Agatha Raisin & the Vicious Vet

He returned it with a startled one and then stood up and said, 'Do you want me to get Mrs Bloxby to stay with you, Agatha?'

'No' she said, disappointed that he was not volunteering to fetch his sleeping-bag. Til be all right after a good night's sleep'

After they had left, Agatha rose and went up to bed, the two cats trotting after her. She smiled before she drifted off to sleep. It was all over. She had survived. She felt great. No need to see any doctor. It would take more than one murderer to get Agatha Raisin down!

Chapter Ten

The next few days were glorious for Agatha, despite the fact that James had sent her a note saying he was shutting himself up to write for a few weeks.

So many people came to call to hear about how Agatha had solved the murders of Paul Bladen and Mrs Josephs, and Agatha stitched away at her story, embroidering the details, so that by the time she gave a talk to the Carsely Ladies' Society, it had become a real blood-and-thunder adventure.

'How exciting you make it all seem' said Mrs Bloxby after Agatha's talk. 'But do be careful. It can take a little time for reality to set in, and then you might suffer badly'

'I was not lying' said Agatha hotly.

'No, of course you weren't' said Mrs Bloxby. 'I particularly liked that bit when you said to Peter Rice, 'Shoot me if you dare, you evil fiend.''

'Oh, well' muttered Agatha, shuffling her feet and avoiding the steady gaze of the vicar's wife, 'a bit of poetic licence is allowed, I think'

Mrs Bloxby smiled and held out a plate. 'Have a slice of seed cake'

From that moment, Agatha began to feel extremely uncomfortable. Her version of events, which had become a highly coloured adventure story, had indeed come to seem like reality. As she walked back from the vicarage, she noticed how dark the village seemed and how the light near the bus shelter had gone out again.

The lilac trees were all out in Lilac Lane, whispering in the night wind, nodding their plumed heads as if gossiping about Agatha as she scurried homewards underneath, thinking that the smell of their flowers reminded her of funerals.

She went inside. The cats did not come to meet her and she let out a whimper of fear and ran to the kitchen. They were curled up together in their basket in front of the stove, happy in each other's company, fast asleep and not caring about one frightened mistress who wanted them to wake up and keep her company.

She reached out a hand to switch on the electric kettle and all the lights went out.

In blind terror, she stumbled round the kitchen, searching for a torch, until some sane voice in her mind told her it was only another of the village's frequent power cuts. Forcing herself to be calm, she remembered she had candles in the kitchen drawer, found one and lit it with her cigarette lighter. She held it up and found a candlestick. May as well go to bed, she thought.

This was how they had gone to bed in the old days when the cottage was built, people walking up this very staircase with the shadows leaping before them in the wavering candle-flame. So many generations. So many dead. Just think how many had gasped out their last breath in this very bedroom. Her dressing-gown at the back of the door looked like a hanged man. Faces stared at her out of the pretty flowered wallpaper. She was in a cold sweat.

She forced herself to make her way downstairs to the phone in the hall. She put the candle on the floor, sat down on the floor herself, cradled the phone in her lap and dialled James Lacey's number.

His voice when he answered sounded brisk and efficient. 'James' said Agatha, 'can you come along?'

'I'm writing hard. Is it important?'

'James, I'm frightened'

'What's happened?'

'Nothing. It's just that that reaction everyone's been warning me about has set in'

'Don't worry' he said. 'Help is on its way'

Agatha stayed where she was. Her fear had gone now that he was coming, but she decided she had better remain looking as frightened as she had been. Perhaps she might throw herself into his arms. Perhaps he would hold her close, and say, 'Agatha, let's give all those gossips a treat and get married' Perhaps he would kiss her. What would that be like?

This rosy fantasy went on until she realized that a considerable amount of time had passed. Of course, he was probably packing his pyjamas and shaving-kit, but still . . .

The doorbell rang, making her jump. Yes, she would throw herself into his arms.

Mrs Bloxby said gently, 'Now, now, Mrs Raisin. I knew this would happen'

Agatha opened her eyes and backed off in confusion.

She had seen a dark figure on the step and had taken it to be James.

The vicar's wife was carrying an overnight bag. 'Mr Lacey phoned me and I came as quick as I could. The doctor's on his way'

Feeling almost ill with disappointment, Agatha allowed Mrs Bloxby to lead her to the kitchen. The lights came on again. Everything was normal.

By the time a sedated Agatha was in bed, the doctor had left, and Mrs Bloxby was sleeping in the spare room, she could only reflect woozily that James was a beast and a bastard.

Agatha spent a long and miserable time of panics and nightmares, glad of callers during the day, glad of the members of the Carsely Ladies' Society, who took it in turns to sleep in her spare room during the night. Not one woman mentioned James Lacey and Agatha's heart was sore with rejection.

And then her fears ebbed away and her mood was improved with long sunny days.

In such a small village it was inevitable that she should meet James again. He smiled at her in a kindly way and asked after her health, he said writing was coming easily and he was working hard. He said they must have lunch sometime, that very English remark which usually means absolutely nothing. Agatha looked at him with bitter hurt in her bearlike eyes but replied politely and coolly, thinking they were almost like a couple who had once had an affair, regretted now on one side.

And then one morning, as lunchtime was approaching, Agatha's doorbell rang. She no longer rushed to it expecting to see James. Bill Wong stood on the step.

'Oh, it's you' said Agatha. 'You must have been back from that course ages ago.'

'I was' said Bill, 'but another case came up which involved liaising with the Yorkshire police, so I've been travelling a bit. Aren't you going to ask me in?'

'Of course. We can have coffee in the garden.'

'Lacey around?' he asked as he followed her through the house.

'No' said Agatha bleakly. 'In fact, apart from little talks like 'How are you' and 'Isn't the weather great' over the grocery counter, I haven't really seen him'

'Odd, that. I thought the pair of you were as thick as thieves'

'Well, we're not' snapped Agatha. She had bought a new garden table and chairs. 'Sit down, Bill. I was just going to get a bite to eat. Cold chicken and salad suit you?'

'Anything. Your garden could do with some flowers. Give you an interest'

'I suppose. I'll get the food'

Over lunch, Bill told her about the case he was working on and then they finally got around to discussing the case of Peter Rice.

'It's odd' said Bill, 'when you think of the pair of them, Rice and Webster. Hardly Romeo and Juliet to look at, but there was passion there, real passion. Take one man who feels he's too ugly to get a woman and one virgin and that's an explosive mixture. When Rice found out she'd been sleeping with Bladen, it must have nearly broken his heart. History repeating itself. First Greta, then Josephine. But Josephine is back in his arms again. She's not shocked he's killed Bladen. Now they are bound even more closely by the crime and still more after the death of poor Mrs Josephs'

He looked about him. 'You wouldn't think when you drive through one of these pretty Cotswold villages how much terror and passion and anger can lurk beneath the beams of these old cottages. You know, Agatha, Lacey's