Agatha Raisin & the Vicious Vet

AGATHA RAISIN & THE VICIOUS VET

by M C Beaton

Chapter One

Agatha Raisin arrived at Heathrow Airport with a tan outside and a blush of shame inside. She felt an utter fool as she pushed her load of luggage towards the exit.

She had just spent two weeks in the Bahamas in pursuit of her handsome neighbour, James Lacey, who had let fall that he was going to holiday there at the Nassau Beach Hotel. Agatha in pursuit of a man was as ruthless as she had been in business. She had spent a great deal of money on a fascinating wardrobe, had slimmed furiously so as to be able to sport her rejuvenated middle-aged figure in a bikini, but there had been no sign of James Lacey. She had hired a car and toured the other hotels on the island to no avail. She had even called at the British High Commission in the hope they had heard of him. A few days before she was due to return, she had put a long-distance call through to Carsely, the village in the Cotswolds in which she lived, to the vicar's wife, Mrs Bloxby, and had finally got around to asking for the whereabouts of James Lacey.

She still remembered Mrs Bloxby's voice, strengthening and fading on a bad line, as if borne towards Agatha on the tide. 'Mr Lacey changed his plans at the very last minute. He decided to spend his holiday with a friend in Cairo. He did say he was going to the Bahamas, I remember, and Mrs Mason said, "What a surprise! That's where our Mrs Raisin is going'' And the next thing we knew this friend in Egypt had invited him over'

How Agatha had squirmed and was still squirming. It was plain to her that he had changed his plans simply so as not to meet her. In retrospect, her pursuit of him had been rather blatant.

And there was another reason she had not enjoyed her holiday. She had put her cat, Hodge, a present from Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, into a cattery and somehow Agatha found she was worrying that the cat might have died.

At the Long-Stay Car-Park, she loaded in her luggage and then set out to drive to Carsely, wondering again why she had ever retired so young - well, these days early fifties was young - and sold her business to bury herself in a country village.

The cattery was outside Cirencester. She went up to the house and was greeted ungraciously by the thin rangy woman who owned the place.

'Really, Mrs Raisin' she said, 1 am just going out. It would have been more considerate of you to phone'

'Get my animal . . . now' said Agatha, glaring balefully, 'and be quick about it'

The woman stalked off, affront in every line of her body. Soon she came back with Hodge mewling in his carrying basket. Totally deaf to further recriminations, Agatha paid the fee.

Being reunited with her cat, she decided, was a very comforting thing, and then wondered if she was reduced to the status of village lady, drooling over an animal.

Her cottage, crouched under its heavy weight of thatch, was like an old dog, waiting to welcome her. When the fire had been lit, the cat fed, and with a stiff whisky inside her, Agatha felt she would survive. Bugger James Lacey and all men!

She went to the local store, Harvey's, in the morning to get some groceries and to show off her tan. She ran into Mrs Bloxby. Agatha felt uncomfortable about that phone call but Mrs Bloxby, ever tactful, did not remind her of it, merely saying that there was a meeting of the Carsely Ladies' Society at the vicarage that evening. Agatha said she would attend, although thinking there must be more to social life than tea at the vicarage.

She had half a mind not to go. Instead she could go to the Red Lion, the local pub, for dinner. But on the other hand, she had promised Mrs Bloxby that she would go, and somehow one did not break promises to Mrs Bloxby.

When she made her way out that evening, a thick fog had settled down on the village, thick, freezing fog, turning bushes into crouching assailants and muffling sound.

The ladies were all there among the pleasant clutter of the vicarage sitting-room. Nothing had changed. Mrs Mason was still the chairwoman -chairpersons did not exist in Carsely because, as Mrs Bloxby pointed out, once you started that sort of thing you didn't know where to stop, and things like manholes would become personholes - and Miss Simms, in Minnie Mouse white shoes and skimpy skirt, still the secretary. Agatha was pressed for details about her holiday and so she bragged about the sun and the sand until she began to feel she had actually had a good time.

The minutes were read, raising money for Save the Children was discussed, an outing for the old folks, and then more tea and cake.

That was when Agatha heard about the new vet. The village of Carsely had a veterinary surgery at last. An extension had been built on to the library building. A vet, Paul Bladen, from Mircester, held a surgery there twice a week on Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons.

'We weren't going to bother at first' said Miss Simms, 'because we usually go to the vet at Moreton, but Mr Bladen's ever so good'

'And ever so good-looking' put in Mrs Bloxby.

'Young?' asked Agatha with a flicker of interest.

'Oh, about forty, I think' said Miss Simms. 'Not married. Divorced. He's got these searching eyes, and such beautiful hands'

Agatha was not particularly interested in the vet, for her thoughts were still on James Lacey. She wished he would return so that she could show him she did not care for him at all. So, as the ladies gushed their praise for the new vet, she sat writing scripts in her head about what he would say and what she would say, and imagining how surprised he would be to find out that ordinary neighbourly friendliness on her part had been mistaken on his for pursuit.

But as the fates would have it, Agatha was destined to meet Paul Bladen the very next day.

She decided to go to the butcher's and get herself a steak and buy some chicken livers for Hodge. 'Marnin', Mr Bladen' said the butcher, and Agatha turned round.

Paul Bladen was a good-looking man in his early forties with thick wavy fair hair dusted with grey, light-brown eyes which crinkled up as though against the desert sun, a firm, rather sweet mouth, and a square chin. He was slim, of medium height, and wore a tweed jacket with patches and flannels and, for it was a freezing day, an old London University scarf about his neck. He reminded Agatha of the old days when university students dressed like university students, before the days of T-shirts and frayed jeans.

For his part, Paul Bladen saw a stocky middle-aged woman with shiny brown hair and small, bearlike eyes in a tanned face. Her clothes, he noticed, were very expensive.

Agatha thrust out her hand and introduced herself, welcoming him to the village in her best lady-of-the-manor voice. He smiled into her eyes, holding on to her hand, and murmuring something about the dreadful weather. Agatha forgot all about James Lacey. Or nearly. Let him rot in Egypt. She hoped he'd got gippy tummy, she hoped a camel bit him.

'As a matter of fact' cooed Agatha, 'I was coming to see you. With my cat'

Did a frost settle momentarily on those crinkled eyes? But he said, 'There is a surgery this afternoon. Why don't you bring the animal along? Say, two o'clock?'

'How lovely to have our own vet at last' enthused Agatha.

He gave her that intimate smile of his again and Agatha went out treading on air. Fog was still holding the countryside in its grip although, far, far above, a little red disc of a sun struggled to get through, casting a faint pink light on the frost-covered landscape, which reminded Agatha of the Christmas calendars of her youth where the winter scenes were decorated with glitter.

She hurried past James Lacey's cottage without a glance, thinking what to wear. What a pity all those new clothes had been meant for hot weather.

While the tabby, Hodge, watched curiously, she studied her face in the dressing-table mirror. A tan was all very well, but there was a lot to be said for thick make-up on a middle-aged face. There was a pouchy softness under her chin which she did not like and the lines down the side of her mouth appeared more pronounced since before she had gone away, reminding her of all the dire warnings about what sun-bathing did to the skin.

She slapped on skin-food and then rummaged through her wardrobe, settling at last on a cherry-red dress and black tailored coat with a velvet collar. Her hair was shiny and healthy, so she decided not to wear a hat. It was a bitterly cold day and she should wear her boots, but she had a new pair of Italian high heels and she knew her legs were good.

It was only after two hours of diligent preparation that she realized she had first to catch her cat, eventually running the animal to earth in a corner of the kitchen and shoving him ruthlessly in the wicker carrying basket. Hodge's wails rent the air. But deaf for once to her pet, Agatha tripped along to the surgery in her high heels. By the time she reached the surgery, her feet were so cold she felt she was walking on two lumps of pain.

She pushed open the surgery door and went into the waiting-room. It seemed to be full of people: Doris Simpson, her cleaning woman, with her cat; Miss Simms with her Tommy; Mrs Josephs, the librarian, with a larger mangy cat called Tewks; and two farmers, Jack Page, whom she knew, and a squat burly man she only knew by sight, Henry Grange. There was also a newcomer.

'Her be Mrs Huntingdon' whispered Doris. 'Bought old Droon's cottage up back. Widow'

Agatha eyed the newcomer jealously. Despite the efforts of Animal Liberation to stop women from wearing furs, Mrs Huntingdon sported a ranch mink coat with a smart mink hat. A delicate French perfume floated from her. She had a small pretty face like that of an enamelled doll, large hazel eyes with (false?) eyelashes, and a pink-painted mouth. Her pet was a small Jack Russell which barked furiously, swinging on the end of its lead as it tried to get at the cats. Mrs Huntingdon seemed unaware of the noise or of the baleful looks cast at her by the cat owners. She was also sitting blocking the only heater.

There were 'No Smoking' signs all over the walls, but Mrs Huntingdon lit up a cigarette and blew smoke up into the air. In a doctor's waiting-room, where patients had only themselves to worry about, there would have been protests. But a vet's waiting-room is a singularly unmanning or unwomanning place, people made timid by worry about their pets.

Along one side of the waiting-room was a desk with a nurse-cum-receptionist behind it. She was a plain girl with lank brown hair and the adenoidal accents of Birmingham. Her name was Miss Mabbs.

Doris Simpson was the first to go in and was only out of sight for five minutes. Agatha surreptitiously rubbed her cold feet and ankles. This would not take long.

But Miss Simms was next and she was in there for half an hour, emerging at last with her eyes shining and her cheeks pink. Mrs Josephs had her turn. After a very long time she came out, murmuring, 'Such a firm hand Mr Bladen does have,' while her ancient cat lay supine in its basket as one dead.

Agatha went to the counter after Mrs Huntingdon was ushered in and said to Miss Mabbs, 'Mr Bladen told me to call at two. I have been waiting a considerable time.'

'Surgery starts at two. That's probably what he meant,' said Miss Mabbs. 'You'll need to wait your turn.'

Determined not to have got all dressed up for nothing, Agatha sulkily picked up a copy of Vogue, June 1997, and retreated to her hard plastic chair.

She waited and waited for the merry widow plus dog to reappear, but the minutes ticked past and Agatha could hear a ripple of laughter from the surgery and wondered what was going on in there.

Three quarters of an hour went by while Agatha finished the copy of Vogue and a well-preserved 1990 copy of Good Housekeeping and was absorbed in a story in an old Scotch Home annual about the handsome laird of the Scottish highlands who forsook his 'ain true love7 Morag of the glens for Cynthia, some painted harlot from London. At last Mrs Huntingdon came out, holding her dog. She smiled vaguely all around before leaving and Agatha glowered back.

There were only the two farmers and Agatha left. 'Reckon I won't be coming here again' said Jack Page. 'Waste a whole day, this would'

But he was dealt with very quickly, having come to collect a prescription for antibiotics, which he handed over to Miss Mabbs. The other farmer also wanted drugs and Agatha brightened as he reappeared after only a few moments. She had meant to berate the vet for having kept her waiting so long but there was that sweet smile again, that firm clasp of the hand, those searching, intimate eyes.

Feeling quite fluttery and at the same time guilty, for there was nothing up with Hodge, Agatha smiled back in a dazed way.

'Ah, Mrs Raisin' said the vet, let's have the cat out. What's his name?' 'Hodge'

'Same as Dr Johnson's cat'

'Who's he? Your partner at Mircester?'

'Dr Samuel Johnson, Mrs Raisin'

'Well, how was I to know?' demanded Agatha crossly, her private opinion being that Dr Johnson was one of those old farts like Sir Thomas Beecham that people always seemed to be quoting loftily at dinner parties. James Lacey had suggested the name.

To hide her irritation, she raised Hodge's basket on to the examining table and undid the latch and opened the front. 'Come on now, out you come' cooed Agatha to a baleful Hodge who crouched at the back of the basket.

'Let me' said the vet, edging Agatha aside. He thrust a hand in and brutally dragged Hodge out into the light and then held the squirming, yowling animal by the scruff up in the air.

'Oh, don't do that! You're scaring him,' protested Agatha. 'Let me hold him'

'Very well. He looks remarkably healthy. What's up with him?'

Hodge buried his head in the opening of Agatha's coat. 'Er, he's off his food' said Agatha.

'Any sickness, diarrhoea?'

'No!'

'Well, we'd best take his temperature. Miss Mabbs!'

Miss Mabbs came in and stood with head lowered. 'Hold the cat!' ordered the vet.

Miss Mabbs detached the cat from Agatha and pinned him down with one strong hand on the examining table.

The vet advanced on Hodge with a rectal thermometer. Could it be, wondered Agatha, that the thermometer was thrust up poor Hodge's backside with unnecessary force? The cat yowled, struggled free, sprang from the table and crouched in a corner of the room.

'I've made a mistake' said Agatha, now desperate to get her pet away. 'Perhaps if he shows any severe signs I'll bring him back'

Miss Mabbs was dismissed. Agatha tenderly put Hodge back in the basket.

'Mrs Raisin!'

'Yes?' Agatha surveyed him with bearlike eyes from which the love-light had totally fled.

"There is quite a good Chinese restaurant in Evesham. I've had a hard day and feel like treating myself. Would you care to join me for dinner?'

Agatha felt gratified warmth coursing through her middle-aged body. Bugger all cats in general and Hodge in particular. 'I'd love to' she breathed.

'Then I'll meet you there at eight o'clock' he said, smiling into her eyes. 'It's called the Evesham Diner. It's in an old house in the High Street, seventeenth century, can't miss it'

Agatha emerged grinning smugly into the now empty waiting-room. She wished she had been the first 'patient' so she could have told all those other women she had a date.

But she stopped at the store on the road home and bought Hodge a tin of the best salmon to ease her conscience.

By the time she had reached home and cosseted Hodge and settled him in front of a roaring fire, she had persuaded herself that the vet had been firm and efficient with the cat, not deliberately cruel.

The desire to brag about her date was strong, so she phoned the vicar's wife, Mrs Bloxby.

'Guess what?' said Agatha.

'Another murder?' suggested the vicar's wife.

'Better than that. Our new vet is taking me out for dinner this evening.'

There was a long silence.

'Are you there?' demanded Agatha sharply.

'Yes, I'm here. I was just thinking . . '

'What?'

'Why is he taking you out?'

'I should have thought that was obvious,' snarled Agatha. 'He fancies me.'

'Forgive me. Of course he does. It's just that I feel there is something cold and calculating about him. Do be careful.'

'I am not sweet sixteen' said Agatha huffily.

'Exactly'

That 'exactly' seemed to Agatha to be saying, 'You are a middle-aged woman easily flattered by the attentions of a younger man'

'In any case' Mrs Bloxby went on, 'do go very carefully on the roads. It's starting to snow'

Agatha rang off, feeling flat, and then she began to smile. Of course! Mrs Bloxby was jealous. All the women in the village were smitten by the vet. But what was that she had said about snow? Agatha twitched back the curtain and looked out. Wet snow was falling, but it was not lying on the ground.

