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Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham: An Agatha Raisin Mystery, Book 8 By M. C. Beaton EBOOK. Free Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham: An. Download Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage (Agatha Raisin) mischief, mayhem, and murder her deceptively quaint ebook Agatha Raisin and the the Murderous Marriage (Agatha Raisin) pdf download Free Agatha Raisin and. [PDF DOWNLOAD] The Dead Ringer: An Agatha Raisin Mystery (Agatha Raisin Mysteries) Free Epub/MOBI/EBooks.

The right of M. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Chapter One.

Other, more voluble, races would not stand for it. She debated whether to go and see the guard herself. Then she remembered she was no longer in a hurry to get anywhere. She took out a copy of the Evening Standard, which she had bought at the station, and settled down to read it. After twenty minutes the train creaked slowly into life.

Another twenty minutes after Charl- bury and it slid into the little station of Moreton- in-Marsh. Agatha climbed out. Her car was still where she had left it. During the last few min- utes of the journey she had begun to worry that it might have been stolen. Market day was Tuesday.

She must remember that. Her new Saab purred out of Moreton and then up through Bourton-on- the-Hill.

Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death - M.C. Beaton

Nearly home. Home at last. She turned off the A44 and then began the slow descent to the village of Carsely, which nestled in a fold of the Cotswold Hills. It was a very pretty village, even by Cotswold standards. There were two long lines of houses interspersed with shops, some low and thatched, some warm gold brick with slate roofs. There was a pub called the Red Lion at one end and a church at the other.

A few straggling streets ran off this one main road where cottages leaned together as if for support in their old age. Outside the village and tucked away from view by a rise was a council estate and between the council estate and the village proper was the police station, a primary school, and a library.

Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death - M.C. Beaton | Business

It looked like a cottage in one of the calendars she used to treas- ure as a girl. It was low and thatched, new thatch, Norfolk reed, and with casement win- dows and built of the golden Cotswold stone. There was a small garden at the front and a long narrow one at the back. Unlike practically every- one else in the Cotswolds, the previous owner had not been a gardener.

There was little else but grass and depressing bushes of the hard-wearing kind found in public parks. Inside there was a small dark cubby-hole of a hall. To the right was the living-room; to the left, the dining-room, and the kitchen at the back was part of a recent extension and was large and square.

Upstairs were two low-ceilinged bed- rooms and a bathroom. All the ceilings were beamed. Agatha had given the interior decorator a free hand. It was all as it should be and yet. Agatha paused at the door of the living-room. She went into the kitchen and switched on the central heating. The super- duper removal company had even put her clothes in the bedroom and her books on the shelves, so there was not much for her to do.

She went through to the dining-room. Long table, shining under its heat-resistant surface, Victorian dining chairs, Edwardian painting of a small child in a frock in a bright garden, Welsh dresser with blue-and-white plates, another fireplace with a fake-log electric fire, and a drinks trolley. Upstairs, the bedrooms were pure Laura Ashley. Well, she had nothing for dinner and after a life of restaurants and take-aways, Agatha had planned to learn how to cook, and there were all her new cookery books in a gleaming row on a shelf in the kitchen.

She collected her handbag and made her way out. Time to investigate what few village shops there were. The villagers blamed the incomers, but it was the motor car. Most people in the village owned some sort of car. As Agatha approached the main street, an old man was coming the other way. After London, where she had not even known her neighbours, all this friendliness was a refreshing change.

Again, in the store, she was met with friendliness all round. At the door of the shop was a box of second-hand books. There was a battered copy of Gone With the Wind and she bought it on impulse.

Back in her cottage, she found a basket of pseudo-logs by the fire, little round things made out of pressed sawdust. She piled some up in the grate and set fire to them and soon had a blaze roaring up the chimney. She removed the lace antimacassar which the decorator had cutely draped over the television screen and switched it on.

There was some war going on, as there. What is the situation now? It was like the Gulf War all over again, where most of the coverage seemed to consist of a reporter stand- ing in front of a palm tree outside some hotel in Riyadh.

What a waste of money. He never had much information and it would surely have been cheaper to place him in front of a palm tree in a studio in London. She switched it off and picked up Gone With the Wind. She had been looking forward to a piece of intellectual slumming to celebrate her release from work, but she was amazed at how very good it was, almost indecently readable, thought Agatha, who had only read before the sort of books you read to impress people.

The fire crackled and Agatha read until her rumbling stomach prompted her to put the curry in the microwave. Life was good. But a week passed, a week in which Agatha, in her usual headlong style, had set out to see the sights. She had tried visiting the pub, the Red Lion, a jolly low-raftered chintzy sort of place with a cheerful landlord.

And the locals had talked to her as they always did with a peculiar sort of open friendliness that never went any further. Agatha could have coped with a suspi- cious animosity but not this cheerful welcome which somehow still held her at bay. Not that Agatha had ever known how to make friends, but there was something about the villagers, she discovered, which repelled incomers.

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They did not reject them. On the surface they welcomed them. But Agatha knew that her presence made not a ripple on the calm pond of village life.

No one asked her to tea. No one showed any curios- ity about her whatsoever. The vicar did not even call. In an Agatha Christie book the vicar would have called, not to mention some retired colonel and his wife.

For the first time in her life, she knew loneli- ness, and it frightened her.

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From the kitchen windows at the back of the house was a view of the Cotswold Hills, rising up to block out the world of bustle and com- merce, trapping Agatha like some baffled alien creature under the thatch of her cottage, cut off.

