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  Agatha Raisin The Perfect Paragon

  ( Agatha Raisin - 16 )

  M.C. Beaton

  After being nearly killed by both a hired hit man and her former secretary, Agatha Raisin could use some low-key cases. So when Robert Smedley walks through the door, determined to prove that his wife is cheating, Raisin Investigations immediately offers to help. Trouble is, Agatha hates divorce cases—especially when the client is as pompous as Smedley—but she has a business to run and she’s not about to turn away a paying customer. Unfortunately for Agatha, Mabel Smedley appears to be the perfect wife, young and pretty and a regular volunteer at church.

  Although Smedley’s case doesn’t look promising, Agatha’s attentions are diverted when she stumbles across the body of missing teenager, Jessica Bradley. In a sudden gesture of kindness (and good public relations), Agatha offers to investigate Jessica’s death free of charge.

  As Agatha juggles her two biggest cases, things are turned upside down when Robert Smedley is found poisoned in his office. The prime suspect, his sainted wife Mabel, immediately hires Agatha to find the real killer.

  With the help of her old friend, Sir Charles Fraith, and some newly hired staff, Agatha Raisin sets off on another adventure solving crime in the English Cotswolds.

  Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon

  Beaton, M. C.

  Minotaur Books (2010)

  CRITICS HAIL AGATHA RAISIN AND M. C BEATON!

  “Tourists are advised to watch their backs in the bucolic villages where M. C. Beaton sets her sly British mysteries … Outsiders always spell trouble for the societies Beaton observes with such cynical humor.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “[Beaton’s] imperfect heroine is an absolute gem!”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Beaton’s Agatha Raisin series just about defines the British cozy”

  —Booklist

  “Anyone interested in … intelligent, amusing reading will want to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Agatha Raisin.”

  —Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “Beaton has a winner in the irrepressible, romance-hungry Agatha.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Few things in life are more satisfying than to discover a brand new Agatha Raisin mystery.”

  —Tampa Tribune Times

  “The Raisin series brings the cozy tradition back to life. God bless the Queen!”

  —Tulsa World

  “The Miss Marple-like Raisin is a refreshingly sensible, wonderfully eccentric, thoroughly likable heroine … a must for cozy fans.”

  —Booklist

  THE PERFECT PARAGON

  “Though Agatha is still a bit of a piece of work, she is mellowing with age, and in this book even forgets to ‘gussy’ herself up once when she goes out. There’s a cliffhanger at the end … that is going to be interesting in the next book.”

  —Deadly Pleasures

  “This is the latest perfectly precious prose problem from Beaton, Britain’s successor to Dame Agatha Christie. If you’ve never read an Agatha Raisin novel, it’s time to start, and you’ll have fifteen more of these confections awaiting you. Polish those off, and you still have a batch of Hamish Macbeth tales. All of them are cunningly plotted, beautifully written and more fun you can imagine. The Perfect Paragon is as perfect as all the others, and you won’t figure out whodunit until the final pages.”

  —The Globe & Mail

  “Entertaining … welcome back to Carsely, the charming Cotswolds village that’s home to the sixteenth Agatha Raisin mystery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fabulous … M. C. Beaton is at her best with this fine tale filled with twists.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  THE DEADLY DANCE

  “It’s been 40 years since Dame Agatha Christie’s death, and in that time, reviewers have often bestowed her mantle on new authors. M. C. Beaton is one of those so honored, and she deserves it. When it comes to artfully constructed puzzle plots and charming settings, Beaton serves it up … This is a classic British cozy plot, and a setting done with panache. Maybe M. C. Beaton really is the new ‘Queen of Crime.”

  —The Globe & Mail

  “It is always fun to read an Agatha Raisin mystery, but the latest installment freshens up a delightful series by converting the heroine from amateur sleuth to professional without changing her caustic wit. Agatha remains crude and rude even to clients, but also retains that vulnerability that endears her to readers.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A very satisfying change for the smart woman of mystery with a new cast of colorfully realized characters blending with a few old favorites.”

  —Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

  “The story was first-rate and moved along with many twists and turns that kept me always guessing … I read this book in one sitting, which I think speaks for itself.”

  —I Love a Mystery

  “Fans of Agatha Raisin will be absolutely delighted at this latest addition to the series. Ms. Beaton has surpassed herself in The Deadly Dance”

  —Reviewing the Evidence

  ALSO BY M. G BEATON

  Agatha Raisin

  Love, Lies & Liquor

  The Perfect Paragon: An Agatha Raisin Mystery

  The Deadly Dance: An Agatha Raisin Mystery

  Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

  Agatha Raisin and the Case of the Curious Curate

  Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came

  Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

  Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

  Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

  Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

  Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

  Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

  Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

  Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley

  Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener

  The Vicious Vet

  The Quiche of Death

  The Skeleton in the Closet

  Hamish Macbeth

  Death of a Bore

  Death of a Poison Pen

  Death of a Village

  Death of a Celebrity

  A Highland Christmas

  Writing as Marion Chesney

  Our Lady of Pain

  Sick of Shadows

  Hasty Death

  Snobbery with Violence

  THE PERFECT PARAGON

  An Agatha Raisin Mystery

  M. C BEATON

  This book is dedicated to Dawn and Clive Simons

  and their daughters, Keriann and Kimherlee,

  with affection

  THE PERFECT PARAGON

  Copyright (c) 2005 by M. C. Beaton.

