Hiss and Hers

✍ Scribed by M. C. Beaton

• Publisher: Constable;St. Martin's Minotaur
• Year: 2012
• Tongue: English
• Weight: 119 KB
• Category: Fiction

✦ Synopsis

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Agatha Raisin, private detective, was in the grip of a great obsession. Her friend, the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bloxby, reflected sadly that Agatha, a normally shrewd woman, seemed to lose her wits when she fell in love.
For Agatha had fallen for the village of Carsely’s gardener and odd-job man, George Marston. He had worked on her garden until it was into shape and then Agatha, to Mrs. Bloxby’s horror, had smashed up her perfectly good bookshelves in order to employ him again doing carpentry.
George Marston, ex-army, was over six feet tall with green eyes and thick blond hair streaked with grey.
But Agatha had fierce competition from the other women in the Cotswold village, and from one very dangerous one in particular. Jessica Fordyce, a leading actress in a long-running hospital drama, had bought a cottage in the village for week-ends. Jessica was in her thirties, petite, with flaming red hair framing a heart-shaped face. And she was witty and amusing. And she seemed to need a lot of gardening work done.
Agatha began to grudge the time spent out of the village on detective work. She ran a successful detective agency in Mircester. But she reminded herself that she had moved to the Cotswolds from London and had taken early retirement, although in her early fifties, to enjoy life.
She fretted over her appearance. How could thick glossy brown hair and good legs compete with such as Jessica? Jessica’s eyes were large and blue. Agatha’s were small and bearlike, looking warily out from a round face.
Things came to a head for Agatha when George rang one evening and said he hoped to take her for lunch the following day to repay the lunch she had previously bought him. “But of course you will be at work as usual,” he said.
“I’m free this week-end,” said Agatha hopefully.
“Sorry. I’m all booked up. Another time.”
I’m sick of work, thought Agatha furiously. I’m going back to being a village lady.
The doorbell rang. Oh, be still my heart! But it was only Mrs. Bloxby.
“Come in,” said Agatha grumpily. Mrs. Bloxby noticed that Agatha was wearing full make-up and high heels. She never seemed to relax these days. Agatha was always impeccably dressed and her make-up was a trifle too thick.
“Have a drink,” said Agatha. “I could do with one.”
“I’ll have a sherry.”
Bless her, thought Agatha, hobbling into the sitting room. Sherry somehow went with Mrs. Bloxby’s quiet eyes and ladylike appearance.
“Why don’t you kick off your shoes?” asked Mrs. Bloxby when the drinks were poured. “Your feet seem to be hurting you.”
“Oh, all right.” Agatha cast one longing look at the window as if hoping to see George’s tall figure and then eased her feet out of her shoes and wriggled her toes.
“I’ve decided to give up,” said Agatha.
Relief flooded Mrs. Bloxby’s face. “What a good idea. He’s really not worth it, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What were you talking about?” asked her friend cautiously.
“I’ve decided to give up work.”
“But, why?” wailed the vicar’s wife, although she was very sure of the reason.
Agatha avoided her worried gaze.
“Oh, it’s such a glorious summer and … and … well, the truth is I need a break from the detective business.”
“But, Mrs. Raisin, although you have an excellent staff, you are the detective business.” Although friends, they called each other by their second names. It had been an old-fashioned tradition in the now-defunct Ladies Society to which they had once both belonged and somehow they had continued with the tradition.
Mrs. Bloxby wanted to tell her that giving up a successful job to chase after a gardener was ridiculous. But she had come across many addicts in her years of parish work and knew that if you told an addict to do one thing, then the addict would just do the other. And Agatha was in the grip of an addiction as heavy as if George Marston had been a drug.

