Hot to Trot

Book 31: Agatha Raisin Mysteries

by M.C. Beaton, R.W. Green

Genres: Animal Cozy Mysteries; Private Investigators

Synopsis

Private Detective Agatha Raisin immerses herself in the glittering lifestyle of the fabulously wealthy when Sir Charles Fraith is accused of murder - and Agatha is named as his accomplice!
A high-society wedding, a glitzy masked ball, and an introduction to the world of international show-jumping where the riders are glamorous, the horses are beautiful, and intrigue runs deep, leave Agatha with a list of suspects as long as a stallion's tail.
Sinister evidence then emerges that appears to seal Sir Charles's fate and Agatha must uncover the truth before a net of skulduggery closes around him and he loses his ancestral home, his entire estate, and his freedom. And if events weren't complicated enough... Agatha's ex-husband James Lacey is back in Carsely and back in Agatha's heart...
Praise for M. C. Beaton's Agatha Raisin mysteries:
'Every new Agatha Raisin escapade is a total joy' ASHLEY JENSEN
'No wonder she's been crowned Queen of Cosy Crime' MAIL ON SUNDAY
'A Beaton novel is like The Archers on speed' DAILY MAIL
'The detective novels of M C Beaton have reached cult status' THE TIMES
'Irresistible, a joy' ANNE ROBINSON
'Full of perfectly pitched interest, intrigue, and charm' LEE CHILD
'Agatha is like Miss Marple with a drinking problem, a pack-a-day habit and major man lust. In fact, I think she could be living my dream life' ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY
'M. C. Beaton's imperfect heroine is an absolute gem' PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

Release date: November 17, 2020

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 288

Sample

An Introduction from M. C. Beaton on the Agatha Raisin Series



The writing road leading to Agatha Raisin is a long one.

When I left school, I became a fiction buyer for John Smith & Son Ltd. on St. Vincent Street, Glasgow, the oldest bookshop in Britain—alas, now closed. Those were the days when bookselling was a profession and one had to know something about every book in the shop.

I developed an eye for what sort of book a customer might want, and could, for example, spot an arriving request for a leather-bound pocket-sized edition of Omar Khayyam at a hundred paces.

As staff were allowed to borrow books, I was able to feed my addiction for detective and spy stories. As a child, my first love had been Richard Hannay in John Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps. Then, on my eleventh birthday, I was given a copy of Dorothy L. Sayers’s Lord Peter Views the Body and read everything by that author I could get. After that came, courtesy of the bookshop, Ngaio Marsh, Josephine Tey, Gladys Mitchell, Eric Ambler, Agatha Christie and very many more.

Bookselling was a very genteel job. We were not allowed to call each other by our first names. I was given half an hour in the morning to go out for coffee, an hour and a half for lunch, and half an hour in the afternoon for tea.

I was having coffee one morning when I was joined by a customer, Mary Kavanagh, who recognised me. She said she was features editor of the Glasgow edition of the Daily Mail and wanted a reporter to cover a production of Cinderella at the Rutherglen Rep that evening, because the editor’s nephew was acting as one of the Ugly Sisters, but all the reporters refused to go.

“I’ll go,” I said eagerly.

She looked at me doubtfully. “Have you had anything published?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, lying through my teeth. “Punch, The Listener, things like that.”

“Well, it’s only fifty words,” she said. “All right.”

And that was the start. I rose up through vaudeville and then became lead theatre critic at the age of nineteen.

After that, I became fashion editor of Scottish Field magazine and then moved to the Scottish Daily Express as Scotland’s new emergent writer and proceeded to submerge. The news editor gave me a tryout to save me from being sacked, and I became a crime reporter.

People often ask if this experience was to help me in the future with writing detective stories. Yes, but not in the way they think. The crime in Glasgow was awful: razor gangs, axmen, reporting stories in filthy gaslit tenements where the stair lavatory had broken, and so, as an escape, I kept making up stories in my head that had nothing to do with reality. Finally, it all became too much for me and I got a transfer to the Daily Express on Fleet Street, London.

I enjoyed being a Fleet Street reporter. I would walk down Fleet Street in the evening if I was on the late shift and feel the thud of the printing presses and smell the aroma of hot paper and see St. Paul’s, floodlit, floating above Ludgate Hill, and felt I had truly arrived.

I became chief woman reporter just as boredom and reality were setting in. That was when I met my husband, Harry Scott Gibbons, former Middle East correspondent for the paper who had just resigned to write a book, The Conspirators, about the British withdrawal from Aden.

