Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

next door into James’s cottage after the wedding. From time to time, little stabs of anxiety marred her happiness. Although James made love to her, although they were frequently in each other’s company, she felt she did not really know him. He was a retired army colonel, living in the Cotswold village to write military history. There was a privacy and remoteness about him. They talked about murder cases they had solved together, they talked about politics, about people in the village, but never about their feelings for each other, and James was a silent lover.
    Agatha was a middle-aged woman, blunt, sometimes coarse, who had risen from poor beginnings to become a wealthy businesswoman. Until she retired to Carsely, she had had no real friends, her work being, she thought at the time, the only friend she needed. So, though possessed of a good deal of common sense and self-honesty, when it came to James she was blind – blinded not only by love but by the fact that, as she had never been able to let anyone get close to her, his singular lack of communication seemed to her possibly normal.
    She had picked out a white wool suit to be wed in. With it she would wear a shady hat of straw with a wide brim, a green silk blouse, high-heeled black shoes, and a spray of flowers on her lapel instead of a wedding bouquet. At times, she did wish she were young again so that she could be married in white. She wished she had never married Jimmy Raisin and could be married in church. She tried on the white suit again and then peered closely in the mirror at her face. Her bearlike eyes were too small but could be made to look larger on the great day with a little judicious application of mascara and eye-shadow. There were those nasty little wrinkles around her mouth, and to her horror she saw a long hair sprouting from her upper lip and seized the tweezers and wrenched it out. She took off the precious suit, put on a blouse and trousers and then vigorously slapped anti-wrinkle cream all over her face. She had been dieting and that seemed to have taken care of that former double chin. Her brown hair cut in a Dutch bob gleamed with health.
    The doorbell rang. She cursed under her breath, wiped off the anti-wrinkle cream and went to answer it. Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, stood on the doorstep.
    ‘Oh, do come in,’ said Agatha reluctantly. She was fond of Mrs Bloxby, and yet the very sight of that good woman with her kind eyes and vague face sent a stab of guilt through Agatha. Mrs Bloxby had asked Agatha what had happened to her husband and Agatha had said Jimmy was dead, but every time she saw the vicar’s wife Agatha began to have an uneasy feeling that the wretched Jimmy, despite his rampant alcoholism as a young man, might have somehow survived.
    Roy Silver faced the detective he had hired. She was a woman of thirty-something called Iris Harris. Ms Harris – not Miss, bite your tongue – was an ardent feminist and Roy had begun to wonder if she was any good at her job or if she specialized in haranguing clients on the rights of women. Therefore he was amazed when she said, ‘I’ve found Jimmy Raisin.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Down under the arches at Waterloo.’
    ‘I’d better see him,’ said Roy. ‘Is he there now?’
    ‘I don’t think he ever moves except to buy another bottle of meths.’
    ‘You’re sure it’s him?’
    Iris looked at him with contempt. ‘Just because I am a woman you think I cannot do my job. Just because –’
    ‘Spare me!’ said Roy. ‘I’ll see him myself. You’ve done well. Send me the bill.’ And he fled the office before she could lecture him any more.
    The light was fading from the sky when Roy paid off the taxi at Waterloo station and then walked towards the arches. Then he realized the folly of not taking Iris with him. He should have at least asked for a description. There was a young fellow sitting outside his cardboard box. He appeared sober, although Roy found his tattooed arms and shaven head somewhat scary.
    ‘Do you know a chap called Jimmy Raisin?’ ventured Roy, suddenly timid. The light was almost gone and this was a side of London he usually preferred to ignore – the homeless, the drunks, the druggies.
    Had the young man denied knowledge, then Roy would have decided to forget the whole thing. He was suddenly ashamed of his low behaviour. But Agatha’s stars were definitely in the descendant, so the young man said laconically, ‘Over there, guv.’
    Roy peered