Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

the bell beside the bed.
    ‘Am I getting out of here tomorrow?’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Raisin,’ said the nurse.
    ‘Well, be an angel and get me the necessary signing-off forms because I’m leaving today.’
    ‘If you think that’s wise . . .’
    ‘Oh, very, very wise.’
    ‘Very well.’
    As she left, Roy Silver came in. ‘Wilson’s delighted, Agatha. Start in a month’s time?’
    ‘Sure, sure,’ said Agatha, and he looked at her suspiciously. ‘Don’t glare at me, Roy. I’m here until tomorrow anyway. Aren’t you expected back in London?’
    ‘Yes, but don’t run away.’
    ‘I’m here in a hospital bed, aren’t I?’
    Roy left and walked slowly down the corridor. As he passed a nurse who was talking to a doctor, he heard her say, ‘That Mrs Raisin in room five wants to check out today. She’s not due to leave until tomorrow. I don’t suppose a day matters.’
    They walked off. Roy stood stock-still. Then he turned back and stopped again. If Agatha had changed her mind, she might not tell him. He would wait until she left and see that she went straight home.
    He waited an hour in the car park until he saw Mrs Bloxby, that vicar’s wife, arrive. After another half-hour’s wait, Agatha emerged with Mrs Bloxby and got into her car. Roy got into his own car and followed. Instead of going to Carsely, they went straight to Moreton-in-Marsh and stopped outside a travel agent’s. Again Roy waited until they emerged. Then he breezed into the travel agent’s and said blithely, ‘I just saw my friend Mrs Raisin. Off to foreign parts?’
    ‘Yes,’ said the travel agent brightly. ‘Off to northern Cyprus.’
    ‘When?’
    Tomorrow. Now how can I help you, sir?’
    ‘The old, sly, double-dealing bitch,’ screamed Roy, thinking of his lost bonus and lost triumph.
    ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ The travel agent, a smart brunette, looked at him, appalled.
    ‘And stuff you too,’ yelled Roy. ‘God, I hate women!’

If you enjoyed The Murderous Marriage, read on for the first chapter of the next book in the Agatha Raisin series . . .

Chapter One

    Agatha Raisin was a bewildered and unhappy woman. Her marriage to her next-door neighbour, James Lacey, had been stopped by the appearance of a husband she had assumed – hopefully – to be dead. But he was very much alive, that was, until he was murdered. Solving the murder had, thought Agatha, brought herself and James close again, but he had departed for north Cyprus, leaving her alone.
    Although life in the Cotswold village of Carsely had softened Agatha around the edges, she was still in part the hard-bitten businesswoman she had been when she had run her own public relations firm in Mayfair before selling up, taking early retirement and moving to the country. And so she had decided to pursue James.
    Cyprus, she knew, was partitioned into two parts, with Turkish Cypriots in the north and Greek Cypriots in the south. James had gone to the north and somewhere, somehow, she would find him and make him love her again.
    North Cyprus was where they had been supposed to go on their honeymoon and, in her less tender moments, Agatha thought it rather hard-hearted and crass of James Lacey to have gone there on his own.
    When Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, called, it was to find Agatha amidst piles of brightly coloured summer clothes.
    ‘Are you taking all those with you?’ asked Mrs Bloxby, pushing a strand of grey hair out of her eyes.
    ‘I don’t know how long I will be there,’ said Agatha. ‘I’d better take lots.’
    Mrs Bloxby looked at her doubtfully. Then she said, ‘Do you think you are doing the right thing? I mean, men do not like to be pursued.’
    ‘How else do you get one?’ demanded Agatha angrily. She picked up a swimsuit, one-piece, gold and black, and looked at it critically.
    ‘I have doubts about James Lacey,’ said Mrs Bloxby in her gentle voice. ‘He always struck me as being a cold, rather self-contained man.’
    ‘You don’t know him,’ said Agatha defensively, thinking of nights in bed with James, tumultuous nights, but silent nights during which he had not said one word of love. ‘Anyway, I need a holiday.’
    ‘Don’t be away too long. You’ll miss us all.’
    ‘There’s not much to miss about Carsely. The Ladies’ Society, the church fêtes, yawn.’
    ‘That’s a bit cruel, Agatha. I thought you enjoyed them.’
    But Agatha felt that a Carsely without James had suddenly become a bleak and empty place, filled