Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body

Chapter Eight

It was late that evening before Bill Wong arrived at Agatha's cottage. In her kitchen, he found waiting Toni, Patrick and Phil, all eager to hear his news.

"This is outside the call of duty," said Bill wearily, "but you have done me a great favour, Agatha. Collins has been suspended from duty. I hate that awful woman."

"She'll get away with it," said Agatha. "She won't be the first detective to be caught off guard by a reporter."

"Oh, it gets worse. Let me sit down, get me a coffee and I'll tell you what I can."

Once he was settled at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee, Bill began.

"Amy confessed to everything. She completely broke down. Her husband's alibi was false. Dressed as a man, she flew to the Cayman Islands as her brother while he, in the guise of a woman, and under Mrs. Temple's name, flew to London. He did the murder, flew back, and then flew again under his own name."

"But why so elaborate a plot?" asked Agatha. "I mean, they could have waited patiently until she visited the States and somehow made it look like a mugging."

"Both brother and sister have records of mental breakdowns. Tom Courtney was believed to be a schizophrenic."

"But if Tom Courtney's the murderer, why did he hire me?"

"He called at police headquarters and talked to Collins at one point. She did not report it. He told her he had received a phone call from his mother before her death, saying she had employed a private detective to look into Sunday's murder and who was this private detective? Collins had said that you were some sort of local menace who did more to impede the police in their enquiries than anything else. So he thought it would look good if he hired you as well, and yet not put himself at any risk."

Agatha blushed. She had nearly gone to bed with a madman and murderer who thought she was a failure at her job.

"I know you're furious," said Bill, taking her high colour for anger, "but it was just another nail in Collins's coffin, I think. Still, it does seem certain that the Courtneys had nothing to do with the murder of Sunday, so we're back to square one on that case. Anyway, Amy considered the face change a good investment."

"There are no plastic surgeons in prison," said Toni. "I wonder what she'll look like by the time the case gets to court. Oh, do you want me to start showing Simon the ropes? I haven't seen him today."

"I've decided not to employ him," lied Agatha, and then felt conscience-stricken as Toni gave a sad little "Oh."

"Why?" asked Phil. "He seemed keen."

"I don't feel like going into it at the moment," said Agatha.

"Do you want me to start ferreting around Odley Cruesis?" asked Phil.

"No!" said Agatha, and seeing the looks of surprise said, "Sorry I shouted at you. But we've cases to clear up, and with this latest publicity we'll probably get a lot more. Has Tom Courtney been extradited yet?"

"Still waiting, but now we've got Amy, I suppose it won't be long."

Bill's phone rang. He walked out of the room, shouting over his shoulder, "Keep quiet, all of you. If Wilkes knew I was here, he would have a fit."

He came back after only a few moments, saying, "I've got to go. Full enquiry. They're dead."

"Who?" asked a chorus of voices.

"Both of them, Amy and her husband. Took poison."

"How did they get poison?" asked Agatha.

"They had cyanide in a button on each of their jackets. I'm off."

"Snakes and bastards," said Agatha. "That wipes me out of the headlines."

"Cheer up," said Patrick. "It's too late for the morning editions."

"So it is! Champagne anyone?"

On the following Sunday, Toni decided to go to church in Odley Cruesis. She could not understand why Agatha appeared to have lost interest in the case. She thought that a visit to the church when everyone thought things had all settled down might give her a feel of the place. But remembering the attack on Roy Silver, she decided to go in disguise.

Agatha had a box of various disguises in the office. Toni let herself into the office with her key, found the box and selected a black wig and fitted it over her short blond hair. The black wig transformed her appearance. She was wearing a conservative blue linen suit and flat heels. Toni surveyed herself in the mirror above the filing cabinets and thought she looked the very picture of a churchgoer.

It was a perfect day with the beauty of the rural Cotswolds stretched out under a large sky. Because of all the recent rain and the humid heat, the vegetation around was thicker than ever, turning the country lanes into green tunnels.

She was initially surprised to find the church was full but recognised what she considered to be a lot of visitors. No doubt the renewed publicity about Miriam's murder had bought out what Toni privately damned as "the rubberneckers," people who always flocked to the scene of a murder or car crash out of ghoulish interest.

She sat in a pew at the very back of the church, and as the sermon went on, said a silent prayer for the soul of Sharon. Toni was not sure that she really believed in anything, but there was something tranquil about the old church, despite the influx of visitors, as if the very stones held memories of the peace they had brought to the worried and suffering over the centuries.

She stood up when the service ended and went out into the churchyard. Toni watched people leaving. She recognised Mrs. Carrie Brother as she stopped to talk to the vicar. Then out came the two elderly couples, the Summers and the Beagles, followed after a short while by Tilly Glossop. Now hadn't Tilly Glossop been the one who had been photographed having sex with the mayor? She could do with some more investigating. And then came May Dinwoody, leaning on the arm of . . . Simon Black!