I resigned as well and we went on our travels, through Greece, Turkey and Cyprus. Harry was now engaged in writing a book about the Cyprus troubles. We arrived back in London, broke, and I had a baby, Charles. We moved to America when Harry found work as an editor at the Oyster Bay Guardian, a Long Island newspaper. That was not a very pleasant experience.

But I longed to write fiction. I had read all of Georgette Heyer’s Regency romances and thought I would try some of the new ones that were coming out. I complained to my husband, “They’re awful. The history’s wrong, the speech is wrong, and the dress is wrong.”

“Well, write one,” he urged.

My mother had been a great fan of the Regency period and I had been brought up on Jane Austen and various history books. She even found out-of-print books from the period, such as Maria Edgeworth’s Moral Tales. I remember with affection a villain called Lord Raspberry. So I cranked up the film in my head and began to write what was there. The first book was called Regency Gold. I had only done about twenty pages, blocked by the thought that surely I couldn’t really write a whole book, when my husband took them from me and showed them to a writer friend who recommended an agent. So I went on and wrote the first fifty pages and plot and sent it all to the agent Barbara Lowenstein. She suggested some changes, and after making them I took the lot back to her.

The book sold in three days flat. Then, before it was even finished, I got an offer from another publisher to write Edwardian romances, which I did under the name of Jennie Tremaine because my maiden name, Marion Chesney, was contracted to the first publisher. Other publishers followed, other names: Ann Fairfax, Helen Crampton and Charlotte Ward.

I was finally contracted by St. Martin’s Press to write six hardback Regency series at a time. But I wanted to write mysteries, and discussed my ambition to do so with my editor at St. Martin’s Press, Hope Dellon. “Okay,” she said. “Who’s your detective?”

I had only got as far as the rough idea and hadn’t thought of one. “The village bobby,” I said hurriedly.

“What’s his name?”

I quickly racked my brains. “Hamish Macbeth.”

I had to find not only a name for my detective but a new name for myself. “Give me a name that isn’t Mac something,” suggested Hope. She said that M. C. Beaton would be a good name, keeping the M. C. for Marion Chesney.

So I began to write detective stories. We moved back to London to further our son’s education and it was there that the idea for the first Agatha Raisin was germinated, though I did not know it at the time.

My son’s housemaster asked me if I could do some home baking for a charity sale. I did not want to let my son down by telling him I couldn’t bake. So I went to Waitrose and bought two quiches, carefully removed the shop wrappings, put my own wrappings on with a homemade label, and delivered them. They were a great success.

Shortly afterwards, Hope, who is very fond of the Cotswolds, asked me if I would consider writing a detective story set in that scenic area. I wanted the detective to be a woman. I had enjoyed E. F. Benson’s Miss Mapp books and thought it might be interesting to create a detective that the reader might not like but nonetheless would want to win in the end. I was also inspired by the amusing detective stories of Colin Watson in his Flaxborough novels and Simon Brett’s detective, Charles Paris.

Agatha Raisin will continue to live in the Cotswolds because the very placid beauty of the place, with its winding lanes and old cottages, serves as a constant to the often abrasive Agatha. I am only sorry that I continue to inflict so much murder and mayhem on this tranquil setting.



Chapter One



No one knew. No one who encountered Agatha Raisin striding purposefully along Mircester High Street on this gloriously sunny spring morning, her brown hair sleek and lustrous in its neat bob courtesy of a pre-breakfast appointment with her hairdresser, could possibly have known. No one could even have suspected that the woman in the elegantly cut navy-blue jacket and skirt, carrying a dusky-pink shoulder bag that very nearly matched the colour of her lipstick, who was smiling and nodding pleasantly to passers-by, was hiding a dark torment.

Only Agatha knew how bitter and betrayed she felt about the way her long-time friend and sometime lover, Sir Charles Fraith, had committed to marrying a woman almost thirty years younger than her. Only Agatha knew, and that, she had decided, was how it was going to stay. I am a successful, independent woman, she told herself. I don’t need to lumber myself with regret over Charles’s mistakes. I need to get on with my own life. Wasn’t it Coco Chanel who said, “A girl should be two things—who and what she wants”? Well, that and the little black dress were two things she definitely got right. I am a private investigator with a thriving business to run and I will live my life the way I choose. Anyone who doesn’t agree with that can go to hell—and that includes Sir Charles Fraith! At that precise moment, Agatha almost believed herself.