At seven thirty she drove off in all the discomfort of a tight body stocking under a gold silk Armani dress embellished with a rope of pearls. Her heels were very high, so she kicked them off and drove up the hill from the village in her stockinged feet.

The snow was getting thicker and suddenly, near the top of the hill, she crossed over a sort of snow-line and found herself driving over thick snow. But ahead lay the tempting vision of dinner with the vet.

She pressed her foot on the brake to slow down as she neared the A44 and quite suddenly the car went into a skid. It was all so quick, so breathlessly fast. Her headlights whirled crazily round the winter landscape, and then there was a sickening crunch as she hit a stone wall on her left. She switched off the lights and the engine with a trembling hand and sat still.

A car going the other way, towards the village, stopped. A door opened and closed. Then a dark figure loomed up on Agatha's side of the car. She opened the window. 'Are you all right, Mrs Raisin?' came James Lacey's voice.

Before the vet, before the fiasco of the Bahamas, Agatha had often fantasized about James Lacey rescuing her from some accident. But all she could think about now was that precious date.

'I think nothing's broken,' said Agatha and then struck the wheel in frustration. 'Bloody, bloody snow. I say, can you run me into Evesham?'

'You must be joking. It's to get worse, or so the weather forecast said. Fish Hill will be closed.'

'Oh, no' wailed Agatha. 'Maybe we could go another way. Maybe through Chipping Campden.'

'Don't be silly. Does your engine still work?'

Agatha switched it on and it sprang into life.

'What about the lights?'

Agatha switched them on, glaring out at a snow- covered wilderness.

James Lacey inspected the damage to the front of the car. 'The glass in your headlamps is all shattered and you'll need a new bumper, radiator, and number-plate. You'd best back out and follow me down to the village. If you won't run me, then I'll get a cab'

'You can try' He walked off to his own car and Agatha heard him starting up. She reversed and followed him. He parked outside his own house, waved to her, and strode indoors.

Agatha leaped out of her own car, forgetting she was in her stockinged feet, and ran into the house. She seized the phone and, looking at a list of taxi-cab companies pinned to the wall, she began to phone them one after the other, but no taxi driver was prepared to go to Evesham or anywhere else on such a night

Dammit, thought Agatha furiously, my car still works. I'm going.

She pulled on a pair of boots over her wet feet and went out again. But she was half-way up the hill again when both her headlamps blew, leaving her crawling along in snowy darkness.

Wearily, she turned the car and headed back^ down to the village again. Back indoors, she phoned the Chinese restaurant. No, came a voice at the other end, Mr Bladen had not turned up. Yes, he had booked a table. No, he had definitely not arrived.

Feeling very flat, Agatha phoned Directory Enquiries and got a Mircester number for the vet. A woman answered the phone. 'I am afraid Mr Bladen is busy at the moment' The voice was cool and amused.

"This is Agatha Raisin' snapped Agatha. "He was to meet me in a restaurant in Evesham tonight'

'You could hardly have expected him to drive in such weather'

'Who is speaking, please?' demanded Agatha.

'This is his wife'

'Oh!' Agatha dropped the receiver like a hot coal.

So he was still married after all! What was it all about? But if he were married, then he should not have asked her out. Agatha had very firm views about dating married men.

She felt somehow as if he had set out to deliberately make a fool of her. Men! And James Lacey! He had simply gone indoors without calling to see if she were indeed unharmed after her accident.

Agatha felt silly and now she had only a ruined car to show for her dreams of a date with a handsome man. She passed the rest of the evening filling in an accident claim form, the purring Hodge on her lap.

The next day dawned foggy as well as snowy. Once more Agatha felt that old trapped feeling. She waited and waited for the phone to ring, sure that Paul Bladen would call her to say something. But it sat there, squat in its silence.

At last she decided to pay a visit to her neighbour, James Lacey, if only to explain to him, subtly, that she had not been pursuing him. But although a thin column of smoke rose from his chimney, although his snow-covered car was parked outside, he did not answer the door.

Agatha felt well and truly snubbed. She was sure he was in there.

Hodge, in the selfish way of cats, played happily in the snow in the garden, stalking imaginary prey.

In the afternoon, the doorbell went. Agatha peered at herself in the hall mirror, grabbed a lipstick she always kept ready on the hall table and painted her mouth. Then, smoothing down her dress, she opened the door.

'Oh, it's you' she said, looking down into the round oriental features of Detective Sergeant Bill Wong.

'That's not much of a greeting,' he said. 'Any chance of a cup of coffee?'

'Come in,' said Agatha, leaning over his shoulder and peering hopefully up and down the lane.

'Who were you expecting?' he asked, when they were seated in the kitchen.

'I was expecting an apology. Our new vet, Paul Bladen, invited me out for dinner in Evesham last night, but I had a skid at the top of the road and couldn't make it. But as it turned out, he didn't even get to the restaurant. I phoned his home and a woman answered it. She said she was his wife'

'Couldn't be' said Bill. 'He was separated from his wife for about five years and the divorce came through last year'

'What's he playing at?' cried Agatha, exasperated.

'You mean, who's he playing with. Snowy night, no way of getting to Evesham, had a bit of fun at home instead.'

'Well, he should have phoned anyway' said Agatha.

'Talking about your love life, how did you get on in the Bahamas?'

'Nice' said Agatha. 'Got some sun'

'See anything of Mr Lacey?'

'Didn't expect to. He'd gone to Cairo'

'And you knew that before you left?'

'What is this?' exclaimed Agatha. 'A police interrogation?'

'Just friendly questions. Glad to see Hodge is happy. Looking very fit'

'Oh, Hodge is in the best of health'

The almond-shaped eyes studying her so intently glittered slightly in the white light from the snow coming in the kitchen window.

"Then why did poor Hodge have to go to this vet?'

'Have you been spying on me?'

'No, I just happened to be passing yesterday and I saw you carrying Hodge in a basket to the surgery. You should wear more sensible footwear in this weather'

'I just wanted to check the cat had all his shots' said Agatha, 'and what I choose to wear on my feet is my business'

He raised his hands and let them fall. "Sorry. Funny thing about Bladen, though'

'What?'

'He went into partnership with Peter Rice, the vet in Mircester, some time ago. What a queue of women there were during the first weeks! Right out in the street. But then they stopped coming. Seems Bladen is no good with pets. He's a whiz with farm animals and horses, but he loathes cats and small dogs'

'I don't want to talk about the man' said Agatha hotly. 'Haven't you got anything else to talk about?'

So Bill told her all about the trouble with the increase in car theft in the area and how a lot of the crime was being increasingly committed by juveniles, while Agatha listened with half an ear and hoped the phone would ring to salve her pride. But by the time Bill left, the wretched machine was still silent.

She phoned the local garage and told them to come and tow her broken car away and give her an estimate, and then, after she had seen her vehicle carried off down the street on the back of a truck, she decided to go down to the Red Lion. There was no reason to dress up any more. For months now she had worn only her best and smartest clothes when passing James Lacey's door. She put on a thick sweater, a tweed skirt and boots. But just as she was shrugging herself into a sheepskin coat, the telephone suddenly shrilled, making her jump.

She picked it up, sure it would be Paul Bladen at last, but a voice she did not recognize said tentatively, 'Agatha?'

'Yes, who is it?' said Agatha, made cross by disappointment.

'It's Jack Pomfret. Remember me?'

Agatha brightened. Jack Pomfret had run a rival public relations company to her own, but they had always been on amicable terms.

'Of course. How's things?'

'I sold out about the same time as you' he said. 'Decided to take a leaf out of your book, have early retirement, have a bit of fun. But it get's boring, know what I mean?'

'Oh, yes' said Agatha with feeling.

'I'm thinking of starting up again and wondered if you would like to be my partner'

'Bad time' said Agatha cautiously. 'Middle of a recession'

'Big companies need PR and I've got two lined up, Jobson's Electronics and Whiter Washing Powder.'

Agatha was impressed. 'Are you anywhere near here?' she asked. 'We need to sit down together and discuss this properly.'

'What I thought' he said eagerly, 'was if you could take a trip up to London, we could get down to business'

The thought of fleeing the village, of getting away from lost romantic hopes, made Agatha say, Til do that. I'll book a place in town. What's your number? I'll call you back'

She wrote down his phone number and then, about to phone her favourite hotel, paused. Damn Hodge. She couldn't really dump that poor animal back in the cattery. Then she remembered a block of expensive service flats into which she had once booked visiting foreign clients and phoned them and managed to get a flat for two weeks. She was sure they did not allow pets but she wasn't even going to ask them. Hodge could survive indoors for two weeks. The weather was lousy anyway.

Chapter Two

Agatha could not immediately plunge into business affairs, for Hodge, who had kept all his destruction to the outdoors in Carsely, had started to scratch the furniture in the service flat in Kensington, and so Agatha had to buy a scratching post and spend some time crouched on the floor in front of it, raking it with her fingernails, to show the cat what to do.

Having seen her pet settled at last, she phoned Jack Pomfret, who said he would meet her at the Savoy Grill for lunch.

Carsely was whirling away to a small speck in Agatha's mind. She was back in London, part of it again, not visiting, back in business.

Jack Pomfret, a slim Oxbridge type, fighting the age battle in denim and hair-weave, enthused over Agatha's appearance. Agatha curiously asked him why he had really decided to sell up.

'Just like you' he said with a boyish grin. 'Thought retirement would suit me. Actually we, that's my wife, Marcia, and I, moved to Spain for a bit, but the climate didn't suit us. Down in the south. Too hot. But tell me all about yourself and what you've been doing'

Agatha settled back and bragged about her part in a murder investigation, highly embroidered.

"But village life must be absolutely stultifying for you, darling' he said, smiling into her eyes in a way that reminded Agatha of the vet. 'All those dead brains and clodhoppers.'

'I must admit I get bored' said Agatha, and then felt a pang of guilt as the faces of the village women rose before her eyes. 'Actually, everyone's very nice, very kind. It's not them. It's me. I'm just not used to country life.'

They talked on until the coffee arrived and then got down to business. Jack said that there was an office up at Marble Arch they could rent. All they really needed to kick off were three rooms. Agatha studied the figures. He seemed to have gone into everything very carefully.

"This rent is very high,' said Agatha. "We would be better to get the end of a lease somewhere. Then, before we even start thinking about it, we should be sure we had enough clients'

'Would those two biggies I mentioned to you, Jobson's Electronics and Whiter Washing Powder, convince you?'

'Of course'

"The managing directors of both companies happen to be in London for a business conference. Tell you what. Lay on some drinks and fiddly bits and I'll bring them round to your flat. I'll phone you later today and give you a time'

1 must say, if you have contacts like this, we'll shoot to the top of the league in a few weeks' said Agatha.

He did phone later, the managing directors came round to Agatha's the following day and it was a jolly meeting, particularly for Agatha, as both men flirted with her.

As Jack got up to leave, having stayed on for an extra drink after the businessmen had left, he kissed Agatha on the cheek and said, I'll give you a round figure for your share of the concern, you give me a cheque and leave all the nitty-gritty business side to me. You're the whiz with the clients, Agatha. Always were. Look at the way you had those two eating out of your hand!'

'How much?' demanded Agatha.

He named a figure which made her blink. He sat down again and took out sheaves of facts and figures. Agatha thought hard. The sum he had named would take away all her savings. She still had the cottage in Carsely, but she wouldn't need that any more now she was back in business.

'Let me sleep on it,' she said. 'Leave the papers with me'

After he had gone, she wished she had not drunk so much. She stared down at the figures. They needed all the basic things like computers and fax machines, desks and chairs. Party to launch it. Paper and paper-clips. 'I'm not sure' she said slowly. 'What do you think, Hodge? Hodge?'

But there was no sign of the cat. She searched the small flat, under the bed, in the cupboards and closets, but no Hodge.

The cat must have slipped out when her guests were leaving.

She threw on her coat and went down by the stairs, not the lift, calling 'Hodge! Hodge!' A woman opened a door and said in glacial tones, 'Do you mind keeping that noise down?'

'Get stuffed' snarled Agatha, sick with worry. If this were Carsely, said a voice in her head, the whole village would turn out to help you. She opened the street door. Outside lay anonymous, uncaring London. She trekked round and round the squares and gardens of Kensington while the traffic often drowned the sound of her frantically calling voice.

'If I was you, dear' said a woman's voice at her elbow, 'I'd wait till after the traffic dies down. Cat, is it? Well, the traffic scares them'

But Agatha ploughed on, her feet cold and aching.

She asked in all the shops up the Gloucester Road, but she was just another woman looking for a lost pet and no one had seen the cat, nor did they look at all interested or concerned.

She wandered dismally back into Cornwall Gardens. Someone was stumbling through a Chopin sonata in an amateurish way. Someone else was having a party, a press of people standing shoulder to shoulder in a front room.

And then Agatha saw a cat walking slowly towards her, a tabby cat. She advanced slowly, praying under her breath. Hodge was a tabby, a striped grey and black, hardly an original-looking animal.

'Hodge' said Agatha gently.

The cat stopped and looked up at her. 'Oh, it is you' said Agatha gratefully and scooped the cat up into her arms.

Tm glad someone's picked up that poor stray' said a man who was walking his dog. 1 was going to phone the RSPCA. Been living in these gardens for about two weeks. In this cold, too. Still, cats are great survivors'

'It's my cat' said Agatha, and clutching the animal as fiercely as a mother does her hurt child, she stalked off to her flat.

She opened the door and closed it firmly behind her, put the cat on the floor and said, 'Hot milk is what you need'

Agatha went into the minuscule kitchen. Hodge rose from a kitchen chair and stretched and yawned.

'How did you get there?' demanded Agatha, bewildered. She swung round. The tabby she had picked up in Cornwall Gardens came into the kitchen, mewing softly. In the full glare of the fluorescent light, Agatha saw that it was a skinny thing, not at all like Hodge.

Two of them' groaned Agatha. She couldn't keep two. One was worry enough. Where had Hodge been? thought Agatha, who was not yet well enough versed in the ways of cats and did not know they could appear to vanish into thin air. She thought of putting the new cat back out in the gardens. But that would be cruel. She could take it to the RSPCA but they would probably gas it, for who would want a plain tabby cat?

She warmed milk and put down two bowls of it and then two bowls of cat food. Hodge seemed to have placidly accepted the newcomer. Agatha changed the litter in the tray, hoping the new animal was house-trained.

When she went to bed, the cats settled down on either side of her. It was comforting. What would they say in Carsely when she returned with two? But then, she would only be returning to Carsely to pack up.

But the village was still fresh in her mind when she awoke the next morning. She decided to phone Bill Wong and tell him her news. At police headquarters in Mircester, they said it was his day off and so Agatha phoned his home.