Then Penelope Timson appeared and spoke to Simon and May and led them off towards the vicarage. Simon said something and turned and ran back into the church. He came out a few moments later, passed close to Toni and dropped a piece of paper and then ran towards the vicarage.

Toni picked up the paper. "Meet me on Dover's Hill at three this afternoon."

Toni had visited Dover's Hill before to watch the annual Cotswold Olimpicks. The hill is a natural amphitheatre about one mile away from Chipping Campden. She remembered being particularly amused by the ancient sport of shin kicking, practised in Britain since the early seventeenth century. It was considered too painful a sport and was banished early in the twentieth century but brought back in 1951. Unlike the older games, where competitors used to harden their shins with hammers and wear iron-capped boots, the modern contestants wear long trousers with straw padding underneath. The trick is to wrestle your opponent to the ground while kicking him in the shins. Other sports include an obstacle race, falconry and morris dancing before the final torchlight procession to the square in Chipping Campden where everyone dances the night away.

That year's games had already been held in May. There were only a few tourists in the parking area at the top of Dover's Hill when Toni drove up, the world recession and a combination of the swine flu outbreak and the strong pound keeping most of them away.

She walked to the top of the amphitheatre and admired the view. Some people were having picnics on the grass. A very English smell of hot tea wafted up the hill.

She walked back to the car park and saw Simon driving up in an old Morris Minor. He signalled to her and she went to join him, climbing into the passenger seat.

"What are you doing in Odley?" asked Toni.

"I'm working undercover," said Simon.

"With Agatha's permission?"

"Yes. She doesn't want anyone to know. I'm staying with May Dinwoody as a lodger. Don't tell Agatha you've seen me or I'll get my first black mark."

"I won't, but what's your cover?"

"I'm taking time off after my parents' deaths and I am interested in early English church architecture. I told the vicar I couldn't stay for lunch as I had an urgent appointment and got out of there before he could ask what the appointment was."

"How are you getting on?"

"Fine. Fortunately, Giles, the vicar, likes to hear the sound of his own voice. He preaches on and on so all I have to do is listen. Then May Dinwoody makes toys to sell at the markets so I'm helping her. We'll be at Morton market on Tuesday."

"Does anyone in the office know what you are doing?"

"No."

"Then you'd better be careful. Sometimes, if it's quiet at the office, Phil Marshall goes shopping at the market. If I were you, I'd wear a hat and sunglasses, just in case. And talking of disguises, how one earth did you recognise me under this wig?"

Simon laughed. "Once seen, never forgotten. Any hope of seeing you again?"

"I wouldn't like to at the moment. I just hope I haven't risked anything by meeting up with you."

Simon glanced around. "Nothing but tourists. Don't worry. I know--I might take next Sunday off, say I'm visiting relatives and meet you in Mircester."

"I'll give you my phone number," said Toni.

"I've already got it. I took it off the files in the office along with your mobile number."

"So why didn't you just ring my mobile when you saw me in the graveyard?"

"Think about it, Toni. Everyone would have turned and had a look at you when your sacrilegious phone started ringing amongst the gravestones."

"See you." Toni got out of Simon's elderly car and got into her own car. It was hot from the sun beating down on it. She opened the windows, took off the black wig and put it on the seat beside her. As she started up the engine and twisted her neck to reverse out, she had a funny feeling of being watched. She got out of the car again and looked around. Nothing but the usual tourists and a busload of pensioners on a day out from Wales. Evans Luxury Tours, Cardiff was emblazoned on the side of a bus that looked as decrepit as the passengers stiffly climbing back on board.

Toni was just about to drive off again when her mobile phone rang. It was Simon. "In all the excitement of meeting you," he said, "I forgot to tell you about an awful article in the Sunday Cable about Agatha."

Stopping at a newsagent's in Chipping Campden, Toni bought a copy of the Sunday Cable.

She skimmed through it until she came to a large head-and-shoulders photo of Agatha. The headline read: ENGLAND'S ANSWER TO INSPECTOR CLOUSEAU.

It was a cruelly funny article that started with Agatha's first attempt to marry James Lacey, which was aborted when her husband, whom she had presumed dead, turned up to stop the ceremony. Then followed details about how many times the police had had to rescue Agatha at great cost to the taxpayer. She was damned as an amateur who bumbled about from case to case, smoking, drinking and bullying until she frightened someone into attacking her. The author was a reporter called Dan Palmer.

Toni decided to go and see how Agatha was coping with this thunderbolt.

