Agatha's First Case by M. C. Beaton Read Free Book Online Page A

certificates on her walls.”
    â€œWhy don’t I just visit her and ask her why she is targeting you?” said Phil. “She’ll deny it, but I could have a look around.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Agatha.
    â€œI’ll phone now and see if I can get an appointment for this evening,” said Phil.
    â€œYou’d better take sixty pounds with you,” said Agatha. “I’m sure that one will look on any visit as a consultation.”
    *   *   *
    Phil made his way to Jill’s cottage that evening, having secured an appointment for eight o’ clock. The cottage was on the road leading out of Carsely. It had formerly been an agricultural labourer’s cottage and was built of red brick, two storied, and rather dingy looking. Phil, who lived in Carsely, knew it had lain empty for some time. There was a small, unkempt garden in the front with a square of mossy grass and two laurel bushes.
    The curtains were drawn but he could see that lights were on in the house. He rang the bell and waited.
    Jill answered the door and looked him up and down from his mild face and white hair to his highly polished shoes.
    â€œCome in,” she said. There was a dark little hall. She opened a door to the left of it and ushered him into her consulting room. Phil looked at the walls. He noticed there were several framed diplomas. The walls were painted dark green and the floor was covered in a dark green carpet. Jill sat behind a mahogany desk which held a Victorian crystal inkwell a phone and nothing else on its gleaming surface. There was a comfortable leather chair facing her and a standard lamp with a fringed shade in one corner, shedding a soft light.
    Jill sat behind her desk and waved a hand to indicate he should take the seat opposite.
    â€œHow can I help you?” she asked. She had a deep, husky voice.
    â€œI work for Agatha Raisin,” said Phil, “and it is well known in the village that you have been spreading tales about her poor upbringing. Why?”
    â€œBecause she wasted my time. Any more questions?”
    â€œYou are supposed to help people,” said Phil in his gentle voice. “You are not supposed to go around trying to wreck their reputation. Your behaviour was not that of a caring therapist.”
    â€œGet the hell out of here!” screamed Jill with sudden and startling violence.
    Phil rose to his feet, clutched his heart, grabbed the desk for support, and then collapsed on the floor.
    â€œStupid old fart,” said Jill. “Too damn old for the job. I’d better get an ambulance.” She picked up a phone from her desk and left the room.
    Phil got quickly to his feet, took out a miniature camera and photographed the certificates on the wall before sinking back down to the floor and closing his eyes.
    She returned and stared down at him. “With any luck, you’re dead,” she said viciously, and then left the room again. She had not even bothered to search for a pulse or even loosen his collar.
    Phil got to his feet and moved quietly into the hall. He could hear Jill’s voice in the other room, but could not make out what she was saying.
    He opened the front door and walked back down the hill. He would print the photos and e-mail them to Agatha’s computer.
    *   *   *
    Later that evening, Agatha decided to walk up to the local pub for a drink. As she left, she saw James welcoming Jill and felt a sour stab of jealousy.
    In a corner of the pub were three blonde women the locals had dubbed “the trophy wives.” They were each married to rich men and were rumoured to be third or even fourth wives. They were left in the country during the week, each looking as if she were pining for London. They were remarkably alike with their trout-pout mouths, salon tans, expensive clothes, and figures maintained by strict diet and personal trainers.
    Do women have trophy husbands? wondered Agatha.