Bill listened carefully while she outlined all her plans and told him of the visit of the two managing directors.

There was a silence. Then he said in his soft Gloucester accent, 'That's odd'

'What is?' demanded Agatha.

T mean, two managing directors of big companies turning up just like that. I don't know much about business . . .'

'No, you don't' put in Agatha.

"But I would have thought a meeting would have been set up for you, liaison with the advertising department, the firms' public relations officers, that sort of thing.'

'Oh, they both happened to be in town for some business meeting.'

"And what do you really know about this Jack Pomfret? You're not just going to hand over any money or anything like that?'

'I'm not stupid' said Agatha, angry now, for she was beginning to think she was.

'A good way to find out about people' said Bill, 'is to call at their home. You can usually get an idea of how flush they are from where they live and what the wife is like.'

'So you think I should spy on him? And you're always telling me I don't know how to mind my own business'

'I think you're a Nosy Parker when you don't have to be and touchingly naive when you do have to be' said Bill.

Took, copper, I ran a successful business for years'

'Maybe Carsely's made you forget what an evil place the world can be'

'What? After all that murder and mayhem?'

'Different sort of thing'

'Well, I've finished with Carsely'

There was an amused chuckle from the other end of the phone. 'That's what you think'

Agatha settled down with a coffee and cigarette to go through the papers Jack had given her again. Did he really expect her just to hand over a cheque without seeing his equal contribution? The new cat and Hodge were chasing each other over the furniture, the stray seeming to have recovered amazingly.

Agatha opened her briefcase and found a clipboard and put the papers on it. She phoned Roy Silver, the young man who had once worked for her.

'Aggie, love' his voice lilted down the line. 'I was thinking of coming down to see you. What are you up to?'

'I need some help. Do you remember Jack Pomfret?'

'Vaguely'

'You wouldn't happen to have an address for him?'

'As a matter of fact I have, sweetie. I pinched your business address book when I left. Don't squawk! You'd probably have forgotten about it. Let me see ... aha, 121, Kynance Mews, Kensington. Do you want the phone number?'

'I've got that, but it doesn't seem like a Kensington one. Never mind. I'll walk round. It's only round the corner.'

'How long are you in London? I gather you are in London. Want to meet up?'

'Maybe later' said Agatha. 'Did you get married?'

'No, why?'

'What about that girl, what's-her-name, you brought down to meet me?'

'Ran off and left me for a lager lout'

'I'm sorry.'

I'm not,' said Roy waspishly. 'I can do better than that.'

'Look, I'll call you. I've got something to deal with first.' Agatha said goodbye and put the phone down. Why hadn't Jack said he was living just round the corner?

She walked along to the end of Kynance Mews to 121 and pressed the bell.

A thin, tweedy woman answered the door, the kind Agatha didn't like, the kind who wore cultured pearls and green wellies in London.

'Mr Pomfret?' asked Agatha.

'Mr Pomfret no longer lives here,' said the woman acidly. 'I bought the house from him. But I am not his secretary and I refuse to send any more letters on to him. All he needs to do is to pay a small amount of money to the post office in order to get his mail redirected'

'If you give me his address, I can take any letters to him' said Agatha.

' Very well. Wait there and I'll write it down'

Agatha stood in the freezing cold on the frost-covered cobbles of the mews. A skein of geese flew overhead on their way from the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens to St James's Park. Her breath came out in a little cloud of steam in front of her face. Two dog lovers stood at the entrance to the mews and unleashed their animals, which peed their way down from door to door and then both squatted down and defecated, before the satisfied owners called them to heel. There was no more selfish animal lover than a Kensington animal lover, thought Agatha.

'Here you are' said the woman, 'and here's the address' She handed Agatha a slip of paper and a pile of letters. Agatha thanked her and put the letters in her briefcase and then looked down in surprise at the address as the woman firmly closed the door: 8A Ramillies Crescent, Archway. Well, there were some mansions in Archway and some rich people left in that declining suburb, but 8A suggested a basement flat.

She headed off to the Gloucester Road tube, and not wanting to make a lot of changes took the District Line to Embankment and then the Northern Line to Archway. Once she was settled on the Northern Line, she took out the letters. They were mostly junk mail but there was one from the income tax.

Agatha's heart sank down to her cold feet. Law-abiding, financially secure people were the ones that kept in touch with the Inland Revenue.

She then took out a pocket atlas of London and looked up Ramillies Crescent, which was in a network of streets behind the hospital.

Everyone at the main road junction in Archway at the exit to the tube looked depressed. You could, thought Agatha bleakly, take the lot and dump them on the streets of Moscow and no one would notice they were foreigners. She ploughed up the steep hill from the tube and turned off towards Ramillies Crescent when she got to the hospital.

It turned out to be a run-down crescent of Victorian houses. No one here was obviously feeling the recession, for no one had ever got to any point from which to recess to.

The gardens were untended and most of them had been concreted over to make space for some rusting car. Agatha arrived at Number 8. Sure enough, 8A was the basement flat. Edging her way around a broken pram which looked as if it had been thrown there rather than left to rot, she rang the doorbell. Marcia Pomfret, she vaguely remembered, was a statuesque blonde.

At first she did not recognize Marcia in the woman who opened the door to her, a woman with a faded, lined face and black roots, who looked at her without a spark of recognition.

'What are you selling?' asked Marcia in a weary, nasal voice.

Agatha made up her mind to lie. Tm not selling anything' she said brightly. 'Your name was given to me because I believe you and your husband lived in Spain. I am doing research for the Spanish government. They would like to know why various British families did not settle in Spain but returned'

Agatha scooped the clipboard and papers out of her briefcase and stood waiting.

'You may as well come in' said Marcia. 1 usually stand talking to the walls here, and that's a fact.'

She led the way into a dark living-room. Agatha's sharp eyes recognized what she called landlord's furniture and she sat down on a worn sofa in front of a low glass-and-chrome coffee-table.

'Now' she said brightly, 'what took you to Spain?'

'It was my husband, Jack' said Marcia. 'He'd always wanted to run a bar. Thought he could do it. So he sold the business and the house and we bought this little bar on the Costa Del Sol. He called it Home from Home. Made it British-like. San Miguel beer and steak-and-kidney pud. We had a little flat above the bar. Slave labour, it was. While he was out chatting up the birds in the bar, I was in the kitchen, wasn't I, turning out those hot English meals when it was cooking-hot outside.'

'And were you successful?' asked Agatha, pretending to take notes.

'Naw. We was just another English bar among all them other English bars. Couldn't get help. The Spanish'll only work for top wages. Nearly died with the heat, I did. "Soon it'll be all right," Jack said. "Spend the days on the beach and let someone do the work for us." But the place never really got off the ground. Once the tourist season was over, that was that. I said to Jack he'd have been better to make it Spanish, get the locals and the better-class tourists who don't come all this way for English muck, but would he listen? So we sold up and came back to nothing.'

Agatha asked a few more questions about Spain and the Spanish to keep up the pretence. Then she put the clipboard away and rose to go. 1 hope you will soon be on your feet again'

Marcia shrugged wearily and Agatha suddenly remembered what she had looked like ten years ago at a party, blonde and beautiful. Jack's latest bimbo, they had called her, but he had married her.

'Have you any children?' Agatha asked.

Marcia shook her head. 'Just as well' she said sadly. 'Wouldn't want to bring them up here'

And just as well, indeed, thought Agatha miserably as she trailed off down the street. For when he finds I haven't been suckered, he'll search around for a new wife, and one with money this time. She remembered his letters and stopped beside a pillar-box, readdressed the lot and popped them in.

Jack Pomfret was standing on the up escalator at Archway tube when he saw the stocky figure of Agatha Raisin on the down escalator and opened his copy of The Independent and hid behind it. He ran all the way home once he was out in the street.

'Was that Raisin woman here?' he demanded.

'What Raisin woman?' demanded Marcia. 'There was only some woman from the Spanish government asking questions about British who had left Spain'

'What did she look like?'

'Straight brown hair, small brown eyes, bit of a tan.'

'You silly bitch, that was Agatha Raisin smelling out God knows what kind of rats. What did you tell her?'

'I told her how we couldn't make that bar work. How was I to know . . .'

Jack paced up and down. The money he'd spent feeding that old cow at the Savoy! The money he'd paid to those two actor friends to impersonate businessmen! Perhaps he could still save something.

Agatha packed up her stuff and left the rented flat for a new one, sacrificing the money she'd paid in advance. She moved to another rented service flat in Knightsbridge, behind Harrods. She would see a few shows and eat a few good restaurant meals before returning to that grave called Carsely.

She knew Jack would come looking for her and she did not relish the confrontation, for like all people who have been tricked, she felt ashamed of her own gullibility.

So when Jack Pomfret, sweating lightly despite the cold, called at her old flat, he did not find anyone there. The owners did not know she had left, for she had not returned her keys, and assumed she was out, and so Jack called and called desperately in the ensuing days until even he had to admit to himself that there was little hope of getting any money out of Agatha Raisin.

Apart from going to shows and restaurants, Agatha took the new cat to the Emergency Veterinary Clinic in Victoria, learned it was female, got it its shots, named it Boswell despite its gender, with some idea of keeping up the literary references, and decided that two cats were as easy to keep as one.

One evening, walking home from the theatre through Leicester Square, she was just priding herself at how easily she fitted back into city life when a youth tried to seize her handbag. Agatha hung on like grim death, finally managing to land a hefty kick on her assailant's shins. He ran off. Passers-by stared at her curiously but no one asked her if she was all right. When one lived in town, thought Agatha, one became street-wise, developed an instinct for danger. But in sleepy Carsely, where she often did not bother to lock her car at night, such instincts had gone. She walked on purposefully, striding out with a confident step which declared, don't mug me, I'm loaded for bear, the step of the street-wise.

At the end of a week, she headed back to Carsely, carrying two cat baskets this time.

For the first time, she had an odd feeling of coming home. It was a sunny day, with a faint hint of warmth in the air. Snowdrops were fluttering shyly at village doorsteps.

She thought of the vet, Paul Bladen, again. Now she had a new cat, she had every excuse to take it to the vet for a check-up. On the other hand, if Bill Wong was to be believed, Paul Bladen did not like cats. She decided to go along and say she needed some eye ointment.

She had really only half believed Bill, however, and was surprised to find the waiting-room empty. Miss Mabbs looked up listlessly from a torn magazine and said Mr Bladen was up at Lord Pendlebury's racing stable but would be back soon. Agatha waited and waited.

After an hour, Paul Bladen walked into the waiting-room, nodded curtly to Agatha and disappeared into the surgery. Agatha had half a mind to leave.

But after only a few moments, Miss Mabbs told her to go through.

He listened to Agatha's tale of the cat's eye infection and then scribbled out a prescription, saying they were out of the ointment, but that she could get it at the chemist's in Moreton-in-Marsh. He then obviously waited for Agatha to leave.

'Don't you think you owe me an explanation?' demanded Agatha. 'I tried to go to that restaurant in Evesham but the snow was so bad, I crashed. I tried to phone you but some woman answered the phone, saying she was your wife. I thought you might have had the decency to phone me.'

He was suddenly all charm. 'Mrs Raisin, I am very sorry. The weather was so dreadful, I was sure you would not even try to make it. The woman on the phone was my sister, being silly. Do forgive me. Look, what about tonight? There's a new Greek restaurant in Mircester, just near the abbey. We could meet there at eight'

But when he smiled into her eyes, Agatha was reminded bitterly of Jack Pomfret.

She hesitated, looking out of the surgery window. It was then that she saw James Lacey, looking the same as ever. He was a very tall, well-built man with a handsome, tanned face and bright blue eyes. His thick black hair had only a trace of grey at the sides. He was strolling past with that easy, rangy stride of his, James Lacey without a care in the world.

I'd love to go' she said. "See you then'

When Agatha got home, the phone was ringing and she picked up the receiver. Jack Pomfret's voice sounded down the line. 'Agatha, Agatha, I can explain . . .'

Agatha slammed the receiver back on its stand. The phone immediately began to ring again.

She snatched it up. 'Look, bugger off, you useless con' she snarled. 'If you think -'

'Mrs Raisin, it's me, Bill'

'Oh! I told you to call me Agatha'

'Sorry. Agatha. So business wasn't business?'

'No' said Agatha curtly.

'Pity. What about dinner tonight?'

'What?'

'You, me, dinner'

Bill Wong was in his twenties, so any invitation to dinner was prompted by pure friendship.

Nonetheless she was flattered and almost tempted to dump the vet. But the vet was nearer her age.

I've got a date, Bill. What about next week?' 'Right. I'll probably see you before then. Who's your date with? Lacey?'

'No, the vet.'

'Out of the frying pan into the fire.' 'What the hell does that mean? You mean he's after my money? Well, let me tell you, Bill Wong, that a lot of men find me attractive.'

'Sure, sure. Talking off the top of my head. See you soon. Only joking. He's probably loaded.'

Chapter Three

Agatha tried on one dress after the other, gave up and changed into an old skirt and blouse, was about to leave and hurried back indoors to put on the body stocking, the Armani dress, the pearls, and gummed on a pair of false eyelashes she had bought in London.

James Lacey saw her drive off. He noticed that she no longer went slowly past his house, looking eagerly out of the car window.

Agatha drove along the Fosse to Mircester, an old cobbled town dominated by a great medieval abbey. She found the restaurant without difficulty. It was more like a dingy shop with closed curtains rather than a restaurant, but she was sure all would be warmth and elegance inside.

The Stavros Restaurant came as a bit of a shock to her when she walked inside. There was cracked linoleum on the floor and checked plastic table-cloths covered the tables. A few rather dingy enlarged photographs of views of Greece, the Acropolis, Delphi, and so on stared down from the walls.

Paul Bladen rose to meet Agatha. He was wearing his old tweeds and an open-necked shirt.

'You look very grand' he said by way of greeting.

1 didn't know it would be such a ... quaint... restaurant' said Agatha, sitting down.

'The food makes up for the decor' He poured her a glass of retsina from a carafe, and Agatha took a swig, mentally damning it as lighter fuel but hoping the alcohol content was enough to give courage.

A skinny waitress with dead-white Return of the Mutant Women make-up came up with a notebook.

'Watyerwant?' she asked laconically.

Agatha, who would normally have told her to buzz off and give her time to choose something had, that evening, decided to play the feminine and submissive woman, so she batted her false eyelashes at Paul and said, 'You choose for me'

The dish was supposed to be sniffed vine leaves. Agatha, poking at it after it had arrived at their table with depressing speed, decided the vine leaves were cabbage and the filling was watery rice.

She found that by dint of breaking the little packets open and spreading them about her plate she could actually make it look as if she had at least eaten some of it.

Paul Bladen talked all the while about his hopes to supply Carsely with a really good veterinary service and ordered another large carafe of retsina, as Agatha was making up in drink what she was not getting in the way of food.

