Agatha Raisin: Hiss and Hers by MC Beaton Page A

park where she had left her vehicle. She was just about to get into it when she saw Toni – the barmaid! – drive up. She locked her car again and followed the girl. Toni went straight to the detective agency.
    Now Fiona’s fury knew no bounds. That wretched Raisin woman probably had Simon as well as Toni working for her, and all Simon had been doing was smooching up to her to find out if she was a murderess. And what had that wretched woman said about her darling George having affairs in Carsely?
    She went to the nearest pub and drank several vodkas, her hatred of Agatha and Simon mounting with each glass. I am, she decided tipsily, a woman of action. I will go to this wretched village, find out where that Raisin woman lives and force her to listen to me.
    Fiona returned to her car and took out an ordnance survey map of Gloucestershire. But the lines swam before her eyes. Soon she was asleep. She awoke hours later with her head resting against the steering wheel.
    Remembering her mission, she consulted the map again and, this time, located the route to Carsely. Still feeling the effects of all she had drunk, she drove slowly and carefully, finally reaching Carsely.
    Fiona parked in front of the general store. A stout elderly woman with a sour face was just leaving. ‘Do you have Agatha Raisin’s address?’ asked Fiona, putting on what she thought was a winsome smile. Had the woman been anyone else but Mrs Arnold, Fiona would probably have been asked her business, but Mrs Arnold, looking at Fiona’s deranged face, hoped to make trouble.
    â€˜It’s Lilac Lane, over there,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘The thatched cottage at the end.’
    Fiona marched off, weaving her way towards Lilac Lane, the effects of all she had drunk having not yet worn off.
    She rang the bell and hammered on the door but there was no reply. She stood back and looked around. The leafy lane seemed to swim in the sunlight. She saw a path at the side of the house. She found her way blocked by a padlocked gate. She climbed nimbly over it.
    Fiona settled herself on a garden chair, determined to wait. The sun was hot but she was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. She looked sourly at the blaze of flowers. No doubt George’s work. She felt a stab of vicious jealousy. The day was warm and her eyelids began to droop again. Her head fell on her bosom, her hat tipped over her face, and she fell asleep and began to snore. Fiona slept so deeply that a figure climbing over the garden fence and dropping to the ground did not wake her.
    Agatha arrived home an hour later. Her cats ran in front of her to the garden door and Boswell started pawing at it and meowing. She experienced a sudden spasm of fear. Were there snakes out there?
    She looked cautiously through the glass panes of the door. A woman was seated at the garden table, her head covered by a large hat. The hat was black and red. Agatha was about to open the door when she suddenly saw how that red colour glittered unnaturally in the sunlight.
    With trembling hands, she seized the phone receiver and called the police. Then she slowly sank down on the floor and hugged her knees.
    The front doorbell rang shrilly. Surely not the police so soon. She heaved herself to her feet and went to the door and peered through the spyhole. Charles Fraith was standing outside. Agatha opened the door, stared at Charles and burst into tears.
    He wrapped his arms around her. ‘What’s happened?’ Agatha gulped and pulled herself together. ‘In the garden,’ she said. ‘I think she’s dead.’
    Charles released her and strode into the house and straight out into the garden. Agatha hurried after him, crying, ‘Don’t touch anything! The police are coming!’
    Charles returned to the kitchen. ‘Do you recognize her?’
    â€˜I can’t see anything. That hat is right over her eyes. Wait a moment. Where have I seen those black lace tights before?