Free Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet by MC Beaton Page A

Camden Way until you come to a set of traffic lights, turn right, then take the first left, and that’s The Beeches. It’s a cul-de-sac.’
    Agatha scribbled the information down on the back of a gas bill. ‘What time?’
    ‘Six o’clock. We eat early.’
    ‘We?’
    ‘My parents. You forget, I live at home. You come, too, Mr Lacey.’
    Please, please, please , God, prayed Agatha.
    James looked surprised but then said, ‘I’d like that. I’d more or less decided to have the day off. Is it all right if I come dressed like this?’
    Bill looked amused. ‘We’re not formal,’ he said. ‘See you then.’
    He moved off, with the tall and still silent policewoman walking beside him.
    ‘I think we need something to eat now,’ said James. ‘What about a beer and a sandwich, and then we’ll decide who we ask about the sister. We should have asked Bill Wong. Still, we can always do that this evening.’
    He did not mention the ruined toilet and Agatha was grateful for that. But she felt obliged to say gruffly, ‘I’m hardly penniless.’
    ‘I know,’ he said amiably, ‘but the minute that landlord thought you were broke, then he was glad to take any money.’
    Once they had eaten, he drew out a notebook and pen and said, ‘Why don’t we pretend it’s murder and start by writing down all the names of the people we should speak to.’
    ‘I think the ex-wife would be a good idea,’ said Agatha, ‘although she wasn’t very friendly. I know, we can call at the vet’s here, his partner, Peter Rice. He’ll know whether Bladen had a sister, and that would be a start.’
    Mr Peter Rice was a pugnacious man with a large bulbous nose, small eyes and a small mouth. The ugly nose, which dominated his face, was disconcerting, rather like a face pressed too close to a camera lens. His thatch of thick red curly hair looked as if someone had dropped a small wig casually on the top of his rather pointed head. His neck was thick and strong, as were his shoulders. In fact, his body seemed too strong and broad for his small head, as if he had thrust his head through a Strong Man cardboard cutout on a fairground.
    He was not pleased to learn that they had queued up in his surgery, not to consult him about some animal, but to ask him questions about his dead partner.
    ‘Sister?’ he said in answer to their questions. ‘No, he didn’t have a sister. Got a brother somewhere in London. Fell out a time ago. Brother didn’t bother turning up for the funeral.’ His hands covered in thick red hair like fur moved restlessly over a shelf of small bottles, as if looking for a label that said ‘Vanish’. ‘Now if that’s all . . .’
    ‘Was he a wealthy man?’ asked James.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Oh. How do you know?’
    ‘I know because he left everything to me.’
    ‘How much was that?’ asked Agatha eagerly.
    ‘Not enough,’ he said. ‘Get out of here and leave me to deal with my customers.’
    ‘So he inherits and not the brother. Now there’s a motive,’ crowed Agatha when they were outside. ‘Who would know how much money was involved?’
    ‘The lawyer. But I doubt if he would tell us. Let’s try the local newspaper editor,’ said James. ‘They pick up all sorts of gossip.’
    The offices of the Mircester Journal came as a disappointment to Agatha, even though the newspaper consisted of little more than three pages. She had naïvely expected something like the newspaper offices she had occasionally seen on news programmes, great enormous rooms with lines of computers and busy reporters. Time and printing changes had passed the Mircester Journal by. The offices consisted of several dark rooms at the top of a rickety staircase. A pale young woman with straight lank hair was pounding an old-fashioned typewriter and a young man with his hands in his pockets was standing by a window, whistling tunelessly and looking down into the street.
    ‘May we see the editor?’ asked James.
    The pale girl stopped typing. ‘If