And then she suddenly laughed. London was only an hour and a half away on the train, not thousands of miles. She would take herself up the following day, see her former staff, have lunch at the Caprice, and then perhaps raid the bookshops for some more readable material.

She had missed market day in Moreton, but there was always another week. As if to share her mood, the sun shone down on a perfect spring day. The cherry tree at the end of her back garden, the one concession to beauty that the previous owner had seen fit to make, raised heavy branches of flowers to a clear blue sky as Agatha had her usual breakfast of one cup of black coffee, instant, and two filter- tipped cigarettes.

With a feeling of holiday, she drove up the winding hill that led out of the village and then down through Bourton-on-the-Hill to Moreton- in-Marsh. She arrived at Paddington station and drew in great lungfuls of polluted air and felt herself come alive again.

In the taxi to South Molton Street she realized she did not really have any amusing stories with which to regale her former staff. How could she explain that the formidable Agatha Raisin did not really exist as far as Carsely was concerned? Agatha stopped at the foot of the stairs which led up to her former office over the Paris dress shop.

She walked up the stairs. All was silent as the grave. She tried the door. It was locked. Baffled, she retreated to the street and looked up. Her face grim, she took a cab over to the City, to Cheapside, to the headquarters of Pedmans, and demanded to see Mr Wilson, the managing director.

A bored receptionist with quite the longest nails Agatha had ever seen languidly picked up the phone and spoke into it. She leaned over the desk. If you will come this way. Her stocky figure marched up the stairs, her sensible low- heeled shoes thumping on the treads. Mr Wilson rose to meet her.

He was a small, very clean man with thinning hair, gold-rimmed glasses, soft hands and an unctuous smile, more like a Harley Street doctor than the head of a public relations firm. He smoothed the top of his head. Most of them preferred the redundancy pay. We do not need an extra office. All the business can be done from here. You sold us the concern, lock, stock and barrel. Roy was standing there. Instead of his usual jeans and psychedelic shirt and gold earrings, he was wearing a sober busi- ness suit.

Besides, you sold him the outfit. Can you imagine? Giving an alcoholic like her a job in a whisky company? Only Roy had been employed by Pedmans. So Pedmans had to take me on to keep the group. Like my new image? Wilson is a slave-driver. Must go. She tried to hail a cab but they were all full.

The pier was crammed with anxious young men and women clutching briefcases while a small flotilla of pleasure boats took them off. She joined the end of the queue, inching for- ward on the floating pier, feeling slightly seasick by the time she was able to board a large old pleasure steamer that had been pressed into action for the day. The bar was open. She clutched a large gin and tonic and took it up to the stern and sat down in the sunshine on one of those little gold-and-red plush ballroom chairs one finds on Thames pleasure boats.

The boat moved out and slid down the river in the sunshine, seeming to Agatha to be moving past all she had thrown away — life and London. Under the bridges cruised the boat, along past the traffic jams on the Embankment and then to.

She no longer felt like lunch or shopping or anything else but just wanted to get back to her cottage and lick her wounds and think of what to do. She cut across the Park in the direction of Bayswater and Paddington. Before this one day, she thought, she had always forged ahead, always known what she had wanted.

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Although she was bright at school, her parents made her leave at fifteen, for there were good jobs to be had in the local biscuit factory. At that time, Agatha had been a thin, white-faced, sensitive girl. The crudity of the women she worked with in the factory grated on her nerves, the drunkenness of her mother and father at home disgusted her, and so she began to work overtime, squirrelling away the extra money in a savings account so that her parents might not get their hands on it, until one day she decided she had enough and simply took off for London without even saying goodbye, slipping out one night with her suitcase when her mother and father had fallen into a drunken stupor.

In London, she had worked as a waitress seven days a week so that she could afford short- hand and typing lessons. As soon as she was qualified, she got a job as a secretary in a public. But just when she was beginning to learn the business, Agatha had fallen in love with Jimmy Raisin, a charming young man with blue eyes and a mop of black hair. He did not seem to have any steady employment but Agatha thought that marriage was all he needed to make him settle down. After a month of mar- ried life, it was finally borne in on her that she had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.

Her husband was a drunk. Yet she had stuck by him for two whole years, being the breadwinner, putting up with his increasing bouts of drunken violence until, one morning, she had looked down at him lying snoring on the bed, dirty and unshaven, and had pinned a pile of Alcoholics Anonymous literature to his chest, packed her things and moved out. He knew where she worked. She thought he would come in search of her if only for money, but he never did. She once went back to the squalid room in Kilburn which they had shared, but he had disappeared.

Agatha had never filed for divorce. She assumed he was dead. She had never wanted to marry again. She had become harder and harder and more competent, more aggressive, until the thin shy girl that she had been slowly disappeared under layers of ambi- tion. Her job became her life, her clothes expen- sive, her tastes in general those that were expected of a rising public relations star. Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham: Unabridged Running time: One-note Agatha Raisin By jbrown aol.

The local ladies all deem Mr. John a wizard, so when Agatha Raisin finds a few grey hairs on her head - and the rinse she tries at home turns her hair purple - she makes a beeline for the handsome Evesham hairdresser. And as well as sorting out her hair it soon becomes clear the charming man also has designs on her heart - but their budding romance is cut short when Mr.

John is fatally poisoned in his salon. Once again Agatha finds herself Related links to Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham: Ad veri latine efficiantur quo, ea vix nisl euismod explicari.

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