She met Charles on the doorstep. "I am here to do a bit of hand-holding," he said. "Seen the article?"

Toni nodded. Charles rang the bell. There was no reply. Charles opened the letter box and shouted through it, "It's me, Charles, with Toni."

They waited and then the door opened. "Come in," said Agatha abruptly. "I suppose you've both seen the Cable. Come through to the garden."

Charles and Toni sat down in garden chairs. Agatha was wearing an old housedress and her face was not made-up.

"Are you going to sue?" asked Charles.

"I can't. Every occasion when the police came to my rescue is correct, including that last one which involved Scotland Yard and the River Thames Police and the Coast Guard."

"But the names he called you!" exclaimed Toni.

"You will note, he says, 'In my opinion. . . .' Can't sue someone over an opinion."

"What did you ever do to him?" asked Charles. "No. Don't turn your head away. Out with it!"

"Okay. It's like this. When I was doing PR for a swimwear company, I invited the press to the launch of the new line. For swimwear you get male reporters as well as female for obvious reasons. He was one of them. I caught him hiding behind a screen in the dressing rooms, holding a camera over the top and taking pictures of the models undressing. I knocked back the screen and got one of my own photographers to snap him. I sent the photo with a complaint to his editor. He was on the Express at the time and lost his job."

"Was he supposed to take pictures like that?" asked Toni.

"No, it was for his own salacious amusement. He had a good photographer in the audience whose job was to get some pretty pictures for the paper's colour supplement. This could ruin me."

"He seems like a perv," said Toni. "I know. Let's get something on him."

"How?"

"We're detectives, aren't we?" said Toni eagerly. "Give me a few days in London, Agatha."

"He'd recognise you," said Agatha.

"I could go in disguise."

"I'll go," said Charles.

"But you're not a detective!" exclaimed Toni.

"I'm hurt. His photo's on the article. I'll recognise him. Anyway, I know more about the underside of London than can be dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio."

"Why are you calling her Horatio?" asked Agatha.

_______

Charles went up to London on the following day, left his bag at his club and went to a less salubrious club in Beecham Place. The club for gentlemen was actually a cross between a hard-drinking club and a brothel.

He asked the barman if his friend, Tuppy, had been in. "He usually calls in around now," said the barman. Charles ordered a drink and waited. After ten minutes, Lord Patrick Dinovan, who was known to his friends as Tuppy, came in. He was a small grey man with a crumpled face. Charles always thought that Tuppy had the most forgettable appearance of anyone he knew.

He hailed Charles with delight. "Take a pew, Tuppy," said Charles. "I want you to do something criminal for me."

"Why not do it yourself?"

"I might be recognised."

"What's in it for me?"

"Free shooting. The pheasant season will be here before you know it."

Dan Palmer was drinking alone in the Horse Tavern, a riverside pub frequented by the staff of the Cable. He had a bad reputation of turning nasty after a few drinks and so his colleagues were giving him a wide berth. At last the fact that no one wanted to speak to him seeped into his drunken brain and with a snarl he tossed off his drink and walked outside. He had only lurched a few steps when he bumped into a small man.

"I say, I am sorry," said the man. "Let me make it up to you. Drink?"

"Not in there," said Dan, jerking a thumb back at the pub.

"I've a room in a hotel near here and a good bottle of malt if you care to join me," said Tuppy.

Dan's little eyes narrowed into slits. "Not gay, are you?"

"Bite your tongue. Oh, forget it."

But Dan thought of a free drink. He longed for more. "Okay," he said. "What's your name?"

"John Danver."

"Lead on."

The hotel was small but expensive looking. Dan sank down in an armchair in Tuppy's suite and gratefully accepted a large glass of malt.

"You're that famous reporter Dan Palmer, aren't you?" asked Tuppy.

"That's me."

"Tell me some of your best stories. I'm fascinated."

Dan almost forgot to drink in his eagerness to brag. When he had finished, Tuppy said, "Is that detective female, Raisin, really that stupid?"

Dan made to tap the side of his nose but drunkenly stuck his finger in his eye by mistake. "Ouch!" he yelped. "Oh, her, Aggie Raisin. No, that one's as cunning as a fox."

"So why wreck her reputation?"

"I had an old score to pay back. Did that hatchet job pretty nicely, hey? There's nothing in there she can sue me about."

"So she really is good?"

"Sure she is. That's what makes it funnier."

"I don't understand . . . Your glass is empty, let me top it up. Do you mean if one of you reporters on the Cable wants revenge, they can write a piece to get it?"

"Only if they're as clever as me."

"So your editor never guessed you were paying off an old score?"

"Him? He wouldn't know his arse from a hole in the ground."

"He must be pretty good at his job to become editor, don't you think?"

