Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [80]
Delighted to be invited as a couple, Agatha set out with James from their cottages in the village of Carsely in the English Cotswolds to drive the short distance to Ancombe.
The lilac blossom was out in its full glory. Wisteria and clematis trailed down the walls of honey-coloured cottages and hawthorn, the fairy tree, sent out a heady sweet smell in the evening air.
Agatha experienced a qualm of nervousness as she drove them towards Ancombe. She had made a few visits to James in his cottage, but they were always brief. James was always occupied with something and seemed relieved when she left. Agatha planned to make the most of this outing. She was dressed in a biscuit-coloured suit with a lemon-coloured blouse and highheeled sandals. Her brown hair gleamed and shone.
James was wearing a tweed sports jacket and flannels. “Am I overdressed?” asked Agatha.
One blue eye swivelled in her direction. “No, you look fine.”
The Hewitts lived in a bungalow called Merrydown. As James drove up the short gravelled drive, Agatha could smell something cooking on charcoal. “It’s not a barbecue?” she asked.
“I believe it is. Here we are.”
“James, if you had told me it was a barbecue, I would have dressed more suitably.”
“Don’t nag,” said James mildly, getting out of the car.
Agatha detested barbecues. Barbecues were for Americans, Australians and Polynesians, or any of those other people with a good climate. The English, from her experience, delighted in undercooked meat served off paper plates in an insect-ridden garden.
James rang the doorbell. The door was answered by a small woman with pinched little features and pale grey eyes. Her grey hair was dressed in girlish curls. She was wearing a print frock and low-heeled sandals.
“James, darling!” She stretched up and enfolded him in an embrace. “And who is this?”
“Don’t you remember, I was told to bring my ex-wife along. This is Agatha Raisin. Agatha, Jill.”
Jill linked her arm in James’s, ignoring Agatha. “Come along. We’re all in the garden.” Agatha trailed after them. She wanted to go home.
Various people were standing around the garden, drinking some sort of fruit cup. Agatha, who felt in need of a strong gin and tonic, wanted more than ever to flee.
She was introduced to her host, who was cooking dead things on the barbecue. He was wearing a joke apron portraying a basque and fishnet stockings. James was taken round and introduced to the other guests, while Agatha stood on a flagged patio, teetering on her high heels.
Agatha sighed and sank down into a garden chair. She opened her handbag and took out her cigarettes and lighter and lit a cigarette.
“Do you mind awfully?” Her host stood in front of her, brandishing a knife.
“What?”
“This is a smoke-free zone.”
Agatha leaned round him and stared at the barbecue. Black smoke was beginning to pour out from something on the top. “Then you’d better get a fire extinguisher,” said Agatha. “Your food is burning.”
He let out a squawk of alarm and rushed back to the barbecue. Agatha blew a perfect smoke ring. She felt her nervousness evaporating. She did not care what James thought. Jill was a dreadful hostess, and worse than that, she seemed to have a thing about James. So Agatha sat placidly, smoking and dreaming of the moment when the evening would be over.
There was one sign of relief. A table was carried out into the garden and chairs set about it. She had dreaded having to stand on the grass in her spindly heels, eating off a paper plate.
Jill had reluctantly let go of James’s arm and gone into the house. She reappeared with two of the women guests carrying wine bottles and glasses. “Everyone to the table,” shouted David.
Agatha crushed out her cigarette on the patio stones and put the stub in her handbag. By the time she had heaved herself out of her chair, it was to find that James was seated next to Jill and another woman and she was left to sit next to a florid-faced man who gave her a goggling stare and then turned to chat to the woman on his other side.
David put a plate