Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage by MC Beaton

into romance.
    Agatha came back into the living-room and said in a weary voice, ‘Has he gone?’
    ‘Yes, and very guilty about having hurt you, too.’ James surveyed Agatha. Her face was scrubbed free of make-up and she was wearing an old sweater and a rather baggy skirt and flat heels. He had always considered privately that women did not need to plaster their faces with make-up, but he found himself missing the Agatha of the high heels, make-up, French perfume and ten-denier stockings. He had not forgiven her for having made such a fool of him on the wedding day. Somewhere in his heart he knew he would never forgive her and therefore he did not want to get romantically involved with her again, but he did not like to see her so down and crushed.
    ‘Bill has asked us to butt out, as usual,’ said James, ‘but I say, let’s go on with it. That’ll cheer you up. We’ll have an easy day and then try the next on the list, Miss Janet Purvey.’
    ‘And have her kill herself?’
    ‘Now, Agatha. Sir Desmond would have been found out anyway and the result would have been the same. Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?’
    ‘I’ll see. I promised to go to Ancombe with the Carsely Ladies’ Society. We’re being hosted by them. They’re putting on a revue.’
    ‘Well, well, the delights of the countryside. Have fun.’
    ‘At the Ancombe Ladies’ Society? You must be joking.’
    ‘Why go?’
    ‘Mrs Bloxby expects me to go.’
    ‘Oh, in that case . . .’
    Agatha was not religious. Often she thought she did not believe in God at all. But she was superstitious and felt obscurely that divine punishment for the death of Sir Desmond was just beginning when Mrs Bloxby asked her apologetically if she would mind taking the Boggles over to Ancombe in her car.
    ‘I know, Agatha,’ said Mrs Bloxby ruefully, ‘but we put names in a hat before you came and you got the Boggles. Ancombe isn’t far, about five minutes’ drive at the most.’
    ‘Okay,’ said Agatha gloomily.
    She drove round to the Boggles’ home, named Culloden, on the council estate. Like most of the people on the estate, they had bought their house. How could James even think for a moment I would live in a place like this, thought Agatha. It was admittedly a well-built stone house, but exactly the same as all the other houses round about. She stood looking dismally up at it. The door opened and the squat figure of Mrs Boggle appeared, followed by her husband. ‘Are you goin’ to stand there all day,’ grumbled Mrs Boggle, ‘or are you coming to help me?’
    Agatha repressed a sigh and went forward to support the bulk of Mrs Boggle, who smelt strongly of chips and lavender, towards the car.
    They both got in the back while Agatha, chauffeur-like, got into the driving seat. Mrs Boggle poked Agatha in the back as she was about to drive off. ‘Us shouldn’t be going with the likes of you,’ she said. ‘Poor Mr Lacey. What a disgrace.’
    Agatha swung round, her face flaming. ‘Shut up, you old trout,’ she said viciously. ‘Or walk.’
    ‘I’ll tell Mrs Bloxby on you,’ muttered Mrs Boggle but then relapsed into silence during the drive to Ancombe.
    Agatha hoisted the two Boggles from the car outside Ancombe church hall and sent them inside and then went to join Mrs Mason, the chairwoman of the Carsely group, Miss Simms, the secretary, and Mrs Bloxby. ‘Shame about you landing them Boggles,’ said Miss Simms, Carsely’s unmarried mother. ‘Don’t worry, I had them last time.’
    ‘I didn’t know you had a car,’ said Agatha.
    ‘My gentleman friend bought me one. Hardly the wages o’ sin. Not a Porsche but a rusty old Renault five.’
    Agatha turned to Mrs Bloxby. ‘Has that woman who’s bought my cottage joined the Ladies’ Society?’
    ‘I did ask her,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘but she said she couldn’t be bothered and shut the door in my face.’
    ‘Nasty cow,’ said Agatha. ‘Oh, if only I hadn’t sold my cottage!