Agatha Raisin & the Vicious Vet

a bitterly cold day and she should wear her boots, but she had a new pair of Italian high heels and she knew her legs were good.

It was only after two hours of diligent preparation that she realized she had first to catch her cat, eventually running the animal to earth in a corner of the kitchen and shoving him ruthlessly in the wicker carrying basket. Hodge's wails rent the air. But deaf for once to her pet, Agatha tripped along to the surgery in her high heels. By the time she reached the surgery, her feet were so cold she felt she was walking on two lumps of pain.

She pushed open the surgery door and went into the waiting-room. It seemed to be full of people: Doris Simpson, her cleaning woman, with her cat; Miss Simms with her Tommy; Mrs Josephs, the librarian, with a larger mangy cat called Tewks; and two farmers, Jack Page, whom she knew, and a squat burly man she only knew by sight, Henry Grange. There was also a newcomer.

'Her be Mrs Huntingdon' whispered Doris. 'Bought old Droon's cottage up back. Widow'

Agatha eyed the newcomer jealously. Despite the efforts of Animal Liberation to stop women from wearing furs, Mrs Huntingdon sported a ranch mink coat with a smart mink hat. A delicate French perfume floated from her. She had a small pretty face like that of an enamelled doll, large hazel eyes with (false?) eyelashes, and a pink- painted mouth. Her pet was a small Jack Russell which barked furiously, swinging on the end of its lead as it tried to get at the cats. Mrs Huntingdon seemed unaware of the noise or of the baleful looks cast at her by the cat owners. She was also sitting blocking the only heater.

There were 'No Smoking' signs all over the walls, but Mrs Huntingdon lit up a cigarette and blew smoke up into the air. In a doctor's waiting-room, where patients had only themselves to worry about, there would have been protests. But a vet's waiting-room is a singularly unmanning or unwomanning place, people made timid by worry about their pets.

Along one side of the waiting-room was a desk with a nurse-cum-receptionist behind it. She was a plain girl with lank brown hair and the adenoidal accents of Birmingham. Her name was Miss Mabbs.

Doris Simpson was the first to go in and was only out of sight for five minutes. Agatha surreptitiously rubbed her cold feet and ankles. This would not take long.

But Miss Simms was next and she was in there for half an hour, emerging at last with her eyes shining and her cheeks pink. Mrs Josephs had her turn. After a very long time she came out, murmuring, 'Such a firm hand Mr Bladen does have,' while her ancient cat lay supine in its basket as one dead.

Agatha went to the counter after Mrs Huntingdon was ushered in and said to Miss Mabbs, 'Mr Bladen told me to call at two. I have been waiting a considerable time.'

'Surgery starts at two. That's probably what he meant,' said Miss Mabbs. 'You'll need to wait your turn.'

Determined not to have got all dressed up for nothing, Agatha sulkily picked up a copy of Vogue, June 1997, and retreated to her hard plastic chair.

She waited and waited for the merry widow plus dog to reappear, but the minutes ticked past and Agatha could hear a ripple of laughter from the surgery and wondered what was going on in there.

Three quarters of an hour went by while Agatha finished the copy of Vogue and a well-preserved 1990 copy of Good Housekeeping and was absorbed in a story in an old Scotch Home annual about the handsome laird of the Scottish highlands who forsook his 'ain true love7 Morag of the glens for Cynthia, some painted harlot from London. At last Mrs Huntingdon came out, holding her dog. She smiled vaguely all around before leaving and Agatha glowered back.

There were only the two farmers and Agatha left. 'Reckon I won't be coming here again' said Jack Page. 'Waste a whole day, this would'

But he was dealt with very quickly, having come to collect a prescription for antibiotics, which he handed over to Miss Mabbs. The other farmer also wanted drugs and Agatha brightened as he reappeared after only a few moments. She had meant to berate the vet for having kept her waiting so long but there was that sweet smile again, that firm clasp of the hand, those searching, intimate eyes.

Feeling quite fluttery and at the same time guilty, for there was nothing up with Hodge, Agatha smiled back in a dazed way.

'Ah, Mrs Raisin' said the vet, let's have the cat out. What's his name?' 'Hodge'

'Same as Dr Johnson's cat'

'Who's he? Your partner at Mircester?'

'Dr Samuel Johnson, Mrs Raisin'

'Well, how was I to know?' demanded Agatha crossly, her private opinion being that Dr Johnson was one of those old farts like Sir Thomas Beecham that people always seemed to be quoting loftily at dinner parties. James Lacey had suggested the name.

To hide her irritation, she raised Hodge's basket on to the examining table and undid the latch and opened the front. 'Come on now, out you come' cooed Agatha to a baleful Hodge who crouched at the back of the basket.

'Let me' said the vet, edging Agatha aside. He thrust a hand in and brutally dragged Hodge out into the light and then held the squirming, yowling animal by the scruff up in the air.

'Oh, don't do that! You're scaring him,' protested Agatha. 'Let me hold him'

'Very well. He looks remarkably healthy. What's up with him?'

Hodge buried his head in the opening of Agatha's coat. 'Er, he's off his food' said Agatha.

'Any sickness, diarrhoea?'

'No!'

'Well, we'd best take his temperature. Miss Mabbs!'

Miss Mabbs came in and stood with head lowered. 'Hold the cat!' ordered the vet.

Miss Mabbs detached the cat from Agatha and pinned him down with one strong hand on the examining table.

The vet advanced on Hodge with a rectal thermometer. Could it be, wondered Agatha, that the thermometer was thrust up poor Hodge's backside with unnecessary force? The cat yowled, struggled free, sprang from the table and crouched in a corner of the room.

'I've made a mistake' said Agatha, now desperate to get her pet away. 'Perhaps if he shows any severe signs I'll bring him back'

Miss Mabbs was dismissed. Agatha tenderly put Hodge back in the basket.

'Mrs Raisin!'

'Yes?' Agatha surveyed him with bearlike eyes from which the love-light had totally fled.

'There is quite a good Chinese restaurant in Evesham. I've had a hard day and feel like treating myself. Would you care to join me for dinner?'

Agatha felt gratified warmth coursing through her middle-aged body. Bugger all cats in general and Hodge in particular. 'I'd love to' she breathed.

'Then I'll meet you there at eight o'clock' he said, smiling into her eyes. 'It's called the Evesham Diner. It's in an old house in the High Street, seventeenth century, can't miss it'

Agatha emerged grinning smugly into the now empty waiting-room. She wished she had been the first 'patient' so she could have told all those other women she had a date.

But she stopped at the store on the road home and bought Hodge a tin of the best salmon to ease her conscience.

By the time she had reached home and cosseted Hodge and settled him in front of a roaring fire, she had persuaded herself that the vet had been firm and efficient with the cat, not deliberately cruel.

The desire to brag about her date was strong, so she phoned the vicar's wife, Mrs Bloxby.

'Guess what?' said Agatha.

'Another murder?' suggested the vicar's wife.

'Better than that. Our new vet is taking me out for dinner this evening.'

There was a long silence.

'Are you there?' demanded Agatha sharply.

'Yes, I'm here. I was just thinking . . '

'What?'

'Why is he taking you out?'

'I should have thought that was obvious,' snarled Agatha. 'He fancies me.'