'Now' he said, smiling into her eyes, 'tell me all about yourself. How is it that such a sophisticated lady ends up in a Cotswold village?'

A sober Agatha might have remembered that the Cotswolds, being fashionable, abound in quite a lot of interesting people, but the tipsy Agatha was flattered and told him all about her childhood dream of owning a cottage in the country, how she had built up a successful business, sold it and retired early. 'Very early' said Agatha.

He reached across the table and took her hand. 'You haven't mentioned your husband'

Agatha shrugged. 1 left him years and years ago. I suppose he's dead' Agatha had never even bothered to get a divorce. Paul's hand was warm and dry and firm. She felt fluttery and breathless, almost as if she were on a first date.

I'm doing all the talking,' she said. 'What about you?'

1 am working on a dream' he said. He released her hand as the waitress came up and put two Levantine sticky cakes, oozing watery honey, in front of them and two cups of black sludge masquerading under the name of Greek coffee.

'I plan to create a really good veterinary hospital' he said, 'but that takes money'

'You should ask the Carsely Ladies' Society' said Agatha. 'They're terribly good at fund-raising'

'Unlike you, I think they are all too provincial to grasp such a grand concept'

'I wouldn't say that' Agatha thought of Mrs Bloxby. 'They're really dedicated workers ... I tell you what. I'll give you a contribution to start your fund off'

Twenty pounds, thought Agatha charitably. After all, he is paying for this quite hideous dinner.

He seized her hand again. 'You don't seem to like your coffee'

'I like filter coffee'

'Then let's go to my place and have some' He stroked his thumb over the palm of her hand.

Well, this is it, thought Agatha, as she drove after his car through the dark winding streets of the old town, this is what I got all dressed up for. But the euphoria induced by all she had drunk was leaving her.

Paul, in the car in front, stopped outside a small Victorian villa on the outskirts of the town.

As Agatha followed him into a gloomy hall, she was suddenly seized with panic as he turned and smiled slowly and intimately at her. Sex! Here it was and here were all the fears. She hadn't shaved her armpits. What if she wasn't ... er ... gymnastic enough? The house was cold. One of her false eyelashes was beginning to slip. She could feel it. What if she had to undress in front of him and he saw her trying to get out of that body stocking?

'I've got to go' she said suddenly. 'I forgot to leave the cats any water'

'Agatha, Agatha, they'll be all right. Come here'

'And I'm expecting an important phone call from New York and ... I mean, thanks for the dinner. My treat next time. Honestly, got to rush.'

Agatha fled down the garden path, stumbling on her high heels.

She unlocked her car and dived into the driving seat and then drove off, not feeling the panic ebb until she was safely back out of the town and on her road home. Along the Fosse, a police car loomed up in her rear-view mirror. She thought of all she had drunk and prayed they would not stop her and breathalyse her. She dropped her speed to thirty and the police car moved out and passed her.

She felt bewildered by her reactions to the handsome vet. She had not had an affair with anyone in quite a long time. What a fool she had been. Not once did she allow the thought to form in her head that the idea of love-making without love had become repugnant to her. That was too old-fashioned an idea to admit to, and Agatha Raisin was determinedly modern.

The next day Paul Bladen went back to Lord Pendlebury's racing stables. He was to perform Hobday's operation on a racehorse to stop its roaring. This involved cutting the vocal cords. He filled a syringe with a drug called Immobilon to anaesthetize the animal. Beside him on a small rickety table which he had carried into the stable for the purpose, he placed a glass bottle of Revivon to inject the horse when the operation was over, and also a glass bottle of Narcon, a powerful antidote in case he got any of the Immobilon into his bloodstream by mistake.

"There now, boy, easy' he said, patting the horse on the nose as it shuffled and whinnied. He felt irritated that Lord Pendlebury had not even bothered to supply him with a stable-boy to help. The sun was shining in through the open stable door, casting a huge gold rectangle on the cobbles at his feet. He raised the syringe to inject the horse in the jugular vein. The gold at his feet darkened as if a cloud had passed over the face of the sun. Then something struck him savagely on the back of the head and he fell sprawling. Winded but not unconscious, he twisted round on the cobbles. 'What the hell are you . . .?' he began.

A hand twisted the syringe out of his grasp and the next thing he knew, the syringe had been plunged into his chest. He scrabbled desperately at the table where the antidote lay. Even Revivon, the drug to revive the horse, would work if he couldn't reach the Narcon, but the table was kicked over and he died a few seconds later.

Agatha heard about his death the following day from Bill Wong, and her first feeling was one of selfish relief that the vet was no longer around to gossip about the way she had fled from his house.

Agatha had replaced the electric cooker in her kitchen with an Aga stove. The door of the stove was open and a wood fire was burning briskly. A jug of early daffodils from the Channel Islands stood on the window-ledge. The square plastic table was gone and now there was a solid wooden one with a scrubbed top.

'It was a tragic accident' said Bill. 'Some vets won't work with Immobilon. It's deadly. There was a case not long ago where the vet put the syringe full of the stuff in his breast pocket and approached the horse. The horse nudged him on the chest, the syringe pricked the vet and that was enough. He died almost instantly'

'You'd think they'd have some sort of antidote' said Agatha.

'Oh, they do, but there's not often time to reach it. In Paul Bladen's case, it was on a little table, but either he kicked it over in his death agonies, or the horse kicked it over.'

'You mean it's like cyanide? You writhe about?'

'Come to think of it, you don't' said Bill. 'Good way to commit suicide . . . quick and painless. There was one curious thing.'

'Yes?' Agatha's eyes brightened.

'No, not that curious. Not murder. There was a lump on the back of his head, but of course it was assumed he got that striking his head when he fell, although he was found lying on his side. His fingerprints were on the edge of the table, as if he'd made an attempt to get to the antidote.'

'And he was all alone?'

'Yes. The reason for that, reading between the lines of old Lord Pendlebury's statement, is that he high-handedly demanded help. Lord Pendle-bury said his stable staff were all too busy and then made sure they were. It was an operation to stop the horse roaring. A lot of racehorses make a roaring sound on the course'

'Seems brutal.'

'Everything to do with animals is brutal.'

James Lacey hovered outside Agatha's door. She had baked him a pie two months ago and he knew he should have returned the pie dish. He had been putting it off. But the fact that Agatha had apparently ceased to pursue him had given him courage. He rang the bell, thinking that with any luck she might be out around the village, and then he could safely leave the pie dish on the doorstep.

But Agatha answered the door. "Come in and have coffee' she said, taking the pie dish. 'We're in the kitchen'

That 'we' encouraged James Lacey to step inside. He was writing a military history, and like most writers spent his days looking for excuses not to work.

He knew Bill Wong and nodded a greeting. James settled down over a cup of coffee, relieved that Agatha was not staring at him in the intense way she usually did.

'We've just been talking about Paul Bladen's death,' said Agatha. She described what had happened.

The retired colonel despised what he called 'women's gossip' and would have been amazed had anyone pointed out to him that he was just like the rest of the human race, a gossip himself.

I'm not surprised,' he said cheerfully, 'that a man so generally loathed should be bumped off.' 'But he wasn't bumped off' protested Agatha.

The people who claim not to be gossips are usually the worst kind, and James Lacey weighed in. 'How can you be sure?7 he demanded. Tor a start, did you hear about poor Mrs Josephs? You know she was devoted to that old cat of hers, Tewks. Well, she kept going to Bladen with one excuse or another. One day he asked her to leave the cat with him for a full examination. When she went back to collect her beloved pet, he had put it to death. He said the cat was too old and needed to be put out of its misery. Mrs Josephs was distraught.

"Then there was Miss Simms. She kept going along on one pretext or another. The last time she went, she said, and I believe her, it was because the cat had a genuine complaint. It was scratching and scratching. Bladen told her coldly the cat had fleas, and not to waste his time and be more thorough with her housekeeping. She took her cat back to her former vet, who told her the animal had an allergy. Miss Simms returned to Bladen and ripped him up and down. You could hear it all over the village. But then Bladen had told Jack Page, the farmer, that he was sick of those women and their dreary pets. He only had time for working animals'

'This must have all happened when I was in London' said Agatha. 1 mean, they all went to him when he first came'

'They were all in love with him' said James. "Then for some reason he started to get nasty to a few of them. There are still some who think he's the best vet ever ... or was' 'Who are they?' asked Bill. 'Mrs Huntingdon, the pretty newcomer with the Jack Russell; Mrs Mason, the chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies' Society; Mrs Harriet Parr from the lower village; and Miss Josephine Webster, who runs that shop which seems to sell nothing other than dried flowers.'

'How did you learn all this?' exclaimed Agatha, and then turned pink, for she realized in that moment that he was every bit as much pursued by the village women as Paul Bladen had been.

'Oh, people talk to me,' he said vaguely. 'You had a dinner date with Bladen,' said Bill Wong, looking at Agatha. "The night before his death, in fact, for I asked you out for dinner and you told me you couldn't go because you had a date with him.'

'So what?' demanded Agatha. James Lacey looked at her curiously. She was quite attractive, he supposed, in a pugnacious sort of way. In fact, now that she was not oiling all over him, he could see that she did have certain good points. She had a trim, if rather stocky figure, excellent legs, rather small, intelligent brown eyes, and shiny healthy brown hair, worn straight but cut by some no doubt expensive hairdressing master.

'So Fm interested' Bill was saying. 'Where did you go for dinner?'

'That new Greek place in Mircester'

'Horrible dump' said James. Took someone there for dinner myself. Never again'

Agatha wondered immediately whom he had taken for dinner, but she said, 'I didn't find out all that much about him. Oh, he said his dream was to open a veterinary hospital'

'Aha' said Bill maliciously. Tried to get money out of you, did he?'

'No, he did not!' yelled Agatha, and added in a quieter voice. 'It may come as a surprise to you, but he fancied me'

I'm glad about that. I mean, you'd suffered enough already with that chap in London trying to cheat you' said Bill.

'More coffee?' said Agatha, glaring at him.

'Yes, please' said James Lacey.

'Not for me' said Bill. 'Back to work' And he left the kitchen too quickly for James to change his mind and escape.

Determined to be as remote and cool as possible, Agatha served James with another cup of coffee and then sat at the far end of the table from him. More for something to say than because she was interested, she said, 'So you think someone might have murdered Paul Bladen?'

'It did cross my mind' he said. 'I mean, it would be so easy to do. Creep up on him when he had a syringe full, knock him on the head . . . No that won't do. He hadn't been knocked on the head'

'But he might have been' said Agatha. 'I mean, he had a lump on his head. They decided he might have got it falling on the floor, but he was lying on his side.'

'I suppose the police know what they are doing' said James. 'I mean, if anyone else had been around Lord Pendlebury's racing stables, he or she would have been seen. This is the country. You can't sneak around places quietly like you can in the city'

'I wonder' said Agatha. 'I would like to see those racing stables. Do you know Lord Pendlebury?'

'No. But all you have to do is go up there and ask him to contribute to one of those charities you're always raising money for. Then, when you leave the house, all you have to do is go to the stables and take a look around'

'I wish you would come with me,' said Agatha. He looked at her nervously, but she had not said it in any flirtatious way.

He thought of the work he had to do, he thought of the joys of writing and found himself saying, 'I don't see why not. We could go up this afternoon, say, about two'

'That is very kind of you' said Agatha calmly. She saw him to the door, ushered him out, and then performed a war dance in her little hall. The impossible was about to happen. She was going to spend an afternoon with James Lacey.

By two o'clock, Agatha, weary of trying on clothes, had settled for a cherry-red sweater, a neat tweed skirt, brogues, and a sheepskin coat.

She stood by the window of the dining-room, which faced the front of the house, so that she could watch him arriving. And there he came with his long rangy stride. Although in his fifties, he was a handsome man, over six feet tall, with crisp dark hair with only a trace of grey, humorous eyes and a powerful nose. He was wearing a moth-eaten old shooting sweater with worn suede patches on the shoulders over a checked shirt and olive-green cords. Agatha had a good stare at him to compensate for the fact that she intended to remain cool and detached when she actually met him again.

Lord Pendlebury's home, Eastwold Park, lay at the end of a long drive which led off the road from the village. Agatha felt quite elated. The only time she had been inside the doors of a grand house before was as a tourist. She wondered if she should curtsy - no, that was for royalty - and should she call him 'my lord'? Best to watch how James Lacey went on and copy him.

They drove up and parked outside the front of one of those rambling Cotswold mansions which cover quite a bit of ground without appearing to do so. The door was answered not by a butler, but by one of the village women, Mrs Arthur, wearing an overall and brushing wisps of grey hair from her eyes. Mrs Arthur was a member of the Carsely Ladies' Society, but Agatha had not known she worked for Lord Pendlebury.

'I wanted to ask Lord Pendlebury if he would contribute to our fund-raising for Save the Children' said Agatha.

'You can ask' said Mrs Arthur. 'No harm in asking, I always say' She stayed put.

'Why don't you ask Lord Pendlebury then if we may see him?' demanded James Lacey.

'On your own heads be it,' said Mrs Arthur. 'He's in the study, over there' She jerked a thumb towards a door at the end of the hall.

It was all very disappointing, thought Agatha, as she followed James Lacey across the hall. There should have been a butler to take a visiting card on a silver tray. But James was already holding open the study door for her.

Lord Pendlebury was seated in a battered leather armchair before a dying wood fire. He was fast asleep.

'Well, that's that,' whispered Agatha. James crossed to the window. 'The stable block is out the back' he said, not bothering to lower his voice. 'You can see it from here'

'Shhh' urged Agatha. The room was so silent, book-lined, dim, with two walls of calf-bound books, a large desk, bowls of spring flowers on odd little tables, and the solemn tick of clocks intensifying the silence.

'Who are you?' Lord Pendlebury was awake now and staring straight at her.

Agatha jumped and said, 'I am Agatha Raisin from Carsely. The gentleman there is Mr Lacey' She longed to call him Colonel but was sure James would object. 'I am collecting money on behalf of the Carsely Ladies' Society for Save the Children'

Like an American swearing the oath of allegiance, Lord Pendlebury put an arm across his chest, no doubt to protect his wallet.

'I have already given money to Cancer Research' he said.

'But this is Save the Children'

'I don't like children' said Lord Pendlebury petulantly. 'Too many of them. Go away'

Agatha opened her mouth to blast him, but James Lacey said quickly, Tine-looking stables you have, sir. Mind if we walk over and take a look?'

'Doesn't matter if I mind, does it?' said Lord Pendlebury. 'A landowner no longer has any privacy. If it's not busybodies like you, it's those damn environmentalists, walking over my land with their rucksacks, eating health-food nut bars and farting. Do you know what causes the damage to the ozone layer? It's health fanatics, eating ghastly bran and nut bars and farting about the landscape. Sending out poisonous gases and wind. Ought to be put down'

'Quite' said James indifferently while Agatha glared at Lord Pendlebury.

