Agatha

Polite and deferential, the sergeant’s tone held nothing but respect. “Mrs. Courtney-Pryce, I’m sure there is an explanation, some misunderstanding…”

The store detective by his side shuffled uncomfortably, wondering how to justify the arrest, a collar regretted beyond the telling; a catch so early in his career as to make his heart race; now one cursed to High Heaven. “Well - I did watch her as she sto… - took it. And the CCTV has a clear image…”

“Oh no Sergeant. I stole the tin. The young man is perfectly correct. Well done Alan. Good to see such vigilance in the store.”

Alan, the new store detective in his gap year from a degree in Criminology to gain practical experience, blushed deeper than the palms of your hands after catching a full drive to the boundary.

“And Sergeant, please call me Lady Agatha. Peter, I’ve known you since you were a little boy. There’s no need for formality.”

The Sergeant’s cheeks coloured up to match Alan’s. It was quite a contest in Glowing With Embarrassment. The store detective edged it as his interest in his shoes gained new impetus.

“But - why?” the Sergeant protested, “Mrs… Lady Agatha. You don’t even have a cat.”

“Can’t stand them; self-centred beasts. Quite simply Sergeant. It’s my sister’s anniversary and I made her a promise on her deathbed.”

Lack of understanding dressed as blank expressions cruised the room.

“I can see none of this makes sense. Let me explain.

When we were small, around five or six, my sister showed me her ‘Treasure’. It was a hoard of small sweets, gobstoppers, ha’penny chews and the like. Now, as our governess never allowed us such sinful frivolities, I enquired as to their source, knowing that it could not be of an approved nature. It turned out that Emily had been stealing them from the local store; yes, the family business on which this store is founded. She had taken them one at a time, and always - no more than one a month.

I was taken aback, possibly aghast; I can’t remember now. It was so long ago. But I could see how inexplicably thrilled she was. Dear Emily, how she loved the buzz, the sheer giddy delight of doing something forbidden, something labelled by our elders as ‘wrong’ or simply ‘not the done thing’. She was ever the risk-taker. To salve her conscience, without fail, she would drop a penny to rest under her skirts before walking out.

You must recognise - we were gentry, wanting for nothing; food, clothes, education, privilege. Those sweets could have been bought easily, but where’s the thrill in that? As gentry, and ladies at that, our soft lives were kept at a safe distance from thrills from unwarranted excitement, which really meant any excitement.

Lacking her spirit, her strength, I never joined her in this mad escapade. But then on her deathbed, she made me promise to steal something – in her memory, on her anniversary. It had to be something that I didn’t need and she was particularly insistent that it should be of minimal value so that it didn’t hurt the rightful owner.

It was my lovely sister’s parting gift to me - a chance to be something other than safe.”

A small tear escaped Mrs. Courtney-Pryce’s eye. Discomfort circled the room visiting every accuser’s conscience.

“Now Sergeant, will handcuffs be appropriate? We must do this correctly. I have seen C.S.I.” Raising her eyebrows conspiratorially, she nodded to him knowingly and put her hands behind her back.

“Erm...” The Sergeant looked at the Store Manager, who looked at the Store Owner. Bucks were being passed - onwards an upwards.

The Owner spoke in a resigned tone. This was not his first encounter with Mrs. Courtney-Pryce and her mildly-eccentric ways. “That won’t be necessary Sergeant. We won’t press charges.”

Weary, broken, he looked to his chauffeur, waiting patiently by the door, “Jarvis, could you ready the car please?”

Jarvis nodded deferentially, impassively and turned to leave the room. There may have been just the hint of a smile as he closed the door behind him.

The owner took Mrs. Courtney-Pryce’s handcuff-anticipating hands from behind her back. Holding them gently, he looked with concern into her face searching her eyes for madness but seeing only a growing wetness at these memories of her sister, “Come on mother, I’ll take you home.”