. 'My life seems to have been plagued by women wanting to talk to me after my husband had dumped them. It is just as well he is dead'

She stalked off.

I seem to be getting snubbed all round, thought Agatha. But there's one thing for sure: our vet was a philanderer. If only I could prove it wasn't an accident, that it was murder, then they'd all sit up and take notice!

Carsely had frequent power cuts, some lasting days, some only a few seconds.

James Lacey pressed Agatha's doorbell the following day. He did not know there was one of the brief power cuts because one could not usually hear the bell ringing from outside.

He glanced down at the front lawn. There was a lot of moss on it. He wondered if Agatha knew how to treat it. He bent down for a closer look.

Agatha, who thought she had heard someone outside, put her eye to the spyhole, but not seeing anyone, retreated to the kitchen. James Lacey straightened up and pressed the bell again. By this time the power had come back on but Agatha had found crumbs on the carpet and had plugged in the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen at the back.

James retreated, feeling baffled. He remembered all the times he had pretended to be out when Agatha had called.

He went into his own cottage, made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He switched on his new computer and then stared bleakly at the screen waiting for it to boot up, before finding the right file and flicking his written words up on to the green screen. There it was. 'Chapter Two'. If only he had written just one sentence. Why had he decided to write military history anyway? Just because he was a retired soldier did not necessarily mean he was confined to military subjects. Besides, why had he chosen the Peninsular Wars? Was there anything to add more than what had been already written? Oh, dear, how long the day seemed. It had been fun going to see Pendlebury. Of course it had been an accident. And yet there was that bump on the back of the head.

It might be more fun to write mystery stories. Say, for example, the vet had been murdered, how would one go about finding out what had really happened? Well, the first step would be to find out why he was murdered, for the why would surely lead to the who.

If Agatha had answered her door to him and not looked as if she were avoiding him, he might have dropped the subject. Had he really wanted to write military history, he still might have dropped it. He gave an exclamation of disgust, switched off the machine and went out again. There would be no harm in trying Agatha's door again. He had obviously been mistaken when he had thought she was pursuing him. And he had invited her for a drink, not Freda Huntingdon. It was not his fault that Agatha had suddenly decided to leave with that farmer.

It was a fine spring day, light and airy, smelling of growing things. This time, Agatha's front door was open. He went in, calling, 'Agatha' and nearly fell over her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the hall, playing with her cats.

'Am I seeing things, or have you two of them?' he asked.

'The new one's a stray I picked up in London,' said Agatha, scrabbling to her feet. 'Like a coffee?'

'Not coffee. I seem to have been drinking it all morning. Tea would be nice.'

Tea it is.' Agatha led the way into the kitchen.

'About the other night,' he said, hovering in the kitchen doorway, 'we didn't have much of a chance to talk'