An Agatha Raisin Mystery
M. C BEATON
THE PERFECT PARAGON
Copyright (c) 2005 by M. C. Beaton.
ONE
EVERYONE in the village of Carsely in the English Cotswolds was agreed on one thing—no one had ever seen such a spring before.
Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, stepped out into her garden and took a deep breath of fresh-scented air. Never had there been so much blossom. The lilac trees were bent down under the weight of purple and white blooms. White hawthorn hedges formed bridal alleys out of the country lanes. Clematis spilled over walls like flowery waterfalls, and wisteria decorated the golden stone of the cottages with showers of delicate purple blooms. All the trees were covered in bright, fresh green. It was as if the countryside were clothed like an animal in a deep, rich pelt of leaves and flowers.
The few misery-guts in the village shook their heads and said it heralded a harsh winter to come. Nature moved in a mysterious way to protect itself.
The vicarage doorbell rang and Mrs. Bloxby went to answer it. Agatha Raisin stood there, stocky and truculent, a line of worry between her eyes.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Why aren’t you at the office? No cases to solve?”
Agatha ran her own detective agency in Mircester. She was well dressed, as she usually was these days, in a linen trouser suit, and her glossy brown hair was cut in a fashionable crop. But her small brown eyes looked worried.
Mrs. Bloxby led the way into the garden. “Coffee?”
“No,” said Agatha. “I’ve been drinking gallons of the stuff. Just wanted a chat.”
“Chat away.”
Agatha felt a sense of comfort stealing over her. Mrs. Bloxby with her mild eyes and grey hair always had a tranquillizing effect on her.
“I could do with a really big case. Everything seems to be itty-bitty things like lost cats and dogs. I don’t want to run into the red. Miss Simms, who was acting as secretary, has gone off with my full-time detective, Patrick Mulligan. He’s retired and doesn’t want to be bothered any more with work. Sammy Allen did the photo work, and Douglas Ballantyne the technical stuff. But I had to let them go. There just wasn’t enough work. Then Sally Fleming, who replaced Patrick, got lured away by a London detective agency, and my treasure of a secretary, Mrs. Edie Frint, got married again.
“Maybe the trouble was that I gave up taking divorce cases. The lawyers used to put a good bit of business my way.”
Mrs. Bloxby was well aware that Agatha was divorced from the love of her life, James Lacey, and thought that was probably why Agatha did not want to handle divorce cases.
She said, “Maybe you should take on a few divorce cases just to get the money rolling again. You surely don’t want any murders.”
“I’d rather have a murder than a divorce,” muttered Agatha.
“Perhaps you have been working too hard. Maybe you should take a few days off. I mean, it is a glorious spring.”
“Is it?” Agatha gazed around the glory of the garden with city eyes which had never become used to the countryside. She had sold up a successful public relations company in London and had taken early retirement. Living in the Cotswolds had been a dream since childhood, but Agatha still carried the city, with all its bustle and hectic pace, inside herself.
“Who have you got to replace Patrick and Miss Simms? Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything? I have some home-made scones.”
Agatha was tempted, but the waistband of her trousers was already tight. She shook her head. “Let me see… staff. Well, there’s a Mrs. Helen Freedman from Evesham as secretary. Middleaged, competent, quite a treasure. I do all the detecting myself.”
“And for the technical and photographic stuff?”
“I’m looking for someone. Experts charge so much.”
“There’s Mr. Witherspoon in the village. He’s an expert cameraman and so good with computers and things.”
“I know Mr. Witherspoon. He must be about a hundred.”
“Come now. He’s only seventy-six and that’s quite young these days.”
“It’s not young. Come on. Seventy-six is creaking.”
“Why not go and see him? He lives in Rose Cottage by the school.”
“No.”
Mrs. Bloxby’s normally mild eyes hardened a fraction. Agatha said hurriedly, “On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt me to go along for a chat.” Agatha Raisin, who could face up to most of the world, crumpled before the slightest suggestion of the vicar’s wife’s displeasure.
Rose Cottage, despite its name, did not boast any roses. The front garden had been covered in tarmac to allow Mr. Witherspoon to park his old Ford off the road. His cottage was one of the few modem ones in Carsely, an ugly redbrick two-storeyed affair. Agatha, who knew Mr. Witherspoon only by sight, was prepared to dislike someone who appeared to have so little taste.
She raised her hand to ring the doorbell but it was opened and Mr. Witherspoon stood there. “Come to offer me a job?” he said cheerfully.
Much as she loved Mrs. Bloxby, in that moment Agatha felt she could have strangled her. She hated being manipulated and Mrs. Bloxby appeared to have done just that.
“I don’t know,” said Agatha gruffly. “Can I come in?”
“By all means. I’ve just made coffee.”
She telephoned him as soon as I left. That’s it, thought Agatha. She followed him into a room made into an office.
It was impeccably clean and ordered. A computer desk stood at the window flanked on either side with shelves of files. A small round table and two chairs dominated the centre of the room. On the wall opposite the window were ranks of shelves containing a collection of cameras and lenses.
“Sit down, please,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “I‘11 bring coffee.”
He was an average-sized man with thick grey hair. His face was not so much lined as crumpled, as if one only had to take a hot iron to it to restore it to its former youth. He was slim.
No paunch, thought Agatha. At least he can’t be a boozer.
He came back in a short time carrying a tray with the coffee things and a plate of scones.
“Black, please,” said Agatha. “May I smoke?”
“Go ahead.”
Well, one good mark so far, thought Agatha. “I’ll get you an ashtray,” he said. “Have a scone.”
When he was out of the room, Agatha stared at the plate of scones in sudden suspicion. She picked up one and bit into it. Mrs. Bloxby’s scones. She would swear to it. Once again, she felt manipulated and then experienced a surge of malicious glee at the thought of turning him down.
He came back and placed a large glass ashtray next to Agatha.
He sat down opposite her and said, “What can I do for you?”
“Just a social call,” said Agatha.
