Today's Reading
CHAPTER ONE
"So this is where the murder was committed..." Agatha Raisin leaned against a wooden gate, craning her neck to peer into the meadow beyond. The shallow, grassy slope glistened with moisture, the morning sun having banished the overnight frost, leaving only furtive patches of white cowering in the sparse shade of leafless trees and the more substantial shadows lurking behind stone walls.
"It was around here that William Harrison's slashed hat and bloodstained scarf were found." Sir Charles Fraith stood behind her, leaning against his Range Rover, the large car dominating the roadside turn-off leading to the gate.
Agatha gave up straining to see into the meadow, instead stepping towards a stone stile set in the perimeter wall that gave access to a public footpath. She put one foot on the stile, then changed her mind. The four-inch heels on her mauve suede shoes were not designed for climbing over walls, even this low, waist-high boundary. Slipping off the shoes, she handed them to Charles.
"Here," she said. "Look after these. I want to take a look at the crime scene."
When she pushed herself up onto the stile step, she felt the unmistakable pop of a seam stitch at the back of her skirt. She sighed. The skirt had been a little tight when she first eased herself into it earlier that morning but it was the perfect purple to complement her new shoes. Surely it should have slackened off with wearing, not shrunk even tighter? She hitched it up, easing the strain but raising the hemline well above her knees. There was a murmur of approval from behind her. She turned and glowered at Charles.
"Well," he said, shrugging and smiling, "you've always had great legs."
"You'd best not try lines like that on any of your new employees, Charles," she warned him with a wag of her finger. "You'll be accused of using inappropriate language and sexism, and likely be sued for compensation for the distress you've caused."
"You needn't worry about that," Charles said, smiling. "I've brought in the very best people at the vineyard, in the winery and in the ice-cream business for that matter. I'm not going to risk losing any of them now that we're up and running. You can count on that, Aggie."
She gave him a cool look out of the corner of her eye. He'd used that name again. It was fine when they had been together, when they had been lovers, but once his dalliances with younger women had put an end to that, the pet name, "Aggie," had become an irritant. She had warned him countless times not to call her that, but old habits, especially in a man like Charles, who had never grown accustomed to letting anyone tell him what to do, died hard. In any case, she had a murder scene to scrutinise. She concentrated on traversing the stile without splitting any seams and took a couple of paces on the meadow's wet grass, ignoring the moisture seeping into the soles of her tights.
To her right she could see the graveyard of St. James' Church in Chipping Campden and the ornate church tower. In front of her, across the wide, grassy slope, lay fields and trees stretching off towards distant, hazy hills. The far edge of the meadow was marked by another stone wall and, dominating the wall, a curious, three-storey stone building with twin gables in its slate roof. Four pinnacles, like small minarets, rose from each corner of the building. Although poor imitations of their far more majestic counterparts proudly adorning the church tower, they still managed to lend the building an air of grandeur.
"What's that house over there?" Agatha asked, pointing towards the building with one hand while using the other to shield her eyes from the low winter sun.
"That's the East Banqueting House," Charles replied. "Looks rather splendid in this light, doesn't it?" He reached into the pocket of his heavy tweed shooting jacket, retrieving his phone to snap a picture of the scene. "It was once part of Campden House, although the old mansion was burned down in 1645."
Agatha turned to face him. She had seen no sign of any police tape, nor notices warning the public to stay clear, nor anything at all to indicate that a murder investigation was underway. She frowned at Charles, then instantly imagined her eyebrows, normally high, graceful, well-manicured arches, stooping to meet low on her forehead like two kissing snakes. She felt a wrinkle puckering. That would never do. She released the snakes.
"When exactly did this murder take place?" she asked.
"Ah, yes," Charles said, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "That's the really interesting bit. William Harrison went missing on the sixteenth of August 1660."
"The sixteenth of... ?" Agatha stomped back to the stile as well as anyone could stomp in stockinged feet on soggy grass, mounting the stile with scant regard to the danger of a split seam. "You told me there was a mysterious murder to be solved here, not some ancient fairy tale from nearly four hundred years ago! You've hood winked me into coming along this afternoon!" She snatched her shoes from him, managing to fix him with a look of simmering fury while still accepting his arm for balance as she crammed her damp feet back into her shoes.
...