Reaching the corner of an ancient cobbled lane that tumbled away from the high street down a shallow slope, Agatha looked up to the first-floor windows of Raisin Investigations. She could see her staff milling around, preparing themselves for the working day. She tiptoed, as elegantly as she could manage, the three or four steps it took to cross the cobbles, avoiding embedding the high heels of her dark-blue suede shoes in the evil cracks between the stones that she knew were lurking there, booby traps for the unwary. Reaching the sanctuary of the pavement outside the antiques shop above which were her offices, she caught her reflection in the shop window. A little stocky, perhaps, she admitted to herself, but what could you expect after a long, cold winter eating hearty meals? She would easily lose a few pounds now that salad season was approaching. She tugged at the hem of her jacket to straighten an imagined bulge, gave herself a nod of approval and made her way upstairs.

“Morning, all!” she announced, bustling into the office.

Everyone looked towards her and responded. Toni Gilmour, Agatha’s Girl Friday, was young, beautiful, blonde and a meticulous detective with a good eye for detail. Agatha had come to rely on her a great deal, although that was something she seldom admitted to anyone, especially Toni. Patrick Mulligan was a tall, cadaverous retired policeman with a wealth of experience as an investigator. He had a serious, almost sombre demeanour and seldom smiled. Simon Black, on the other hand, greeted Agatha with a wide grin that wrinkled his features. He had an odd, pale, angular face that Agatha could never describe as handsome, yet he was a young man who was never short of attractive girls hanging on his arm or warming his bed—or so he claimed. The only girl he ever seemed to care about, however, was the next one. As an investigator, he had his shortcomings, but his casual charm and dogged determination usually saw him through.

Mrs. Freedman, Agatha’s secretary, who handled most of the company admin, stepped forward to offer her a blue plastic document wallet. A middle-aged woman with a kindly expression, Helen Freedman was hard-working and efficient, and appeared to know by instinct precisely when Agatha wanted either a cup of coffee in the morning, a cup of tea in the afternoon, or a gin and tonic whenever.

“Some invoices for you to approve,” she said, “a couple of letters to sign, and can I remind you that you need to submit your expenses?”

“Thank you, Helen,” said Agatha. “I’ll sort that out later today. All right, everyone! Case conference catch-up in my office in ten minutes.”

She crossed the open area to her own separate office, pushing open the door. The small room was dominated by a huge wooden desk that had aspirations to being Georgian but, sadly, had been made three hundred years too late. She dropped the blue wallet on the desk beside her large cut-glass ashtray. It had been several months since she had last smoked a cigarette and at one time she had banished all ashtrays to drawers and cupboards, keeping the smoking accoutrements out of sight and out of mind. This one, however, she retained as a kind of trophy, now used only as a paperweight, the glass sparkling clean, a reminder of her triumph over tobacco.

Settling into her chair, she took a copy of the local newspaper from her bag and unfolded it. “Society Wedding of the Year,” announced the headline. “Sir Charles Fraith to marry in lavish ceremony at Barfield House.” Agatha sighed. So much fuss. Charles’s vile fiancée, Mary Darlinda Brown-Field, was making sure that her wedding was being splashed across the pages of every rag whose editor she could charm, coax, buy or bully. The article was accompanied by a photograph of them together. Charles had a vague, haunted expression, while Mary—well, the giant chin she had inherited from her father and the eyes that were set just a little too far apart meant that she would never win the Mircester Maids beauty contest. Yet the way she was holding on to Charles’s arm demonstrated her determination to make this the biggest wedding ever covered by the Mircester Telegraph.

It wasn’t even as if Charles hadn’t previously had a lavish ceremony at Barfield House. Agatha had scuppered that one by turning up with the Spanish waiter who was the rightful father of the pregnant bride’s unborn child. This time, however, there seemed no way of stopping Charles from plunging himself into a life of misery. This was a marriage of convenience, a financial transaction that he saw as a way of propping up his ailing estate. Yet the bride’s family’s money could never buy them that which they craved—the social status denied them by their lowly pedigree. The marriage was a sham, and Agatha worried that Charles risked losing control of the house and estate that had been in his family for generations. Yet she had made little effort to extricate him from this latest predicament, and now there was no time. The wedding was on Saturday—only forty-eight hours away.

Her staff filed into her office carrying cups of coffee and dragging chairs close to her desk. Mrs. Freedman provided Agatha with a coffee, then returned to the outer office.