  ONE

  EVERYONE in the village of Carsely in the English Cotswolds was agreed on one thing—no one had ever seen such a spring before.

  Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, stepped out into her garden and took a deep breath of fresh-scented air. Never had there been so much blossom. The lilac trees were bent down under the weight of purple and white blooms. White hawthorn hedges formed bridal alleys out of the country lanes. Clematis spilled over walls like flowery waterfalls, and wisteria decorated the golden stone of the cottages with showers of delicate purple blooms. All the trees were covered in bright, fresh green. It was as if the countryside were clothed like an animal in a deep, rich pelt of leaves and flowers.

  The few misery-guts in the village shook their heads and said it heralded a harsh winter to come. Nature moved in a mysterious way to protect itself.

  The vicarage doorbell ran
g and Mrs. Bloxby went to answer it. Agatha Raisin stood there, stocky and truculent, a line of worry between her eyes.

  “Come in,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Why aren’t you at the office? No cases to solve?”

  Agatha ran her own detective agency in Mircester. She was well dressed, as she usually was these days, in a linen trouser suit, and her glossy brown hair was cut in a fashionable crop. But her small brown eyes looked worried.

  Mrs. Bloxby led the way into the garden. “Coffee?”

  “No,” said Agatha. “I’ve been drinking gallons of the stuff. Just wanted a chat.”

  “Chat away.”

  Agatha felt a sense of comfort stealing over her. Mrs. Bloxby with her mild eyes and grey hair always had a tranquillizing effect on her.

  “I could do with a really big case. Everything seems to be itty-bitty things like lost cats and dogs. I don’t want to run into the red. Miss Simms, who was acting as secretary, has gone off with my full-time detective, Patrick Mulligan. He’s retired and doesn’t want to be bothered any more with work. Sammy Allen did the photo work, and Douglas Ballantyne the technical stuff. But I had to let them go. There just wasn’t enough work. Then Sally Fleming, who replaced Patrick, got lured away by a London detective agency, and my treasure of a secretary, Mrs. Edie Frint, got married again.

  “Maybe the trouble was that I gave up taking divorce cases. The lawyers used to put a good bit of business my way.”

  Mrs. Bloxby was well aware that Agatha was divorced from the love of her life, James Lacey, and thought that was probably why Agatha did not want to handle divorce cases.

  She said, “Maybe you should take on a few divorce cases just to get the money rolling again. You surely don’t want any murders.”

  “I’d rather have a murder than a divorce,” muttered Agatha.

  “Perhaps you have been working too hard. Maybe you should take a few days off. I mean, it is a glorious spring.”

  “Is it?” Agatha gazed around the glory of the garden with city eyes which had never become used to the countryside. She had sold up a successful public relations company in London and had taken early retirement. Living in the Cotswolds had been a dream since childhood, but Agatha still carried the city, with all its bustle and hectic pace, inside herself.

  “Who have you got to replace Patrick and Miss Simms? Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything? I have some home-made scones.”

  Agatha was tempted, but the waistband of her trousers was already tight. She shook her head. “Let me see… staff. Well, there’s a Mrs. Helen Freedman from Evesham as secretary. Middleaged, competent, quite a treasure. I do all the detecting myself.”

  “And for the technical and photographic stuff?”

  “I’m looking for someone. Experts charge so much.”

  “There’s Mr. Witherspoon in the village. He’s an expert cameraman and so good with computers and things.”

  “I know Mr. Witherspoon. He must be about a hundred.”

  “Come now. He’s only seventy-six and that’s quite young these days.”

  “It’s not young. Come on. Seventy-six is creaking.”

  “Why not go and see him? He lives in Rose Cottage by the school.”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Bloxby’s normally mild eyes hardened a fraction. Agatha said hurriedly, “On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt me to go along for a chat.” Agatha Raisin, who could face up to most of the world, crumpled before the slightest suggestion of the vicar’s wife’s displeasure.

  Rose Cottage, despite its name, did not boast any roses. The front garden had been covered in tarmac to allow Mr. Witherspoon to park his old Ford off the road. His cottage was one of the few modem ones in Carsely, an ugly redbrick two-storeyed affair. Agatha, who knew Mr. Witherspoon only by sight, was prepared to dislike someone who appeared to have so little taste.

  She raised her hand to ring the doorbell but it was opened and Mr. Witherspoon stood there. “Come to offer me a job?” he said cheerfully.

  Much as she loved Mrs. Bloxby, in that moment Agatha felt she could have strangled her. She hated being manipulated and Mrs. Bloxby appeared to have done just that.

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha gruffly. “Can I come in?”