'You don't seem a bad sort of chap' said Lord Pendlebury, peering at James in the gloom of the study. 'But that woman looks like one of those hunt saboteurs, slavering on about the darling foxes'

'Listen, you' said Agatha, advancing on him.

James took her firmly by the arm and guided her towards the door. 'Thank you for your kind invitation, Lord Pendlebury' he said over his shoulder. 'We shall enjoy seeing your stables'

'Rude old bugger' raged Agatha when they were out in the hall.

James shrugged. 'He's old. Leave him be. We get to see the racing stables and that's why we came'

But Agatha was still smarting. She felt she had been grossly insulted. Worse than that, she thought Lord Pendlebury had been able to see right through her expensive sheepskin and sweater, right down into her working-class soul.

'I'm going to have a firm talk with Mrs Arthur' said Agatha as they walked together towards the stable block. 'She could probably earn more working in a factory or a supermarket'

'She and her husband work for Lord Pendle-bury' pointed out James Lacey. 'They get a rent-free cottage on the estate and all the free vegetables they want from the market garden. Anyway, you want to persuade Mrs Arthur to leave to get your revenge on the old man because he thought you were a flatulent fox preserver'

This was the truth, and so Agatha decided James was really quite an uninteresting and charmless man after all.

The other thing that was irritating was that although James Lacey had spent less time in and around the village compared to herself, he seemed to know a remarkable number of people. He hailed Lord Pendlebury's trainer, Sam Stodder, and introduced him to Agatha.

'Lord Pendlebury said we could take a look around the stables, Mr Stodder' said James. 'Sad thing about that vet's death, wasn't it?'

'Sad, for sure. Happened right over there. He were doing that operation to stop Sparky roaring'

'And no one else was about at the time?'

'No. Lord Pendlebury had a new filly out in the paddock and took us all off to have a look. We was all talking and smoking and admiring the filly, 'cos it's not often the old man lets us slack. Devil for work, he is. Then Bob Arthur, him what does for my lord, he strolls off and says he's going for to see how the vet is getting on and the next thing he comes out, yelling and crying that Bladen is dead. "Looks like someone's done fer him," he says, so his lordship says for to call the police'

'And it was in here?' asked Agatha, approaching the right wing of the stable block.

Both men followed her in. There was nothing to be seen. The row of loose boxes stretched off into the gloom, the horses' heads poking out. 'Oldest bit of the stables' said Sam. 'In the rest of it, the loose boxes open right out on to the courtyard, not inside like here.'

Agatha stared at the floor, but there was nothing to be seen, not even a sliver of glass.

'Why did Mr Arthur say that it looked like someone had done for him?' she asked.

'Reckon he waren't none too popular, like. Wizard with horses, mind. Lord Pendlebury thought him a cheeky sort and wanted Mr Rice, Bladen's partner from Mircester, but Mr Rice don't like Lord Pendlebury and that's a fact, and so he do make excuses not to come.'

'I don't suppose anyone likes Lord Pendlebury, horrible old man that he is,' said Agatha.

'You're entitled to your opinion, I'm sure' said Sam, 'but don't expect none of us here to say a word against the old man. Course you haven't been as long in these parts as Mr Lacey here, or you'd know that criticism of his lordship is not welcome; no, that it's not'

I've been here a considerable time longer than Mr Lacey' said Agatha huffily.

'Well, there's folks that fit in and folks that don't,' said Sam. 'Afternoon.' He touched his cap and strolled off.

'What a feudal peasant,' said Agatha.

'Sam's a good man, and we're the peasants in this case.'

'What?'

'Vulgarly poking our noses in where they don't belong. What on earth are we doing here, Mrs Raisin?'

'Agatha'

'Agatha. The man died because of an unfortunate accident'

'I'm not so sure' said Agatha, more out of a desire to be contrary than because she believed it.

They strolled round to the front of the house where Agatha's car was parked. It looked new and shiny after all the expensive repairs. Lord Pendlebury came towards them.

His tall, thin, heron-like figure loped up to them. "What do you think you're doing?' he said angrily. 'There's an open day once a year, on June the first; otherwise keep off private property'

'It's us,' said James Lacey patiently. 'You gave us permission to go and look at your stables'

His pale watery eyes blinked at them and then focused on Agatha. 'Oh, the hunt saboteur' he said. "The people one has to put up with these days'

He headed off towards the stables, leaving James amused and Agatha fuming.

'You're hardly the flavour of the month' said James.

'The man's senile' snapped Agatha. She had often lingered longingly while on the tour of some stately home outside the roped-off private part hoping a member of the family would recognize her as one of their own kind and ask her to tea. That fantasy seemed totally ridiculous now.

She drove James back to the village, feeling hurt and gauche and inadequate. He glanced at her sideways and something prompted him to say, 'I haven't been to the Red Lion for ages. Fancy a drink there this evening?'

Agatha's spirits rocketed like the pheasant which rose up before the wheels of her car and over the hedge beside the road. But she kept her voice light and casual. 'That would be nice. What time?'

'Oh, about eight. I have to go to Moreton for something, so I'll see you there'

He was already regretting his invitation, and yet there was no sign of any return of that predatory look he had noticed before in Agatha's eyes.

Agatha, guessing that he would not bother to change, restrained herself from changing her own clothes. She fed the cats and played with them and tried not to watch the clock. Excitement built up in her as eight o'clock approached. Although she had, with the help of Mrs Bloxby, been training herself to cook, she put a frozen lasagne in the microwave for her dinner so as not to waste more time on elaborate preparations. It tasted foul. How could she ever have eaten such stuff?

As she walked to the Red Lion, a full moon was shining down, washing everything with silver, outlining the skeletal arms of trees against the starry sky. White and pink verbena flowers scented the air, reminding Agatha unromantic-ally of expensive bath soap. At exactly three minutes past eight, she pushed open the door of the Red Lion.

James Lacey was there in the low-raftered pub, standing at the bar, talking to the landlord. 'What'll you have?' he asked by way of greeting.

'Gin and tonic,' said Agatha, settling herself happily on a bar stool.

'I was wondering,' he began as he paid for her drink. But Agatha was never to know what he was wondering, for the pub door opened and the yapping of a Jack Russell and the heavy smell of French perfume heralded the arrival of Mrs Huntingdon, Carsely's newest incomer.

To Agatha's dismay, James said, 'Evening, Freda. What'll you have? Do you know Agatha Raisin? Agatha, this is Freda Huntingdon'

So it was Freda, was it? thought Agatha gloomily. The widow was wearing a cherry-red sleeveless jacket over a black cashmere sweater and short black wool skirt. Her legs in fine black stockings were very good.

'Let's sit at that table over there' said James after he had bought Freda a whisky and water.

'Perhaps Freda is meeting someone' suggested Agatha hopefully.

'No' she said in a husky voice, 'all on my lonesome. Thought I might find you here, James. How's the writing going?7

James! Freda! Rats! Agatha plumped herself down at the table by the log fire and tried not to let her bitter disappointment show on her face.

'The writing's not going at all well' said James. 'I look for every excuse not to get started. This morning I defrosted the fridge, and this afternoon Mrs Raisin -'

'Agatha, please'

'Sorry, Agatha and I went to see Lord Pendlebury'

'Isn't he an old duck?' murmured Freda. 'Quite one of the old school'

'How do you know him?' asked Agatha.

1 talked to him outside the church last Sunday' said Freda. 'I found him quite charming'

'I don't think Agatha found him at all charming' said James. "He mistook her for a hunt saboteur'

Freda Huntingdon laughed merrily. Her dog peed against the leg of the table and she said 'Tut-tut' and picked up the revolting yapping creature and cuddled it on her lap.

'Have you seen the latest Russell Crowe movie, James?' asked Freda. She lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in Agatha's direction.

'I haven't seen any Russell Crowe movie, let alone the latest' replied James.

'But you should! They're tremendous fun. The new one's on at Mircester. Tell you what, come with me tomorrow'

At that moment, Agatha saw Jack Page, the farmer, come in. She felt she could not bear any more of Freda and James. She rose and picked up her unfinished drink.

'Just going to have a drink with Jack.'

Jack Page hailed her. 'Nights are drawing out, Agatha' he said. 'Be spring before you know it. Sorry to hear about that crash you had'

He was a cheerful man with an easy manner. Agatha told him at length about her crash. He bought her another drink. Agatha sat down on a bar stool next to him and tried to forget about the pair in the corner.

'Bad thing about that vet' said Jack.

'You went to him, didn't you?' said Agatha. 'I saw you there the first time I took my cat along. What did you make of him?'

'The surgery was handy to nip down to and get antibiotics and things' said Jack. "Never thought about him much one way or t'other. Then I heard what he done to poor Mrs Josephs's cat, so I stopped going. That was right cruel'

'You don't think someone bumped him off, do you?'

'Ah, you're looking for another murder to solve' he teased. 'Sad accident, it were. Funeral's next Monday in Mircester, at St Peter's'

'I might go' said Agatha.

'Was you friendly with him then?'

'Had dinner with him one night' replied Agatha, 'but not really friendly.'

He drained his tankard and set the empty glass down on the bar. I'd best be getting back. I told the wife I'd only stop for the one. Why not come back and say hello?'

Agatha had a sudden longing to turn round. But Mrs Huntingdon let out a trill of laughter and her dog gave a volley of barks.

I'd like that' said Agatha, picking up her handbag.

She turned at last and gave a casual wave to James before leaving with the farmer.

James Lacey watched her go with some surprise. And he had thought she was pursuing him!

Chapter Four

Snow was falling as Agatha entered the church of St Peter in Mircester the following Monday. She was already wishing she had not come. A doggedness to find out something about the vet's death had prompted this visit. So long as she was worrying about the vet's death, Agatha did not need to worry about James Lacey.

The church was very old, with fine stained-glass windows and a dreadful seventeenth-century altar of some dark wood. Agatha took a pew at the back, unhitched the hassock from its hook, knelt in pretended prayer and then studied the congregation. But all she saw was backs of heads. There seemed to be quite a number of women present. One turned her head. Mrs Huntingdon! And then Agatha recognized the solid bulk of Mrs Mason, the chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies' Society, two pews in front of her. She changed her seat and went to sit next to her.

Mrs Mason was clutching a damp handkerchief in her hand. 'So sad' she whispered to Agatha. 'Such a fine young man'

'Hardly young' said Agatha and received a look of reproach.

The coffin was carried in and placed in the aisle in front of the altar. "That's Mr Rice, Mr Bladen's partner' said Mrs Mason. 'The one on the left at the front.' Among the men who had carried in the coffin, Agatha saw a burly middle-aged man with curly ginger hair.

'Who is here from the village, apart from us and that Mrs Huntingdon?' asked Agatha.

'Over there to the right, Mrs Parr and Miss Webster.'

Agatha leaned forward. Both women were crying. Mrs Parr was small and quite pretty and Miss Webster of an indeterminate age, possibly late thirties. She recognized Miss Webster as the woman who ran the dried flower shop.

Tm surprised you are all so upset' whispered Agatha, 'after what he did to Mrs Josephs' cat'

'What he did was right' muttered Mrs Mason fiercely. 'That cat was too old for this world'

'I hope no one thinks that about me' said Agatha.

'Shhh!' said a man in front waspishly. The service began.

Mr Peter Rice paid a tribute to his dead partner, the vicar quoted St Francis of Assisi, hymns were sung, then the coffin was raised up again and the congregation filed out after it to the graveyard.

It was strange, thought Agatha, but one never thought of people being buried in old church graveyards any more. A short service in a crematorium was more what was expected. She had always wondered about those churchyard graveside scenes in television dramas and had assumed that the television company had paid a nice sum to the church to dig up an appropriate hole for the show. One always assumed that the old churchyards of England had been full to bursting point since the end of the nineteenth century.

Snow fluttered down among the leaning gravestones and a magpie swung on the branch of a cedar and cocked a curious eye at the proceedings.

'That's his ex-wife' said Mrs Mason. A thin, grey-haired woman with a weak face was looking bleakly straight in front of her. She was wearing a fox coat over a red suit. No mourning weeds for her.

But the graveside service was so moving and so dignified that Agatha thought there was a lot to be said for staking your claim to your six-by-four in a country churchyard. When the service was over, she muttered a goodbye to Mrs Mason and set out in pursuit of the vet's ex-wife, catching up with her at the lych gate.

'My name is Agatha Raisin' she said. I gather you are poor Mr Bladen's wife'

1 was' said Mrs Bladen a trifle impatiently. It is really very cold, Mrs Raisin, and I am anxious to get home'

'My car is just outside. Can I drop you somewhere?'

'No, I have my own car'

'I wonder if we could have a talk?' said Agatha eagerly.

A look of dislike came into Mrs Bladen's eyes. 'My life seems to have been plagued by women wanting to talk to me after my husband had dumped them. It is just as well he is dead'

She stalked off.

I seem to be getting snubbed all round, thought Agatha. But there's one thing for sure: our vet was a philanderer. If only I could prove it wasn't an accident, that it was murder, then they'd all sit up and take notice!

Carsely had frequent power cuts, some lasting days, some only a few seconds.

James Lacey pressed Agatha's doorbell the following day. He did not know there was one of the brief power cuts because one could not usually hear the bell ringing from outside.

He glanced down at the front lawn. There was a lot of moss on it. He wondered if Agatha knew how to treat it. He bent down for a closer look.

Agatha, who thought she had heard someone outside, put her eye to the spyhole, but not seeing anyone, retreated to the kitchen. James Lacey straightened up and pressed the bell again. By this time the power had come back on but Agatha had found crumbs on the carpet and had plugged in the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen at the back.

James retreated, feeling baffled. He remembered all the times he had pretended to be out when Agatha had called.

He went into his own cottage, made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He switched on his new computer and then stared bleakly at the screen waiting for it to boot up, before finding the right file and flicking his written words up on to the green screen. There it was. "Chapter Two'. If only he had written just one sentence. Why had he decided to write military history anyway? Just because he was a retired soldier did not necessarily mean he was confined to military subjects. Besides, why had he chosen the Peninsular Wars? Was there anything to add more than what had been already written? Oh, dear, how long the day seemed. It had been fun going to see Pendlebury. Of course it had been an accident. And yet there was that bump on the back of the head.

It might be more fun to write mystery stories. Say, for example, the vet had been murdered, how would one go about finding out what had really happened? Well, the first step would be to find out why he was murdered, for the why would surely lead to the who.

If Agatha had answered her door to him and not looked as if she were avoiding him, he might have dropped the subject. Had he really wanted to write military history, he still might have dropped it. He gave an exclamation of disgust, switched off the machine and went out again. There would be no harm in trying Agatha's door again. He had obviously been mistaken when he had thought she was pursuing him. And he had invited her for a drink, not Freda Huntingdon. It was not his fault that Agatha had suddenly decided to leave with that farmer.