---

Agatha called a meeting of her staff on the following morning. Standing around, looking at her anxiously, were Mrs. Freedman, secretary, and detectives Toni Gilmour, young and pretty, Simon Black, also young and with a jester’s face, Patrick Mulligan, tall and lugubrious and elderly Phil Marshall with his white hair and gentle face.
“I have decided to take extended leave,” said Agatha.
“Why?” asked Phil. “Are you ill?”
“No,” said Agatha. “I am in perfect health. I would just like a break.”
I wonder who he is, thought Toni. Agatha’s been wearing ankle-killing stilettos for the past weeks.
“Let’s just go through the cases,” said Agatha briskly. “Each of you can take on one of my cases.”
“How long do you plan to be away?” asked Phil.
“Oh, until I feel I’ve had enough time off,” said Agatha airily, thinking, until he proposes.
She proceeded to deal briskly, allocating her work. When she left at lunchtime, they waited until they heard her reach the bottom of the stairs and slam the street door. “What’s it all about?” asked Patrick.
Phil, who lived in the same village as Agatha, felt he knew the answer. “Agatha’s been employing this gardener. I think she’s smitten. But so are most of the women in the village. Agatha probably feels she’s losing out by being away at work.”
“Maybe I could find out something about him to put Agatha off,” said Simon. “Toni and I could look into it.”
“There’s too much work,” said Toni sharply. She hadn’t forgiven Simon for declaring his love for her and then joining the army, getting engaged to a female sergeant and then ditching his sergeant at the altar.
“I’ll ask around,” said Phil. “I live in the village, although with the amount of work Agatha’s left us, I won’t get much chance for free time. We’d all better get to work.”

---

Agatha had found the side mirror on her car had been bent in. She pressed the electronic button to restore it to its proper viewing position, and, as it slid into place, she got a clear reflection of her face. Before the mirror settled back into its correct position and her startled face disappeared from view, she noticed two nasty little lines on her upper lip.
She was seized with a feeling of savage jealousy of the beautiful soap star who had invaded the village. Jessica, unlike Agatha, did not smoke. She went for long healthy walks at week-ends. She did not have to worry about the disintegration of the body that plagued Agatha: the body which seemed determined to have a square shape with saggy bits.
For one clear moment she felt ridiculous. Chasing after a gardener? What a cliché. But then she thought of George, of his strong body and those beautiful muscled legs, and set her lips in a firm line.
Into battle once more!
__ *
She arrived home to find Detective Sergeant Bill Wong waiting for her. He was the product of a Chinese father and a Gloucestershire mother. The result was a pleasant round face with almond-shaped eyes. He was Agatha’s first real friend after she had first arrived in the village, lonely and prickly.
“What brings you?” asked Agatha.
“Just a social call. I haven’t seen you for a bit.”
“Come in. It’s a lovely day and we can sit in the garden.”
When they were settled over mugs of coffee at the garden table, Bill exclaimed, “I’ve never seen your garden look more beautiful.”
“I have a good gardener.”
“Do you know the names of all the flowers?”
“I think I used to, but they’ve all got Latin names now.”
“I thought you’d had a hip replacement,” said Bill, looking down at Agatha’s high-heeled strapped sandals.
“I don’t talk about it.”
“You should think about it,” said Bill. “Heels that high can’t be good for you.”
“What’s come over you?” snapped Agatha. “You’re going on like a nasty husband.”
“Just like a caring friend. Who is it this time?”
“What?”
“The heels, the heavy make-up, the tight short skirt.”
“Let me point out to you I have always been a well-dressed woman. Talk about something else. How’s crime?”
“Nothing major. Usual binge drinkers at week-ends, car theft, few burglaries, no murder for you to get excited about. Why are you home on a working day?”
“I’m taking time off,” said Agatha. “It’s a lovely summer and I felt the need to relax.”
“I see James is back next door.” James Lacey was not only Agatha’s neighbour but her ex-husband.
“Haven’t seen much of him,” said Agatha. “How’s your love life?”
“Zero at the moment.”
The doorbell rang. Agatha leapt up like a rocketing pheasant and ran to the door. Her face fell as she saw one of her other friends, Sir Charles Fraith, on the doorstep. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Bill’s in the garden.”
Charles’s neat figure was dressed in a pale blue shirt and darker blue trousers. As usual, he looked cool, compact and well barbered.
He walked before Agatha into the garden. “Hullo, Bill. How’s crime?”
“Not bad. No murders for Agatha. She’s just been telling me she’s taking time off work.”
“Chasing after t...