  “By all means. I’ve just made coffee.”

  She telephoned him as soon as I left. That’s it, thought Agatha. She followed him into a room made into an office.

  It was impeccably clean and ordered. A computer desk stood at the window flanked on either side with shelves of files. A small round table and two chairs dominated the centre of the room. On the wall opposite the window were ranks of shelves containing a collection of cameras and lenses.

  “Sit down, please,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “I‘11 bring coffee.”

  He was an average-sized man with thick grey hair. His face was not so much lined as crumpled, as if one only had to take a hot iron to it to restore it to its former youth. He was slim.

  No paunch, thought Agatha. At least he can’t be a boozer.

  He came back in a short time carrying a tray with the coffee things and a plate of scones.

  “Black, please,” said Agatha. “May I smoke?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Well, one good mark so far, thought Agatha. “I’ll get you an ashtray,” he said. “Have a scone.”

  When he was out of the room, Agatha stared at the plate of scones in sudden suspicion. She picked up one and bit into it. Mrs. Bloxby’s scones. She would swear to it. Once again, she felt manipulated and then experienced a surge of malicious glee at the thought of turning him down.

  He came back and placed a large glass ashtray next to Agatha.

  He sat down opposite her and said, “What can I do for you?”

  “Just a social call,” said Agatha.

  A flicker of disappointment crossed his faded green eyes.

  “How nice. How’s the detective business?”

  “Not much work at the moment.”

  “That’s odd. There’s so much infidelity in the Cotswolds, I would have thought you would have enough to keep you busy.”

  “I don’t do divorce cases any more.”

  “Pity. That’s where the money is. Now, take Robert Smedley over in Ancombe. He’s very rich. Electronics company. Madly jealous. Trunks his wife is cheating on him. Pay anything to find out.”

  They studied each other for a long moment. I really need the money, thought Agatha.

  “But he hasn’t approached me,” she said at last.

  “I could get him to.”

  Agatha had a sizeable bank balance and stocks and shares. But she did not want to become one of those sad people whose lifetime savings were eaten up by trying to run an unsuccessful business.

  She said tentatively. “I need someone to do bugging and camera work.”

  “I could do that.”

  “It sometimes means long hours.”

  “I’m fit.”

  “Let me see, this is Sunday. If you could have a word with this Mr. Smedley and bring him along to the office tomorrow, I’ll get my Mrs. Freedman to draw you up a contract. Shall we say a month’s trial?”

  “Very well, you won’t be disappointed.”

  Agatha rose to her feet and as a parting shot said, “Don’t forget to thank Mrs. Bloxby for the scones.”

  Outside, realizing she had forgotten to smoke, she lit up a cigarette. That was the trouble with all these anti-smoking people around these days. It was almost as if their disapproval polluted the very air and forced one to light up when one didn’t want to.

  Because of the traditions of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, women in the village called each other by their second names. So Mrs. Freedman was Mrs. Freedman even in the office, but Mr. Witherspoon volunteered his name was Phil.

  Agatha was irritated when Phil turned up alone, but he said that Robert Smedley would be along later. After he didn’t protest at the modest wages Agatha was offering him, she felt guilty and promised him more if his work should prove sati
sfactory.

  The office consisted of one low-beamed room above a shop in the old part of Mircester near the abbey. Agatha and Mrs. Freedman both had desks at the window: Phil was given Patrick’s old desk against the wall. There was a chintz-covered sofa and a low coffee table flanked by two armchairs for visitors. Filing cabinets and a kettle on a tray with a packet of tea and ajar of instant coffee, milk and sugar cubes made up the rest of the furnishings.

  Mr. Robert Smedley arrived at last and Agatha’s heart sank. He looked the sort of man she heartily despised. First of all, he was crammed into a tight suit. It had originally been an expensive one and Mr. Smedley was obviously of the type who would not admit to putting on weight or to spending money to have the suit altered. He had small black eyes in a doughy face shadowed by bushy black eyebrows. His flat head of hair was jet-black. Hair dyes are getting better these days, thought Agatha. Almost looks real. He had a small pursed mouth, “like an arsehole,” as Agatha said later to Mrs. Bloxby, and then had to apologize for her bad language.

  “Please sit down,” said Agatha, mentally preparing to sock him with a large fee and get rid of him. “How may I be of help?”

  “This is very embarrassing.” Mr. Smedley glared round the small office. “Oh, very well. I think Mabel is seeing another man.”

  “Mabel being your wife?” prompted Agatha.

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you think she might be having an affair?”

  “Oh, little things. I came home early one day and I heard her singing.”

  “Why is that so odd?”

  “She never sings when I’m around.”

  Can’t blame her for that, thought Agatha sourly.

  “Anything else?”

  “Last week she bought a new dress without consulting me.”

  “Women do that,” said Agatha patiently. “I mean, why would she need your permission to buy a new dress?”

  “I choose all her clothes. I’m an important man and I like to see my wife dressed accordingly.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough? I tell you, if she’s seeing someone I want evidence for a divorce.”