It was a fine spring day, light and airy, smelling of growing things. This time, Agatha's front door was open. He went in, calling, 'Agatha' and nearly fell over her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the hall, playing with her cats.

'Am I seeing things, or have you two of them?' he asked.

'The new one's a stray I picked up in London,' said Agatha, scrabbling to her feet. 'Like a coffee?'

'Not coffee. I seem to have been drinking it all morning. Tea would be nice.'

Tea it is.' Agatha led the way into the kitchen.

'About the other night,' he said, hovering in the kitchen doorway, 'we didn't have much of a chance to talk'

'Well, that's pubs for you' said Agatha with seeming indifference. 'You never end up talking to the person you go in with. Milk or lemon?'

'Lemon, please. I've been thinking, this business about the vet. Did you go to the funeral?'

'Yes. Lot of women there. Seems to have been popular with quite a lot of women, so he can't have gone around putting down their cats unasked.'

'Who was there from this village?'

'Apart from me, his four remaining fans: your friend, Freda Huntingdon; Mrs Mason; Mrs Harriet Parr; and Miss Josephine Webster. Oh, and his ex-wife. Hey, that's odd.'

'What is?'

'When I was supposed to be having dinner in Evesham that night I crashed and I phoned Paul's house and this woman answered the phone saying she was his wife .. ' Agatha broke off.

'Well?'

'Well, Paul Bladen told me afterwards that the woman who answered the phone was his sister, being silly or something. But no one else has mentioned his sister. I forgot to ask for her at the funeral.'

'We could drive into Mircester and find out' he volunteered.

Agatha turned away quickly and fiddled with the kettle to hide the sudden look of rapture in her eyes. 'Do you think it's murder then?' she asked.

He sighed. 'No, I don't. But it might be fun to go through the motions. I mean, ask people, just as if it were.'

Til get my coat.' Agatha nipped smartly upstairs, gazing in the glass at her outfit of sweater and skirt. But there was no time to change, for if she did not hurry up, he might decide to call the whole thing off.

'Just going to get some money' he called up the stairs.

Agatha cursed under her breath. What if he were waylaid in the short distance between her house and his? She went down the stairs and out of the door.

Freda Huntingdon was talking to him, laughing and holding that wretched yapping dog under her arm. Agatha clenched her hands into fists as they both disappeared into James's cot-tage. She stood there in her own front garden, . irresolute. What if he forgot about her? But he emerged with Freda after only a few moments. Freda was tucking a paperback into her pocket.

She waved goodbye to him and he walked towards Agatha. 'Shall we take my car?' he asked. 'No need to take two.'

'Mine will be fine,' said Agatha. He climbed into the passenger seat. As Agatha drove past Freda, she turned and stared at them in surprise.

Agatha gave a cheerful fanfare on the horn and drove fast round the corner out of the lane.

'What did the merry widow want?' she asked.

'Freda? She had lent me a paperback and had come to collect it'

Agatha would have chatted on merrily all the way to Mircester and probably would have driven James away again, but just at that moment she sensed there was a pimple growing on the end of her nose. She squinted down and the car veered wildly to the side of the road before she corrected the steering.

'Are you all right?' asked James. 'Do you want me to drive?'

'I'm fine' But Agatha sank into a worried silence. She could feel that pimple growing and growing, an itchy soreness on the end of her nose. Why should such a thing happen to her on this day of all days? This was what came of eating 'healthy' food, as recommended by Mrs Bloxby. Years of fast food had not produced one blemish. The only solution, Agatha decided, was when they reached Mircester, she would say she needed to buy something from the chemist's - no gentleman would ask what - and then say she was dying for a drink.

She parked in the last space in the town's main square. A woman who had been in the act of carefully reversing into it before Agatha beat her to it by driving straight in nose first, stared in hurt anger. When they got out of the car, Agatha, keeping her face averted, said, 'Got to go to the chemist's over there. Meet you in that pub, the George, in a few moments' And then, like jesting Pilate, did not stay for an answer, but scuttled across the square.

In the chemist's, she bought a stick of Blemish Remover, astringent lotion, and, for good measure, a new lipstick, Hot Pink.

James looked up and waved as Agatha came into the pub, but she scuttled past him to the Ladies', her face still averted.

Agatha cleaned her face, applied the astringent lotion and then wiped it off with a tissue. She peered at her nose. There was a bright little red spot at the end of it. She carefully applied the stick of Blemish Remover, which resulted in a beige blotch on the end of her nose. She covered it with powder. The light in the Ladies' was not working, so she could only guess at the effect. She stared upwards. There was a light socket u on the ceiling, but she noticed the light bulb was missing and what light there was in the room filtered through the grimy panes of a window high up over the hand basin. Then she remembered she had bought a packet of 100-watt light bulbs the day before and had left them in her car. She scuttled out again. Again James waved and again she ran past him, her face averted, and out the door. He drank his beer thoughtfully. He had once thought Agatha Raisin deranged. Perhaps he had been right. There she came again, running sideways, and back into the Ladies'.

Agatha looked up at the ceiling. In order to reach the light socket, she would need to stand on the hand basin. She hitched up her skirt and climbed into the large Victorian hand basin and gingerly stood up. She reached up to the light socket.

With a great rending sound, the hand basin came away from the wall. Agatha swayed wildly and then grabbed hold of a dusty windowsill as the hand basin slowly continued to detach itself and fell with an almighty crash on the floor, taking the brass taps with it. A ferocious jet of cold water from a now broken and exposed pipe shot straight up Agatha's skirt.

With a whimper she let go of the windowsill, jumped to the flooding floor and skirting the debris shot back into the pub after firmly closing the door behind her.

'Let's go' she said to James.

He stared at her in surprise. I've just bought you a gin and tonic'

'Oh, thanks' said Agatha desperately. 'Cheers!' She threw the drink down her throat in one gulp. 'Come on!' Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a flood of water appearing from under the door of the Ladies'.

James followed her out. He noticed to his dismay that the back of her skirt had a dark stain on it and he wondered whether to tell her. She was not that old, but perhaps she had bladder trouble.

'Now, this pub looks much nicer' said Agatha, pushing open the door of the Potters Arms and diving in. Once more, she went to the Ladies'. To her relief it was a modern place with a hot-air hand dryer. She took off her skirt and held it under the dryer until the water stain began to fade. Then she lay down on the floor and held her wet feet up under it. Time passed. When she emerged, a worried James was on his second pint of beer. 1 was just about to send someone to look for you' he said. 'Are you all right?'

'Yes' said Agatha, radiant again, for she had discovered that the new make-up had done the job effectively and she was once more warm and dry.

'I bought you another gin' he said, indicating the glass on the table.

Agatha smiled at him. 'Here's to detection' she said, raising her glass. And then she slowly lowered it, a look of ludicrous dismay on her face. For into the pub had just marched Bill Wong and a tall policewoman. 'Dropped my handbag' said Agatha and dived under the table.

It was to no avail. 'Come out, Agatha' said Bill.

Agatha miserably crawled out from under the table, her face red with shame.

'Now, Agatha' said Bill, 'what have you been up to? PC Wood here called me into the George. A woman answering your description went in and vandalized the ladies' room, tearing a hand basin out of the wall and flooding the place. People in the square saw you running in here. What have you to say for yourself?'

1 had a spot on my nose' mumbled Agatha.

'Speak up. I can't hear you.'

7 had a spot on my nose,' roared Agatha. Everyone looked at her and James Lacey desperately wished himself elsewhere.

'And how did that make you tear the hand basin out of the wall?' asked Bill.

'I bought make-up at the chemist's' Agatha's voice was now reduced to a flat even tone. 'I wanted to cover up the spot, but the light in the Ladies' wasn't working and I thought it probably needed a new bulb. I remembered I had a packet of light bulbs in the car and went to get one. But the only way I could get to the light was by standing on the basin. It came away from the wall. I was so shocked I decided to say nothing about it.'

'I am afraid you are going to have to come with me' said Bill severely.

The fact that James Lacey did not offer to accompany her, that he muttered something awkwardly about staying put and reading the newspapers, plunged him low in Agatha's estimation despite her distress. So much for the knight errant of her dreams. He was going to sit safely while she dealt with a no doubt enraged landlord.

James went out a few moments after they had left. He bought two newspapers and then returned to the pub. But he could not concentrate on the stories. Damn Agatha. What a woman. What a stupid thing to do! And then the ridiculous side of it all struck him and he began to laugh and, once started, couldn't seem to stop, although people edged away from his table nervously. He finally mopped his eyes and, tucking the unread papers under his arm, strode over to the George.

Agatha was holding out a cheque which the landlord of the George was refusing. "Ho, no, you don't get off that easily' he said. He was an unpleasant-looking man with a face like a slab of Cheddar cheese, the skin yellow and slightly sweating with rage. "You charge this woman, officer' he said to Bill, 'and I'll see her in court. You charge her with wilful vandalism.'

James twitched the cheque out of Agatha's fingers and blinked slightly at the large sum. 'You can't afford this' he said to Agatha. 'A lady like yourself, existing on a widow's pension, cannot afford a sum like this. Declare yourself bankrupt and then, even if he takes you to court, he won't get a penny. I know a good solicitor just around the corner.'

'Good idea' said Bill. 'You need a solicitor anyway. He'll want to know why there was no light bulb in the Ladies' in the first place, why the basin fell away from the wall so easily. The wiring in this pub had better be checked, too'

I'll take the cheque' growled the landlord desperately.

'You'll take another cheque' said James firmly. 'Agatha, get your cheque-book and write out one for half this sum.'

The Cheddar cheese looked ready to explode again, but a steely look from James silenced him.

Agatha wrote out the new cheque while James tore up the old one.

When they were all outside in the square, Bill said, 'If that had been a nice, respectable landlord, I might have charged you, Agatha. Anyway, thanks to Mr Lacey, it's all sorted out. What about dinner tonight?'

Agatha hesitated. She had originally thought her day with James might end in an intimate dinner. On the other hand, better to continue to play it cool. 'Yes, that would be nice. Where do you live? I know your phone number but not your address'

'It's number 24, The Beeches. You go out of town on the Fosse and take the first left along 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, Td 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'

1 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. Hell 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 naively 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 it's births, deaths, or marriages, I do that' she said.

'None of those'

'Complaints? Wrong name under the photo?'

'No complaint'

"That makes a change' She got to her feet. She was wearing a long patchwork skirt and baseball boots and a T-shirt which said 'Naff Off'. 'Names?'

'Mrs Raisin and Mr Lacey'

'Right'

She pushed open a scarred door and vanished inside. There was a murmur of voices and then she popped out again. 'You're to go in. Mr Hey ford will see you now'

Mr Heyford rose to meet them. After the vision in the T-shirt and baseball boots he came as a conservative surprise, being a small, neat man with a smooth olive face, black eyes and thin strips of oiled black hair combed straight back from his forehead. He was dressed in a dark suit, collar and tie.

'Sit down' he said. 'What can I do for you? I recognize your name, Mrs Raisin. That was quite a lot of money you raised for charity last year' Agatha preened.

'We both knew the vet, Paul Bladen' said James. 'We're having a sort of a bet. Mrs Raisin here said he was worth a lot of money, but I got the impression he didn't have that much. Do you know how much he left?'

'I can't tell you exactly how much because I can't quite remember' said Mr Heyford. 'About eighty-five thousand, I think. Would have been a fortune once, but that sort of money won't even buy you a decent house now. He left a house, of course, but he had taken a double mortgage out on that, and with house prices being what they are, Mr Rice, who inherited, will barely get enough to cover the mortgages. I never thought the day would come in this country when we would consider eighty-five thousand not very much money, so it looks as if you've won the bet, Mr Lacey'

'So he couldn't have been killed for his money' said Agatha mournfully when they had said goodbye to the editor. 'And yet . . '

'And yet what?'

'If he did have eighty-five thousand pounds, why the two mortgages? I mean, the interest must have been crippling. Why not pay off some of the money owing?'

'The trouble' said James, 'is that we are making ourselves believe an accident to be murder'

Agatha thought quickly. If he gave up the idea of investigating anything at all, then she would have little excuse to spend any time in his company. 'We could try the wife' she suggested. 'I mean, as we're here and we've still got time to kill before we go to Bill's'

'Oh, very well. Where do we find her?'

'We'll try the phone book and hope she is still using her married name' said Agatha.

They found a name, G. Bladen, listed. The address was given as Rose Cottage, Little Blom-ham. 'Where's Little Blomham?' asked Agatha.

'I saw a sign to it once. It's off the Stroud road'

A pale mist was shrouding the landscape, turning the countryside into a Chinese painting, as they drove down into Little Blomham. It was more of a hamlet than a village, a few ancient houses of golden Cotswold stone hunched beside a stream.

No one moved about, no smoke rose from the chimneys, no dog barked.

Agatha switched off the engine and both listened as the eerie silence settled about them.

James suddenly quoted:

'Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone'

Agatha looked at him crossly. She did not like people who suddenly quoted things at you, leaving you feeling unread and inadequate. In fact, she thought they only did it to show off.

She got out of the car and slammed the door shut with unnecessary force.

James got out of the passenger seat and wandered to a stone wall and looked down at the slowly moving stream. He seemed to have gone into some sort of dream, to have forgotten Agatha's presence. 'So very quiet' he said, half to himself. 'So very English, the England they fought for in the First World War. So little of it left'

'Would you like to stand here and meditate while I find out which one of these picturesque hovels is Rose Cottage?' asked Agatha.

He gave her a sudden smile. 'No, I'll come with you.' They walked together down the road by the stream. 'Let me see, this one has no name and the next one is called End Cottage, although it's not at the end. Perhaps one of the ones further on'

They nearly missed Rose Cottage. It was set well back from the road at the end of a thin, narrow, tangled and unkempt garden. It was small and thatched, with the walls covered in thick creeper. 'Looks more like an animal's burrow than a house,' commented James. 'Well, here we go. We can't say we think he was murdered. We'll offer our sympathy and see where that gets us.'

He knocked on the door. And waited. They stood wrapped in the silence of the dream countryside. Then, as if a spell had been broken, a bird suddenly flew up from a bush near the door, a dog barked somewhere, high and shrill in the road outside, and Mrs Bladen opened the door.

Why, I believe she's older than I, thought Agatha, looking again at that grey hair and at the tell-tale lines on the thin neck.

Mrs Bladen looked past James to Agatha and her face settled in lines of dislike. 'Oh, it's you again'

'Mr Lacey wished to offer you his sympathy' said Agatha quickly.

'Why?' she demanded harshly. 'Why should someone come all this way to offer sympathy for the death of a man I've been divorced from?'

'We're very neighbourly people in Carsely' said James, 'and wondered if we could do anything to help.'

