Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon Read Online Free Page B

the road. It was then Mrs. Raisin took over and with a marvellous piece of detective work guessed where the body might be.”
    Like Agatha, Charles knew that Phil would turn out to be the hero of the day in the morning papers. He was seventy-six and at his first day of work. Poor Agatha.
    Charles heard the front door crash open and hurriedly switched off the television set.
    Agatha came in and stood glowering at him. “Bad day at the office, dear?” asked Charles.
    She marched over to the drinks trolley and helped herself to a large gin and tonic, lit a cigarette and then slumped down on the sofa next to him.
    “I employ some geriatric out of the kindness of my heart,” she raged. “I find a body that the police couldn’t find and he gets all the credit. I met Miss Simms on the road and she stopped my car and told me she had seen all the television cameras up at Phil’s cottage. Have any of them been here?”
    “Don’t know. I’ve just arrived. But I hear the rumble of approaching vehicles. Probably them.”
    Agatha darted to the mirror and, opening her handbag, took out a lipstick and compact and began to make quick repairs to her make-up.
    The doorbell rang. “I’ll put them straight,” she muttered.
    “Aggie, if you do Phil down and contradict his story, you’ll look ungracious and mean.”
    “Mind your own business.”
    The doorbell rang.
    But Agatha was a shrewd operator. Charles heard her praising Phil and saying how lucky she was to have him. “I am tired of ageism,” he heard Agatha say. “People should be employed because of their brains and talents irrespective of age.” She then went on to credit Phil with the idea of retracing Jessica’s journey home and then carefully went on to explain how her own brilliance and intuition had been instrumental in finding the body.
    When she had finished, she came back in and sat down again on the sofa beside Charles. “Look at it this way,” said Charles, “and be fair. If it hadn’t been for Phil’s idea you wouldn’t have found the body.”
    “Oh, I suppose so. I suppose that case is over. I was charging the parents a modest fee. They don’t have much, so I’d better leave the rest to the police.”
    “What’s happened to your wits? You volunteer to find out who killed their daughter for nothing. Good publicity. And down under that hard shell of yours, there must be a decent human being who wants to find out who murdered a young girl.”
    A picture of Jessica’s dead body rose up in Agatha’s mind. “Excuse me,” she gasped. She darted up to the bathroom and was violently sick.
    After she had bathed her face and reapplied her make-up, she went shakily back downstairs.
    “You’re right,” she said. “Publicity or not, I’ll do it.”
    “Good. Let’s walk up to Phil’s cottage. The fresh air will do you good.”
    On the road there, they met Patrick Mulligan, a retired detective who had left Agatha’s employ to live with Miss Simms. Miss Simms had been the unmarried mother of Carsely, her scandalous affairs with various married men delighting and shocking the village. People were almost disappointed that she had settled down.
    “Saw that business on the news,” said Patrick. “Funny, I’ve been getting bored and I was going to ask you for my old job back.”
    “Well, you’re a day too late,” said Agatha. But she stopped short, thinking that all the publicity would surely bring in new cases and Patrick still had ties to the police and was efficient at getting information out of them. “Oh, you can start again tomorrow, Patrick. Come with us to Phil’s and we’ll have a council of war.”
    When Phil let them in, Agatha was glad she had re-employed Patrick. Phil was looking older and quite frail.
    “It’s the shock,” he said weakly. “It hits you afterwards. For years I ran my own photographic shop in Evesham, nice quiet existence, chatting to the customers, and then this.”
    “It’ll pass,” said Agatha. “I’ve just