Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye Read Free

won’t interfere with anyone’s family arrangements.’
    Mrs Bloxby finished her sherry and rose wearily to her feet. ‘I’ll drive you to the vicarage,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Nonsense. I can walk.’
    ‘I insist,’ said Agatha.
    The vicar was sitting reading a book with a box of tissues on a table beside him. ‘Hello, dear,’ he said faintly.
    ‘How are you?’ asked Agatha briskly.
    ‘Still very weak.’
    ‘Your wife is exhausted,’ said Agatha, ‘so I’m going to look after you and give her a break.’
    He looked at Agatha in horror. ‘There’s no need. In fact, I’m feeling better by the minute.’
    ‘We can’t have your wife falling ill with overwork, now can we?’ Agatha gave him a wide smile but her small bearlike eyes were threatening. The vicar turned to his wife.
    ‘Please go and lie down, dearest. I assure you I am now well enough to fix us a light supper. Mrs Raisin, your services will not be needed!’
    ‘Alf, you’re shouting,’ protested Mrs Bloxby. ‘Mrs Raisin was only trying to help.’
    Agatha drove back to her cottage with a grin on her face. Men, she thought. Typical. Women get colds and men get flu.
    After dinner, she took the box of books through to her sitting room. She selected a detective story by Marjorie Allingham and began to read. The next day, she chose one by Edmund Crispin and
followed that up with one by Freeman Willis Croft. She was fishing in her handbag for her cigarettes when her fingers touched an envelope. She drew it out. It was that odd letter from Mrs
Tamworthy. Agatha, her mind full of detective stories, reread the letter with new eyes.
    What if the threat to this woman were real? Perhaps she would be invited to stay. Mrs Tamworthy would be an elegant silver-haired aristocratic lady. She would have a plump, pompous son with a
bitchy wife. Her daughter would be the gruff, hunting sort who had never married. She would have one fey granddaughter, very beautiful, engaged to an actor; and another granddaughter, a
straightforward no-nonsense girl who was secretly in love with the actor and –
    The telephone rang shrilly, interrupting her fantasy.
    The call was from Roy Silver, a young man who had once worked for Agatha when she had owned a public relations firm.
    ‘How’s things?’ asked Roy.
    ‘Cruising along. What about you?’ Roy now worked for the public relations firm that had bought Agatha’s business.
    ‘I’m pushing a new perfume. It’s called Green Desire. It’s made by an Irish company.’
    ‘Any good?’
    ‘I’ll bring you a bottle.’ There was a pause. ‘As a matter of fact, I took the liberty of driving down.’
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘Round the corner.’
    ‘Come along, then.’
    Agatha went to her front door, opened it and waited for Roy. It was unlike him to arrive unexpectedly. He always wanted something. He was probably having trouble with the Green Desire
account.
    Roy drove up, got out, opened the boot and dragged out a large suitcase.
    ‘Going somewhere on holiday?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Here, if you’ll have me, sweetie.’
    ‘Roy, wait a minute. This is a bit of an imposition.’
    To her horror, Roy burst into tears. His thin body in his Armani suit shook with sobs, and tears trickled down through his designer stubble.
    ‘Bring that case in,’ ordered Agatha, ‘and I’ll fix you a stiff drink.’
    She told him to leave his case in the hall, led the way into the sitting room and poured him a strong measure of brandy from the drinks trolley. ‘Here, get that down you,’ she
ordered. ‘Don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve. There’s a box of tissues on the table.’
    Roy sank down on to the sofa. He blew his nose vigorously, took a swig of brandy, and then stared miserably into space.
    Agatha joined him on the sofa. ‘Now, then, out with it.’
    ‘It’s been an Irish nightmare,’ said Roy. ‘I’m all broken up. I’ve handled nasty drug-ridden pop groups and prima-donna models, but never anything like