Toni sat closest to Agatha. She glanced at the newspaper lying on the desk and reached out to turn it towards her in order to read the smaller print. Agatha placed the blue document wallet on top of it and Toni looked up to see her boss staring impassively at her. She glanced away and sipped her coffee. Clearly the wedding was not a topic for open discussion.

“Right,” said Agatha. “Let’s start with the Chadwick divorce case. You’ve been keeping tabs on Mrs. Sheraton Chadwick, Simon. What sort of woman are we dealing with?”

“She has the look of someone who likes a bit of rumpy-pumpy, if you know what I mean,” said Simon, grinning and cocking an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure that I do know what you mean,” said Agatha innocently. “Have you any ideas, Toni?”

“Rumpy-pumpy? I can’t be certain,” said Toni, taking her cue from Agatha and adopting a naïvely perplexed expression, “but it sounds like one of those phrases they used in old British black-and-white movies.”

“Ah, yes,” Agatha agreed. “Like ‘slap and tickle’ or ‘hanky-panky.’ Simon, do you mean that she seemed to you like the sort of woman who might enjoy an enthusiastic illicit sex life?”

“Yes,” said Simon, squirming slightly. Patrick Mulligan raised a hand to his mouth to cover one of his rare smiles. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

Agatha placed the palms of her hands on her desk and leaned forward slightly, fixing Simon with her dark bear-like eyes. “Let’s keep the language we use at meetings a bit more formal, shall we? If we get sloppy when discussing cases, there’s every chance one of us might slip up when talking to a client and say something out of turn. We can’t have people thinking that we treat our work like some kind of joke. That would definitely be bad for business.”

“Sorry,” Simon apologised, sitting up straight, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. “I will watch how I … um … phrase things in the future.”

“Good,” said Agatha. “How has the surveillance been going?”

“I haven’t had much luck yet. Mrs. Chadwick has been visited by a bloke at a rented house in Oxford.”

“And do you have photographs of this … bloke?”

“I’ve seen him, but I could never get a shot of his face that could be used to identify him,” Simon admitted. “I did get the number of the car that dropped him off and picked him up, but he’s out of the vehicle and into the house like a flash.”

“Okay, let’s move on,” said Agatha. “Patrick, where are we with the Philpott Electronics case?”

“The company chairman, Sidney Philpott, has concerns about his new managing director, Harold Cheeseman,” said Patrick, sliding a manila folder across the desk. “He has asked us to carry out a discreet background check. So far Cheeseman’s CV and references all appear to be genuine. He left his last job to take up a post in Australia, but told Mr. Philpott that he came back because Australia was not to his wife’s liking. He’s definitely lying about that.”

“What makes you say that?” Agatha asked, flicking through the report.

“His wife is dead,” Patrick explained. “She died long before he left for Australia. That was one of his reasons for going—to make a fresh start.”

“It’s a weird thing to lie about,” said Agatha.

“He may have his reasons,” Patrick conceded, “but I’m not at all sure about him. From the way the staff say he has been acting at work, there’s something odd going on. I’ve sent a couple of emails to Australia to find out what he got up to there, and I’m tracking down some of his old friends here.”

“Okay,” said Agatha. “Stay on it.”

There was a handful of other ongoing cases to discuss, mainly divorces and missing pets, before Agatha turned to Toni.

“So, Toni,” she said. “Any potential new cases that I haven’t yet heard about?”

“We have been contacted by a Mr. Gutteridge, who runs a biscuit and cake factory near Evesham,” said Toni. “He wants us to install listening devices in the workers’ canteen because he thinks the staff are saying nasty things about him and his secretary.”

“Are they having an affair? What sort of things does he think they’re saying?”

“He denies any affair. She comes from Geneva, and graffiti in the ladies’ loo calls her his ‘Swiss roll.’”

“I don’t want to get involved in that,” said Agatha, shaking her head. “I don’t mind us sweeping a place to remove bugs, but I won’t plant them in order to eavesdrop on ordinary people simply to deal with office gossip. Anything else?”

“We have a Mrs. Jessop, who believes that a poltergeist is rearranging her kitchen cupboards and digging up her garden.”

“A poltergeist?” said Agatha. “A ghost? Creepy, but interesting.”

“And,” said Toni, “Mrs. Fletcher, who lives just outside Carsely, wants us to investigate someone dumping at the bottom of her garden.”

“Dumping?” said Patrick. “You mean fly-tipping? Leaving piles of rubbish? That’s a matter for the local council, isn’t it?”

“No, not fly-tipping,” said Toni. “Someone has been having a dump. Leaving piles of excrement. Quite a lot of it, she says.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Agatha, wrinkling her nose. “Who would do a thing like that?”

