Hot to Trot

is, as she put it, impecunious. That, she swiftly explained, was not the sort of word she liked to use very often in her books. Marion liked to keep her stories moving along briskly, having fun, travelling light, unencumbered by excessively ornate prose. When I visited Marion to start working with her, I expected that she might want me to take dictation on the new book and possibly chip in a few ideas as we went along. No, she was smarter than that. She wanted to talk about storylines, incidents, murders, and what cards the characters would be dealt. Marion did not, for example, want Sir Charles Fraith to remain penniless forever. She thought it would be good for him to have lots of money for a change. How long she would allow him to keep it was another matter. I made lots of notes, all the while expecting a dictation session to begin. That wasn't Marion's idea at all. She wanted to make sure that I understood Agatha's world, so she sent me away with my notes to write a sample chapter, the way she would do it, staying true to the characters and the way that life, death and murder played out in Carsley. If what I came up with was the way she would weave an Agatha Raisin murder investigation, then we might be able to work together. If it wasn't as she wanted, well, we would still be friends. It's easy to forget how horribly nervous you used to feel as a child in the classroom, handing a homework essay to the teacher. It all came flooding back when I gave Marion the printout of what I had written. I wasn't exactly hopping from one foot to the other as Marion read through it. I sat down to avoid that. But the silence was excruciating. Suddenly, without looking up, she said, no, I wouldn't use that phrase, and crossed out a line with her pen. A moment later, not smirk, Agatha doesn't smirk. Then she looked up and smiled. Apart from that, this is just how I'd have done it. Agatha would not only have been deeply suspicious of our clandestine meetings, but also absolutely furious about the laughs we had at her expense. A phrase involving snakes springs to mind. Marion and I were of one mind in having fun with the writing. Otherwise, how could it ever be fun to read? I thoroughly enjoyed working with Marion, and I am honoured that she trusted me to meddle with her characters. I will miss her more than I can say. Chapter One No one knew. No one who encountered Agatha Raisen striding purposefully along Merster High Street on this gloriously sunny spring morning, her brown hair sleek and lustrous in its neat bob, courtesy of a pre-breakfast appointment with a hairdresser, could possibly have known. No one could even have suspected that the woman in the elegantly cut navy blue jacket and skirt, carrying a dusky pink shoulder bag that very nearly matched the colour of her lipstick, who was smiling and nodding pleasantly to passers-by, was hiding a dark torment. Only Agatha knew how bitter and betrayed she felt about the way her long-time friend and sometime lover, Sir Charles Fraith, had committed to marrying a woman almost thirty years younger than her. Only Agatha knew, and that, she had decided, was how it was going to stay. I am a successful, independent woman, she told herself. I don't need to lumber myself with regret over Charles's mistakes. I need to get on with my own life. Wasn't it Coco Chanel who said, a girl should be two things, who and what she wants? Well, that, and the little black dress, were two things she definitely got right. I am a private investigator with a thriving business to run, and I will live my life the way I choose. Anyone who doesn't agree with that can go to hell, and that includes Sir Charles Fraith. At that precise moment, Agatha almost believed herself. Reaching the corner of an ancient cobbled lane that tumbled away from the high street down a shallow slope, Agatha looked up to the first floor windows of Raisin Investigations. She could see her staff milling around, preparing themselves for the working day.