'You can help by going away'

James looked helplessly at Agatha. Agatha decided to take the bull by the horns. 'Are you sure your husband died a natural death?' she asked.

Mrs Bladen looked amused. 'Meaning someone killed him? It's more than likely. He was a thoroughly nasty man and I'm glad he's dead. I hope that satisfies you'

She slammed the door in their faces.

'That's that' said James, as they walked down the weedy path.

'We got something' said Agatha eagerly. 'She didn't laugh in our faces when I suggested murder to her. Now did she?'

'You know what I think?' he said, holding the gate open for her. 'I think we're two retired people with not enough to do with our time'

'Just because you can't get started writing' said Agatha shrewdly, 'don't take it out on me'

"This is a lovely little place' he said to change the subject. 'So quiet and peaceful. I wonder if there's anything for sale here.'

'Oh, you wouldn't want to live here' said Agatha, alarmed. 'I mean, Carsely's bad enough, but there's nothing here, not even a shop or a pub.'

'What's wrong with that, in this age of the motor car? Oh, look. That sign there. The Manor House. I didn't notice it before. Let's go and have a look'

Agatha followed him silently up a winding drive. She did not want to look at any manor house because manor houses belonged to James Lacey's world and not to hers. The drive, edged with rhododendron bushes, opened up and there stood the manor house. The mist had thinned and pale sunlight washed the golden walls. It was low and rambling and settled and charming, exuding centuries of peace. Even Agatha sensed that wars and conflicts, plague and pestilence had passed this old building by.

A small square woman in a twin set and tweed skirt came out with a black retriever at her heels. 'Can I help you?' she called.

'Just admiring your beautiful home' said James, approaching her.

'Yes, it is beautiful' she said. 'Come inside and have some tea. I don't often get visitors until the summer, when all my relatives decide they would like a free holiday'

James introduced them. The woman said she was Bunty Vere-Dedsworth. She led the way into a dark hall and then through into a large old kitchen gleaming with copper pans and white-and-blue china on an old dresser which ran the length of one wall.

'Lacey' she said, as she plugged in an electric kettle. 1 used to know some Laceys down in Sussex'

"That's where my family comes from' said James.

'Really'' She had cornflower-blue eyes in a reddish face. 'Old Harry Lacey?'

'My father'

'Gosh, small world. Do you ever see the . . '

Agatha, excluded from that intimidating conversation of the upper classes which consisted of names and exclamations of recognition thrown back and forth, moodily sipped her tea and felt James moving out of her sphere. She could picture him living in a place like this with an elegant wife, not with some retired public relations woman such as herself who would only be able to swap names with someone from the rather nasty Birmingham slum in which she had grown up.

'What brings you here?' said Bunty at last.

James said, 'Our vet in Carsely died and we went to offer Mrs Bladen our sympathies, but she doesn't seem in need of any'

'No, she wouldn't' said Bunty. 'She had a very unhappy marriage'

'Other women?' suggested Agatha.

'I think it was more a question of money, or the lack of it. Greta Bladen was a wealthy woman when she married Paul, and he seemed to spend a great deal of her money. When she left him, that dingy little cottage was all she could afford. She really hated him. I heard how Bladen died. Now if he had been found dead because someone had biffed him with the frying-pan, that someone being Greta, I wouldn't have been at all surprised. But you'd really need to know about veterinary things to shove a syringe full of deadly stuff in him. I mean, think of it. How many of the population would know that stuff was deadly? Maybe his partner wanted the business for himself' And Bunty laughed.

James looked at his watch. 'We really must go-' 'Must you?' Bunty smiled at Agatha. "Then do come back and see me. I'd like that'

Agatha smiled back, feeling all her social inadequacies fade away, feeling welcome.

'She had a point,' said Agatha as she drove out of the village. 'I mean about Rice. Surely it would need to be someone with a knowledge of veterinary medicine' 'Not necessarily,' he remarked. "That story about the vet who died last year when the horse nudged his breast pocket with the syringe in it and caused his death was in all the local papers. I read it. Anyone could have read it and got the idea'

'But it would need to be someone who knew where he was going and what he was doing on that day'

'Any of his lady friends might know. "What are you doing tomorrow, Paul?" "Oh, I'm cutting the vocal cords of one of Pendlebury's horses." That sort of thing'

'Yes, but say he had said that to me. I wouldn't immediately think of Immobilon'

'No, but a vet might talk about it, saying how deadly it was and talking about the accident of the previous year. I've got a feeling a woman did it'

Agatha was about to exclaim, 'So you do think it was murder' but decided to remain silent in the hope of more days of investigation together.

Bill's home came as a surprise to Agatha. She had naively expected something, well, more oriental and exotic. The Beeches was one of those closes designed by builders, each house different, with trim suburban lawns, oozing respectability and dullness. Agatha knew that Bill's father was Hong Kong Chinese and his mother from Gloucestershire, but she had not expected him to live somewhere so ordinary. Bill's house was called Clarendon, the name being poker-worked on a wooden sign hung on a post at the gate. They went up a trim path between regimented flower-beds and rang the bell, which played a chorus of 'Rule, Britannia'.

Bill himself answered the door. 'Come in. Come in,' he cried. Til just put you in the lounge and go and get the drinks. Ma's in the kitchen getting dinner ready.'

Agatha and James sat in the lounge, not looking at each other. There was a three-piece suite, shell-backed, in a nasty sort of grey wool material. There were Venetian blinds drawn down over the 'picture' windows and niched curtains. The fitted carpet was in a noisy geometric design of red and black. The wallpaper was white and gold Regency stripe. There were little occasional pie-crust tables on spindly legs. A display cabinet full of Spanish dolls and little bits of china stood against one wall. A gas fire with fake coals and logs burned cheerfully but threw out very little heat.

Agatha longed for a cigarette but could not see an ashtray.

Bill came in with a small tray on which were three tiny glasses of sweet sherry.

'You're honoured' said Bill. 'We don't use this room much. Keep it for best.'

'Very nice' said Agatha, feeling strange and awkward at seeing her Bill, chubby and oriental as usual, in these cold English suburban surroundings.

"May I use your toilet?' she asked.

'Top of the stairs. But don't go standing on the hand basin.'

Agatha climbed up thickly carpeted stairs and pushed open the door of a bathroom which contained a suite in Nile green. The toilet had a chenille cover. A flowery notice on the back of the bathroom door stated, 'When you have had a tinkle, please wipe the seat.'

She tugged at the toilet roll to get a piece of tissue to blot her lipstick and started in alarm as the toilet-roll holder chimed out 'The Bluebells of Scotland'.

'Dinner's ready' said Bill when she arrived downstairs again.

He led them across the hall and into another small room, the dining-room, where at the head of the table sat his father, a small morose Chinese gentleman with a droopy moustache, a grey baggy cardigan and large checked carpet slippers.

Bill performed the introductions. Mr Wong grunted by way of reply, picked up his knife and fork and stared at the polished surface of the laminated top of the table. Agatha looked down at a place-mat depicting Tewkesbury Abbey and wished she had not come.

A hatch from the kitchen shot up and a Gloucester accent said shrilly, 'Bill! Soup!'

Bill collected plates of soup and passed them round. 'Have you got that bottle of Liebfrau-milch, Ma?' he called.

'In 'er fridge'

Til get it'

Mrs Wong appeared. She was a massive woman with a discontented, suspicious face and appeared to resent having guests. Bill poured wine.

The soup was canned oxtail. Little triangles of bread were passed around. Even James Lacey seemed stricken into silence.

'Roast beef next' said Bill. 'Nobody does roast beef quite like Ma'

'That's for sure' said Mr Wong suddenly, making Agatha jump.

The roast beef was incredibly tough and the table knives were blunt. It took all their concentration to hack pieces off. The cauliflower was covered in a coat of thick white sauce, the carrots were overcooked and oversalted, the Yorkshire pudding was like salted rubber and the peas were those nasty processed kind out of a can which manage to turn everything on the plate green.

'Days are drawing out' said Mrs Wong.

'That's for sure' said Mr Wong.

'Soon be summer' pursued Mrs Wong, glaring fiercely at Agatha, as if blaming her for the seasons. I hope we get another nice summer' said James.

Mrs Wong rounded on him. 'You call last summer nice? Did you hear that, Father? He called last summer nice?7

'Some people' muttered Mr Wong, taking more cauliflower.

'So hot, it nearly brought on one of my turns' said Mrs Wong. 'Didn't it nearly, Father?'

'That's for sure.'

Silence.

Til get the pudding' said Bill.

'Sit down' said his mother. 'These are your guests. I told you I wanted to watch that quiz on the telly, but you would have them'

Soon bowls of stewed apples and custard were banged in front of them. I want to go home, thought Agatha . . . Oh, please God, let this evening be over quickly.

Take them through to the lounge' said Mrs Wong when the dreadful meal was over. Til bring the coffee'

'You really must show me your garden' said James. I'm very interested in gardens'

'We're not going out in the evening air to catch our deaths' said Mrs Wong, looking outraged. 'Are we, Father?'

'Funny thing to suggest' said Mr Wong.

To Agatha's and James's relief, they had only Bill for company over coffee. Tm so glad you could come' said Bill. Tm really proud of my home. Ma's made quite a little palace out of it'

'Really cosy' lied Agatha. 'Bill, are you sure there is nothing odd about Bladen's death?'

'Nothing that anyone could find' he said. He looked amused. 'You two have been sleuthing'

'Just asking around' said Agatha. 'Bill, do you mind if I have a cigarette?'

'I don't, but Ma would kill you. Come out into the back garden and have one there'

They followed him out into the garden. James let out a gasp. It was beautifully laid out. A cluster of cherry trees at the bottom raised white-and-pink branches to the evening sky. A wisteria just beginning to show its first leaves coiled over the kitchen door. 'This is my patch' said Bill. 'Makes a change from policing'

James marvelled that Bill, who obviously had such an eye for beauty, could see nothing wrong with his parents' home. Agatha wondered how Bill could have such admiration and affection for such a dreary couple and then decided she admired him for it.

James was becoming happy and animated as he discussed plants and Agatha thought again of her own neglected garden and decided that if this investigation fell through, then gardening might be a subject they would have in common. By the time they returned to the dreadful lounge for more horrible coffee served in doll's cups which Mrs Wong called her best 'demytess', the three were at ease with each other.

'I like to return hospitality' said Bill to James. Tm always dropping in to Agatha's for a coffee, but she's never been here. Now you know the road, you're welcome to come any time'

'Have you moved here recently?' asked James.

'Last year' said Bill proudly. 'Dad's got this dry-cleaning business in Mircester and he's really built it up. Yes, we're moving up in the world.' His good nature seemed to transform his home into the palace he thought it to be and Agatha and James thanked Mrs Wong very warmly for her hospitality before they finally left.

'It will be a cold day in hell before I go back there again' said Agatha, as they drove off.

'Yes, I'm still hungry. I cut up that beef and pushed it under the vegetables to make it look as if I'd eaten it' said James. 'We'll stop somewhere for a drink and a sandwich.' He said this almost absent-mindedly, as if to an old friend, taking her acceptance for granted, and Agatha felt so ridiculously happy, she thought she might cry.

Over beer and sandwiches, they decided to continue their investigations the next day. 'What about Miss Mabbs?' asked Agatha suddenly. 'Look, we know Bladen was a womanizer. Miss Mabbs was that pallid female who worked as receptionist. What of her? She must have known all about the operation on that horse. I wonder where she is now?'

'We'll find her tomorrow. You can smoke if you like.'

1 feel like an endangered species' said Agatha, lighting up. 'People are becoming so militant about smokers.'

'They're puritans' said James. 'Who was it said that the reason the puritans were against bear-baiting was not because it gave pain to the bear but because it gave pleasure to the crowd?'

'I don't know. But I should give it up.'

'Bill said an odd thing when we were leaving' said James. 'He said, "Don't go about stirring up muck or you may promote a real murder." '

'Oh, he was joking. He's a great one for jokes'

Chapter Five

Agatha would have been most surprised if anyone had called her a romantic. She considered herself hard-headed and practical. So she did not realize the folly of wild dreams and fantasies.

In her mind, since she had said goodbye to him the evening before, she was married to James Lacey, and most of her dreams had been of a passionate honeymoon, and the lovely thing about dreams is that one can write the script, and James said beautiful and loverlike things.

So Agatha, next morning, forgot all her plans of being cool and detached. James had said he would call for her around noon and that they might have a bite to eat in the pub before trying to find out what had become of Miss Mabbs.

Agatha decided to make a romantic lunch. So when James turned up on her doorstep, he shied nervously before an Agatha in a low-cut blouse, tight skirt and very high heels, who was glowing at him. He fidgeted nervously in the hall as she waved a hand in the direction of the dining-room and said she'd thought they may as well have lunch at her place.

Through the open door of the dining-room, James saw the table set with fine china and crystal and candles burning in tall holders - candles in the middle of the day!

Panic set in. He backed out of the door. 'Actually, I came to apologize' he said. 'Something's come up. Can't make it.' And he turned and fled.

Agatha could practically hear the ruins of her dreams tumbling about her ears, brick by brick. Red with shame, she blew out the candles, put the china away, went upstairs, scrubbed off her thick make-up and put on a comfortable old dress like a sack, thrust her feet into slippers and shuffled back down to stare at the soaps on television and try not to brood on her gaffe.

She had had a nearly sleepless night and so she dozed off in front of the television set with the cats on her lap, waking an hour later at the sound of the doorbell.

She hoped he had come back - if only he would come back! - but it was Mrs Bloxby, the vicar's wife, who stood there.

'I was just passing,' said Mrs Bloxby, 'and wondered whether you remembered that the Carsely Ladies are having a meeting tonight.' For a moment, something unlovely darted through Agatha's eyes. She was thinking, Screw the Carsely Ladies.

'I do hope you will come' said Mrs Bloxby. 'Our newcomer, Mrs Huntingdon, is going to be there, and Miss Webster, who has the shop. We expect quite a crowd. And Miss Simms is bringing along some of her home-made cider, so I thought we would have cheese and biscuits with that'

Agatha realized Mrs Bloxby was still standing on the doorstep and said, 'Do come in'

'No, I'd better get home. My husband is wrestling with a tricky sermon'

So this is what life has come down to, thought Agatha gloomily; another evening with the ladies. Even the knowledge that Mrs Huntingdon was going to be there could not give Agatha enough energy to change out of her old dress.

But on her way to the vicarage, she remembered that Josephine Webster, she of the dried-flower shop, she who had admired the vet, was to be there. There was no James Lacey, but there was still the interest of amateur detection.

The vicarage sitting-room was full of chattering women. Mrs Bloxby handed Agatha a tankard of cider. 'Where is Miss Webster?' asked Agatha.