“She has no idea,” Toni explained, “but the piles are being added to on a regular basis in the middle of the night.”

“Right,” said Agatha, drawing the meeting to a close. “Let’s keep everything moving forward. Patrick, can you use your contacts to try to trace the car that dropped off Mrs. Chadwick’s visitor? Toni and I will take over the Chadwick case to see if we can make some progress there. We will also find out if Mrs. Jessop’s poltergeist is worth investigating. Simon, you can take on the case of the phantom pooper.”

“But that’s…” Simon’s objection wilted under the weight of Agatha’s withering stare.

“Yes, I know—it’s a shit job,” she said, “but somebody has to do it, and the quicker you clear it up, the sooner you can move on to something else.”

Simon and Patrick dragged their chairs away, heading for the door, but Agatha motioned Toni to stay.

“I need you to get up to speed on the Chadwick case,” she said. “Give me a call later and we can meet up to stake out that house tonight. I will be out of the office this afternoon.”

“Are you going to see Charles?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You really have to try to talk to him…”

“I don’t have to do anything of the sort!” Agatha scowled, a note of anger in her voice.

“You need to do something,” said Toni. “This has been plaguing you for months. You had a thoroughly miserable Christmas and you’ve been on edge ever since. You need to come to terms with what’s happening.”

“I am perfectly capable of deciding what I will or will not do, and I certainly do not need personal advice from someone as young as you—someone who was still in nappies when I was being wined and dined by some of London’s most eligible bachelors!”

“And how did that work out?” said Toni, struggling to subdue her own rising temper. “You ended up abandoning London to live in the Cotswolds. Look, we’ve been through a lot together and I care about—”

“I don’t need you to care about anything except your work!” barked Agatha. “I shouldn’t have to explain—”

“Well I’m so sorry!” Toni snapped. “It must be very difficult explaining anything to someone as young as me!”

“Not at all,” said Agatha, “but I left the crayons and colouring books at home today.”

Toni stormed out and Agatha snatched the newspaper from the desk, hurling it into the waste-paper basket. She knew that Toni was trying to help, motivated by the best of intentions, but the situation with Charles had been festering for so long that the slightest mention of it plunged her into a cauldron of fury. With a sigh, she reluctantly admitted to herself that Toni was right. She needed to clear the air with Charles, for her own peace of mind. Still, that would have to wait. She reached for the blue plastic folder.

* * *

That afternoon Agatha drove out of Mircester along the road toward Carsely. The sun shone bright and clear in the pale-blue spring sky and newborn lambs tussled shakily with each other in the fields. The hedgerows were sprouting green, and here and there wild flowers decorated the roadside—a blush of red clover, dainty white primroses and glimpses beyond the hedges of bluebells beginning to carpet the woodland. She turned down a narrow, winding side road that led to the gates of Barfield House. The ornamental wrought-iron gates stood open, as ever, leaning drunkenly away from their hinges on the tall stone gateposts, the bottom edges buried in tall grass.

The trees that lined the long driveway eventually opened onto the landscaped lawns surrounding the house, allowing the building space to breathe. On the manicured grass stood the biggest marquee that Agatha had ever seen. Tented pavilions of various shapes and sizes were not a rare sight on Barfield’s grounds. The house hosted local fairs, agricultural shows and a plethora of community events. Charles had always said that while he owned the house and the estate, they really belonged to the local people. He regarded himself as something of a caretaker—an enormously privileged caretaker, Agatha mused, but a caretaker nonetheless. Marquees, therefore, regularly graced Barfield’s lawns.

There was, however, a distinct lack of grace about the monstrosity that now stood there. A team of workmen hauled on ropes and hammered at wooden stakes to secure the acres of canvas. Flags, pennants and bunting fluttered from every upright, and the great round roof was a hideous segmented pink-and-white candy-striped eyesore. It looks, Agatha thought, bringing her car to a halt in order to gawp at the thing, just like a … It is! It’s a circus tent! They’re holding the wedding in a big top! How appropriate—Mary has opted to turn her charade of a wedding into a circus! Send in the clowns!

Agatha rolled the car onwards. Even Barfield House, the huge Victorian edifice built in what the architect must have imagined to be a romanticised representation of a grand medieval mansion, did not deserve to have the garish circus tent inflicted upon it. Charles had always agreed with her that the house was not particularly pleasing on the eye, despite its multitude of mullioned windows twinkling in the sunshine, but Agatha was aghast at the bizarre tent sprawling on the lawn below. It simply looks awful, she thought. It’s as though the old house has hitched up her lawn to flash her knickers. It’s … vulgar.

