Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

into the darkness.
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Third box on the left.’
    Roy walked slowly towards the cardboard indicated. At first he thought it was empty but then, bending down and peering into the gloom, he caught the shine of a pair of eyes.
    ‘Jimmy Raisin?’
    ‘Yes, what? You from the Social?’
    ‘I’m a friend of Agatha – Agatha Raisin.’
    There was a long silence and then a wheezy cackle. ‘Aggie? Thought she was dead.’
    ‘Well, she isn’t. She’s being married next Wednesday. She lives in Carsely in the Cotswolds. She thinks you’re dead.’
    There was a scraping and shuffling from inside the huge box and then Jimmy Raisin emerged on his hands and knees and got unsteadily to his feet. Even in the dim light, Roy could see he was wasted with drink. He was filthy and stank abominably. His face was covered in angry pustules and his hair was long and tangled and unkempt.
    ‘Got any money?’ he asked.
    Roy dug in the inside pocket of his jacket, produced his wallet, fished out a twenty-pound note and handed it over. Now he was really ashamed of himself. Agatha did not deserve this. Nobody did, even a bitch from hell like Agatha.
    ‘Look, forget what I said. It was a joke.’ Roy took to his heels and ran.
    Agatha awoke the next morning in James’s cottage, in James’s bed, and stretched and yawned. She turned in bed and, propping herself up on one elbow, surveyed her fiancé. His thick black hair streaked with grey was tousled. His good-looking face was firm and tanned, and once more Agatha felt that pang of unease. Such men as James Lacey were for other women, county women with solid county backgrounds, women in tweeds with dogs who could turn out cakes and jam for church fêtes with one hand tied behind their backs. Such men were not for the Agatha Raisins of this world.
    She would have liked to wake him up and make love again. But James never made love in the mornings, not after that first glorious coming together. His life was well ordered and neat – like his emotions, thought Agatha. She went through to the bathroom, washed and dressed and went downstairs and stood irresolute. This is where she would live, among James’s library of books, among the old regimental and school photographs, and here, in this clinical kitchen with not a spare crumb to mar its pristine counters, she would cook. Or would she? James had always done all the cooking when they were together. She felt like an interloper.
    James’s mother and father were dead, but she had met his elegant sister again and her tall stockbroker husband. They seemed neither to approve nor to disapprove of Agatha, though Agatha had overheard his sister saying, ‘Well, you know, if it’s what James wants, it’s none of our business. It could have been worse. Some empty-headed bimbo.’
    And her husband had said, ‘Some empty-headed bimbo would have been more understandable.’ Hardly an accolade, thought Agatha.
    She decided to go next door to the security of her own home. As she let herself in to a rapturous welcome from her two cats, Hodge and Boswell, she looked about wistfully. She had made arrangements to put all her furniture and bits and pieces in storage, not wanting to clutter up James’s neat cottage with them, especially after he had agreed to house her cats. Now she wished she had suggested that they club together to buy a larger house where she could have some of her own things. Living with James would be like being on some sort of perpetual visit.
    She fed the cats and opened the back door to let them out into the garden. It was a glorious day, with a large sky stretching across the green Cotswold hills and only the lightest of breezes.
    She went back into the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee, looking affectionately around at all the clutter which James would never allow. The doorbell rang.
    Detective Sergeant Bill Wong stood on the step, clutching a large box. ‘Got around to getting your wedding present at last,’ he said.
    ‘Come in, Bill. I’ve just made some coffee.’
    He followed her through to the kitchen and put the box on the table. ‘What is it?’ asked Agatha.
    Bill smiled, his almond-shaped eyes crinkling up. ‘Open it and see.’
    Agatha tore open the wrappings. ‘Careful,’ warned Bill. ‘It’s fragile.’
    The object was very heavy. She lifted it out with a grunt and then tore off the tissue paper which had been taped around it. It was a huge gold-and-green china elephant, noisily garish and