'Over there, by the piano'

'Of course' Agatha studied her with interest. She was a neat woman of indeterminate age, neat fair hair crisply permed, neat little features, neat little figure. Talking to her was Freda Huntingdon, who had not bothered to dress up either, Agatha noticed. Agatha did not want to interrupt their conversation. She took another pull at her tankard and blinked. The cider was very strong indeed. She found Miss Simms next to her. 'How did you get such powerful stuff?' she asked.

Miss Simms giggled and whispered in Agatha's ear. 'Let you into a secret. I thought I would spice it up a bit' She waved her own tankard towards a firkin on a table. 'So I poured a bottle of vodka into it'

'You'll get us all drunk' said Agatha.

'Well, some of us need cheering up. Look at Mrs Josephs. She's looking better already. I thought she was going to go into mourning for that cat of hers forever'

Agatha sat down beside Mrs Josephs. 'Glad to see you looking better,' said Agatha politely.

'Oh, much better,' said the librarian in a tipsy voice. 'Revenge is mine'

'Really?'

'I am to get what is rightfully mine'3

Agatha looked at her impatiently. 'What do you mean?'

'Silence, ladies,' called Mrs Mason. 'Our meeting is about to begin'

'Call on me at ten tomorrow,' said Mrs Josephs loudly, 'and I'll tell you all about Paul Bladen'

'Shrth!' admonished Mrs Bloxby.

Agatha waited restlessly while the proceedings dragged on. But before they were finished, Mrs Josephs suddenly got up and left. Agatha shrugged and approached Miss Webster. 1 saw you at Paul Bladen's funeral' she said.

'I didn't know you were a friend of his' said Miss Webster.

'Not exactly a friend' said Agatha, 'but I felt I should pay my respects. You must have been very sorry to lose him'

'On the contrary' said Miss Webster, 1 went to make sure he was really dead. Now, if you will excuse me, Miss . . .?'

'Mrs Raisin.'

'Mrs Raisin. I find all these chattering women give me a headache.'

She got up abruptly and left the room. Curi-ouser and curiouser, thought Agatha. Damn James. All this was interesting stuff, hints here, hints there. She would call on him before she went to see Mrs Josephs.

James heard his doorbell at quarter to ten the following morning. Feeling like an old spinster, he twitched the front-room curtain and looked out. There was Agatha Raisin. That old feeling of being hunted came back again. He went through to his kitchen and sat there. The bell went on and on and then there was blessed silence.

Agatha stumped grumpily through the village. A car slid to a stop beside her and Bill Wong's cheerful face looked out. 'What's the matter, Agatha? Where's James?'

'Nothing's the matter, and where James Lacey is I neither know nor care.'

'Which means you've scared him off again' commented Bill cheerfully.

'I have done nothing of the kind, and for your information I am on my way to see Mrs Josephs, the librarian. She has something important to tell me about Paul Bladen's death.'

Bill gave a little sigh. 'Agatha, when there actually has been a murder, a lot of distasteful scandal usually comes to light which has nothing to do with the case. A lot of people get hurt. Now if you're going to dig around an English village trying to make an accident look like murder it will have the same effect, and without any justification. Drop it. Do good works. Go abroad again. Let Paul Bladen rest in peace.'

He drove off. Well, I may as well go, thought Agatha stubbornly. She'll be expecting me.

Mrs Josephs lived at the end of a terrace of what were once workers' cottages. Hers was neat and trim, with a pocket-sized garden where for-sythia spilled over the hedge into the road in a burst of golden glory. A blackbird sang on the roof. From a field above the village came the sound of a hunting horn, and as Agatha turned and looked up the hill, she saw the hunt streaming across a meadow, looking oddly out of perspective from her angle of vision.

If Lord Pendlebury was part of the hunt, she hoped he broke his neck. And with that pious thought, she pushed open the small wrought-iron gate and walked up to the door and rang the bell. There was no reply. The sound of the hunt disappeared into the distance. A jet screamed above, tearing the pale spring sky apart with sound.

Agatha tried again, feeling almost weepy, wondering dismally if all the inhabitants of Carsely were going to hide behind their sofas when they saw her on the doorstep.

But Mrs Josephs had asked her to call. Mrs Josephs had no right to snub her. Agatha turned the handle of the front door. It opened easily. A small hall with a narrow stair leading straight up from it.

'Mrs Josephs!' called Agatha.

The little house had thick walls, and silence pressed in on Agatha. She looked in the downstairs rooms, small parlour, small dining-room, and tiny cubicle of a kitchen at the back.

Agatha stood at the bottom of the stairs and shifted from foot to foot.

How sinister that dim staircase looked. Perhaps Mrs Josephs was ill. Emboldened by that thought, Agatha climbed the stairs. Bedroom on the right at the top, bed made, everything tidy. Box-room full of pathetic pieces of broken china and old furniture and dusty suitcases. No drama here. May as well use the bathroom while I'm here, thought Agatha. Oh, I know! She probably meant me to go to the library. What a fool I am! But how crazy to go out and leave the house unlocked. This must be the bathroom. She pushed open a door which had a pane of frosted glass.

Mrs Josephs was lying on the bathroom floor, her eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Agatha let out a whimper. She forced herself to bend down, pick up an arm and feel the pulse. Nothing.

She turned and ran down the stairs, looking for the phone. She found one in the parlour and dialled police and ambulance.

The first to arrive was PC Fred Griggs, the village policeman. He looked like a village policeman in a children's story, large and red-faced.

'She's dead' said Agatha. 'Upstairs. Bathroom.'

She followed the bulk of the policeman up the stairs. Fred looked sadly down at the body. 'You're right,' he said. 'Can tell by just looking at her. Mrs Josephs was a diabetic.'

'So it wasn't murder,' said Agatha.

'Now what put such an idea into your head?' His small eyes were shrewd.

'She said last night in front of everyone at the Carsely Ladies' Society that she had something to tell me about Paul Bladen.'

'The vet what died! What's that got to do with the poor woman's death?'

'Nothing' muttered Agatha. 'I think I'll wait outside'

As she went out into the garden again, she could hear the wail of sirens; and then an ambulance, followed by two police cars, came racing up. She recognized Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes and Bill Wong. There were two other detectives she did not know and a policewoman.

Bill said, 'Did you find her?' Agatha nodded dumbly. 'What time?'

'Ten o'clock' said Agatha. 'I told you I was going to see her.'

'Go home' said Bill. 'We'll be around to take a statement'

James Lacey stood on his doorstep, peering down the lane. He had heard the sirens. Ever since he had failed to answer the door to Agatha's ring, he had been staring at that heading 'Chapter Two' on his computer screen. Then he saw Agatha trailing along the lane. Her face was very white.

'What's happened?' he called, but she flapped a hand at him and said, 'Later.'

He felt frustrated. He felt that Agatha held the key to some excuse to take him away from writing for the day. He should not have run away from her lunch like a schoolboy.

He returned to his machine and glared at it. Then he heard the sound of a car turning into the lane and dashed outside again. It was a police car. He watched eagerly as it drove up to Agatha's cottage and stopped. He recognized Bill Wong with another detective and a policewoman. They went inside.

He had brought it on himself, he thought gloomily. The wretched Raisin woman was on to something and he was excluded.

Inside her home, Agatha answered all questions put to her. How long had she been in Mrs Josephs's cottage? Just a few minutes? Had anyone seen her just before she arrived? Detective Wong. The Chief Inspector nodded, as though Bill had already confirmed that.

'What did she die of?' asked Agatha.

'We'll need to wait for the pathologist's report' said Wilkes. 'Now, I gather this arrangement to see her was made at the vicarage last night. What exactly did she say?'

Agatha replied promptly, 'She said, "Call on me at ten tomorrow and I'll tell you all about Paul Bladen."'

'Anything else?'

'Let me see. I think I remarked she was looking better and she said an odd thing, she said, "Revenge is mine'' '

'You're sure of that?'

'Absolutely. She added .. ' Agatha screwed up her eyes in an effort of memory. 'She added, "I am to get what is rightfully mine." '

'Indeed' commented Wilkes. 'Very cryptic. Quite like a novel'

'I am not making it up' snapped Agatha. 'I have a very good memory'

'Now, Mrs Josephs said, "Call me at ten," yet you went to her Chouse. Wouldn't you think she meant you to phone her?'

'No' said Agatha, 'we don't use the phone much in this village to talk to each other. We call in person'

'Mrs Josephs was due on duty at the library. Why didn't you go there?'

'Because I didn't think!' howled Agatha, exasperated. 'What the -, what the devil is all this about? She just died of natural causes, didn't she?'

'Odd you should think that, when I gather from Detective Sergeant Wong here that you are very ready to believe the death of Paul Bladen was murder'

Agatha threw Bill Wong a reproachful look. 'I was interested in Paul Bladen's death and I was just asking a few questions' she said defensively.

"Who all was at the vicarage tea-party last night?'

'It wasn't a tea-party. Cider and cheese. I can give you most of the names, but if you ask Miss Simms, the secretary, she makes a note of everyone who attends each meeting'

Wilkes stood up. 'I think that will do for now, Mrs Raisin. We'll probably be talking to you again. Not thinking of travelling anywhere, are you?'

'What?' Agatha stared at him. 'Me? Not travel - You think it's murder.'

'Now, now, Mrs Raisin, at the moment we are simply investigating the death of a diabetic. Good day to you.'

Bill gave Agatha a wink behind his superior's back and mouthed silently, 'This evening.'

After they had left, Agatha decided to try James again. Forget about romance. This was too exciting to keep to herself. But he did not answer his door and she took small comfort in the fact that this time his car was gone.

James had driven into Mircester. To heal the breach with Agatha, he had considered an offer of flowers or chocolates and then had hit upon a better idea. If he found out Miss Mabbs's address, that would be a better excuse than anything to call on her.

Agatha went along to the Red Lion and eagerly discussed the death of Mrs Josephs with the locals but without really learning anything that she did not know already. She returned home rather tipsy and fell asleep, and did not wake up until five o'clock to hear her doorbell ringing.

Feeling bleary-eyed and hung-over, she went to answer it. Bill Wong stood there.

'Come in! Come in!' cried Agatha. Tell me all about it, but let me get a cup of strong coffee first. I had too much to drink in the pub.'

'How did you scare Lacey off?' asked Bill, ambling into the kitchen after her.

'I didn't... Oh, well, I did invite him for lunch yesterday, light the candles on the dining-table and flash the old cleavage. You couldn't see him for dust'

The doorbell rang. Til get it,' said Bill.

He came back a few moments later followed by James.

'Don't raise your voice' said Bill. 'Our Agatha's got a hangover. She's been drowning her sorrows in the pub. She got all dolled up like a dog's dinner expecting an old flame from London for lunch yesterday and he didn't show and she'd forgotten about you calling but you scuttled off anyway'

'Oh,' said James. 'It's a good thing I'm not a vain man or I might have thought it was all for me'

Bill smiled happily. 'Our Agatha's usually got bigger fish to fry, haven't you, Agatha? Why didn't your flame turn up, anyway?'

'I can lie as easily as you,' thought Agatha. "Threatened with a merger' she said. 'But he's going to take me to the Savoy for dinner to make up for his absence.'

James felt silly. I really must stop imagining this woman's pursuing me, he thought.

'So' said Agatha, putting down cups of coffee in front of them, 'tell us all, Bill. Why have I not to leave the country?'

'What is all this?' cried James, exasperated. 'It's about that librarian's death, isn't it? It's all the talk at Harvey's'

Agatha told him about the arranged call on Mrs Josephs and of finding Mrs Josephs dead. 'You, now, Bill' she said. 'Is it murder?'

'We're waiting for the pathologist's report' said Bill. I'll tell you this off the record. There's something funny'

'Like what?' asked Agatha.

'Forensic found scuff marks on the stairs, all the way up from the parlour to the bathroom. Mrs Josephs was wearing brown leather walking shoes. The stairs aren't carpeted. There were scuff marks which could have come from her shoes, and she was wearing those thick stockings and there are a couple of stocking threads caught in a crack on the stairs'

Agatha's eyes gleamed. 'You mean someone could have killed her in her parlour and then dragged her upstairs and dumped her in her bathroom?'

'I don't understand that' said James. 'If someone's going to kill her, why bother dragging the body up to the bathroom?'

'I'm speculating' said Bill. Tm going out on a limb and neither of you must breathe a word of this to anyone'

They both nodded like mandarin dolls.

'Everyone seems to have known she was a diabetic and injected herself with insulin. What if someone gave her a jab of something lethal and then dragged her up to the bathroom where she kept her syringes and left her there hoping we would think she had died as she was giving herself one of her usual injections?'

James shook his head, to Agatha's irritation. 'I still don't like it' he said. 'Everyone knows about the wonders of forensic science these days.'

'Any murderer is usually desperate or deranged' said Bill. It would amaze you how little they think.'

'Did the neighbours see anyone calling at the house?' asked James.

'No, but there's a lane runs along the end of the back gardens. Mrs Dunstable at the other end of the terrace said she thought she heard a car stopping just at the end of the back lane - you can't get a car along there - about eight in the morning. But she's deaf! She says she felt the vibrations of a car, can you believe it?'

'It would be odd if it turned out to be murder' said James slowly. 'After what she said to Agatha in front of all those women, it might cast doubts on the death of Paul Bladen'

'She might have committed suicide' Bill pointed out. 'Everyone said she was very depressed since the death of her cat. The scuff marks could have been made when she dragged herself upstairs. That's the news so far. I've got to get back to work. Thanks for the coffee, Agatha.'

When Bill had left, Agatha returned and sat down at the coffee-table and closed her eyes. 'Want me to go?' asked James.

'No, I'm thinking. If I had murdered Mrs Josephs and injected her with something, I wouldn't leave that lethal something among her bottles and pills in the bathroom. I'm not a very clever murderer. Think of the scuff marks. So I'm driving off with this bottle or ampoule I've used in my pocket. I'm sweating and panicky' She opened her eyes. 'I'd chuck it out the car window.'

'It's a thought' said James. 'And the road from the end of the back lane goes up to Lord Pendle-bury's. No harm in just having a look, I suppose. We'll take rubbish sacks so that people will think we're volunteers from the village keeping the countryside tidy. But if you find anything sinister, leave it there and call the police or they might think you planted it.'

They took Agatha's car. She drove to the back lane and sat there with the engine idling imagining she had just committed murder. She then drove off up the hill and suddenly stopped.

'Why here?' asked James.

'Because here's where I would chuck it if I were a murderer' said Agatha.

They started searching up and down the road on the right-hand side where anything a driver might have thrown out would have landed. Fortunately people in the Cotswolds are very litter-minded and so there was hardly anything after an hour's careful search to be found but an old broken fountain-pen and one sandal.

'The light's fading and I'm hungry' complained James.

'Let's try further up, nearer the estate' pleaded Agatha. 'Just a bit more'

'Damn, I promised Freda Huntingdon a few days ago that I would meet her for a drink at seven in the Red Lion. Besides, it's getting dark.'