She parked near the stone steps leading to the heavy black-studded oak door that was Barfield’s main entrance. Charles seldom used this door, and had shown Agatha many other ways into the house, but, having arrived unannounced and uninvited, she decided that this was her only option. Rather than risk her pristine nail polish with the large cast-iron knocker, she pressed the electric bell push set into the door frame. Almost immediately, she heard the familiar click of Gustav’s heels crossing the polished floor of the vast hall. A combination of butler, household manager and handyman, Gustav had served Charles’s father and had become almost part of the fabric of the building. Agatha knew that Charles saw him as indispensable, yet she and Gustav had always been, at best, sworn adversaries.

“Oh,” said Gustav, opening the door. “It’s you.”

“What a pleasure it is to see you again too, Gustav,” Agatha smiled. “Have you missed me?”

“Sir Charles is not at home.”

“Is that not at home to me, or not at home at all?”

“He is in London, staying at his club. He and some old friends are having a stag party.”

“Shame,” Agatha sighed. “I was hoping to have a word with him.”

“I think…” Gustav hesitated, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “I think you had better come in. We should talk.” He reached out, grabbed her by the arm and yanked her inside, marching her briskly across the enormous expanse of the hall.

“Hey, what do you think you’re—”

“Shh!” Gustav hissed, raising a finger to his lips. “In here, quickly.”

He opened a door near the back of the hall, close to where Agatha recalled a large, bright, modern kitchen. The door led into a long, narrow room that was little more than a corridor. Wooden panelling, cupboards and worktops flanked a central gangway that opened out to a wider room where two Belfast sinks, with tall brass taps, stood below a frosted-glass window. There was a small kitchen table and two chairs. Gustav thrust her towards one.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Agatha demanded. “You can’t just drag me in here and—”

“Keep your voice down!” Gustav breathed. “The walls have ears in this house nowadays. This is the only place where it is even remotely safe for us to talk. If they knew you were here, the buggers would boot me out without a second thought.”

“What is this place?” Agatha asked, looking around her. “And who would boot you out? The Brown-Fields?”

“It’s the old butler’s pantry,” Gustav explained, lowering himself into the wooden chair opposite Agatha. She watched him settle and cross his legs. He moved, as he always had done, with the elegance of a dancer. He had the strength of an athlete, too. Agatha massaged the top of her arm where he had held her in a vice-like grip.

“Yes,” he said grimly, “the Brown-Fields would love to have an excuse to send me packing, so we must keep this brief. I will not offer you tea.”

“Gustav, what’s going on?” Agatha asked. “We have never exactly been the best of friends, but I don’t like to see you behaving like this. You’re not acting normal.”

“There is nothing normal about what’s going on in this house! We may never have been friends. We may never be friends, but I know there is one thing we both genuinely care about.”

“Charles.”

“Sir Charles. He is in London, as I said. So is that obnoxious little cow he is about to marry. She is partying with her friends and having a final dress fitting. ‘Miss Mary’ is what she has decreed I should call her. After the wedding, it is to be ‘Your Ladyship.’ Can you imagine? Who does the little bitch think she is?”

“I take it her parents are here? I know they’ve moved in.”

“They are using a suite of rooms in the east wing as their apartment. I have been instructed to refer to them as Mr. Darell and Mz Linda. Mz? I mean, what sort of a bloody title is that? Sounds like a bee farting. These people are scum—mongrels—no breeding whatsoever.”

“That’s rich coming from a humble servant with a Hungarian father and an English mother,” Agatha scoffed.

“You mean me?” Gustav frowned. He was notoriously secretive about his past. “Who told you my father was Hungarian?”

“Bill Wong.”

“The policeman? Well, he doesn’t know everything, does he? Anyway, this isn’t about me. This is about Sir Charles.”

“Oh bollocks!” Agatha groaned, then caught Gustav’s furious look. “Not you, Gustav—them. Darell and Linda. It’s Mary’s middle name, isn’t it? Half her father’s and half her mother’s—Darlinda.”

“Have you only just realised? Not much of a detective really, are you?” Gustav frowned, then returned swiftly to his subject. “They are destroying Sir Charles, Mrs. Raisin. That little bitch is constantly on his back. If she’s not nagging him about this outrageous wedding, she’s telling him how he should run the estate—and her father is always on hand to back her