"Hopeless. I could do the job better with both hands tied behind my back. He married the proprietor's niece. Shee! Thash how he got the post. You have to be as shmart as me to keep on top. Ish a jungle out there. Jungle."

Dan rambled on and then suddenly fell asleep.

Tuppy removed the whisky glass from his hand. He switched off the powerful little tape recorder he had hidden behind a bowl of flowers on the table between them.

He made his way downstairs, pulling a baseball cap with a long peak out of his pocket and jamming it down on his head so that the peak shielded his face. He had sent a messenger to book the room under the name of Dan Palmer and pay cash in advance, plus a deposit. The foyer was still busy with a party of guests who had just entered. When he had arrived with Dan, the desk clerk had been on the phone and had not taken any particular notice of either Tuppy or Dan, and Tuppy had taken the precaution of keeping his room key with him.

Dan awoke at six in the morning with a blinding hangover. He struggled to his feet and made his way downstairs and out into the street and hailed a taxi to take him to his digs, thanking his stars it was his day off.

He set out for the office on the following day, stopping at the local newsagent's to buy a copy of the Cable. A square box outlined in black and with the headline APOLOGY caught his eye.

He read, "The Cable offers a full and complete apology to private detective Miss Agatha Raisin of the Raisin Detective Agency in Mircester over a recently published and misleading article, and wishes to assure readers that Miss Raisin is one of the country's foremost private detectives."

What on earth . . . ? He hailed a cab, got to the office and rushed up to the editorial floor, to be met by the editor's secretary. "Mr. Dixon would like a word with you."

He trailed after her to the editor's office. Dixon was a thickset man with thinning hair and a pugnacious face. His office was flooded with the sunlight that was sparkling on the waters of the Thames outside the window.

"Listen to this," said Dixon, and switched on a tape recorder on his desk.

Dan listened in horror to that conversation he had with that man who had called himself John Danver.

"I was set up!" He gasped.

"We were lucky to get away with only an apology. That Raisin woman could have sued our socks off. Now, in the past we've allowed you to write the occasional feature, but I've checked back on your work. Your few features always seem to skim this side of libellous. You can go and clear your desk. You're finished."

"But . . ."

"Do you want me to call security?"

Dan went back to the hotel, only to be told that he had booked the room himself. He had stopped off on the way to have several drinks. He was told firmly that the room had been booked under his name and they could not tell him anything further. They would pay his deposit back.

Dan hated Agatha Raisin as he had never hated anyone before.

_______

Charles regretted having offered Tuppy free shooting. After all, he depended on the pheasant season to raise money for his estate. Also, he had paid Tuppy for the hotel room and the malt whisky.

He interrupted Agatha's thanks by saying, "I'm afraid it cost a lot of money--bribes and things."

"How much?"

"Five thousand pounds."

"Good heavens! Oh, well." Agatha fished out her cheque-book, wrote him out a cheque for the amount and handed it over. "Are you staying at my place?"

"No, got things to do, people to see." Charles felt a bit grubby, but money was money and estates like his just seemed to drink it up. "Tell you what, I'll take you to lunch to celebrate."

"Can't," said Agatha. "Got an important date."

"You look shifty. Who with?"

"Mind your own business."

Agatha's lunch date was in Evesham with Simon Black. Because of the recession, Evesham looked more depressed than ever. They met in a Thai restaurant in the High Street.

When they had ordered, Agatha asked, "How are you getting on?"

"Slowly. You see," said Simon, "in a village like Odley Cruesis, unless you were born there, you'll always be an outsider. They're a secretive lot. The vicar loves his church more than God or his wife. I admire the perpendicular north doorway for the umpteenth time, not to mention the Norman pulpit."

"How are you getting on with May Dinwoody?"

"Pretty well. But she won't talk about John Sunday and neither will any of the other villagers. They're nice to me because I'm the vicar's pet. They talk about the weather and the crops mostly. I was in the store and I raised the subject of Sunday's murder. There was a little silence and then they began to talk about something else. Sometimes I think they could all have been in on it.

"I've been encouraging May to have some wine with her supper to see if that loosens her tongue."

"What about Penelope Timson?" asked Agatha. "Anything there?"

"She is one nervous and flustered lady. She keeps hugging me, although it feels like groping, and says I am the sort of son she would like to have."

"Be careful," warned Agatha. "Give it another week and then clear out."

That evening, Simon urged May to take a third glass of wine but she shook her head. "I've had enough. I don't want to turn into a drunk. Oh, I quite forgot. The vicar wants you to report to the vicarage at nine in the morning. He thinks it's time you started helping with the parish duties."

"But it's not as if I'm employed by the parish," protested Simon.

"Oh, but it's not healthy for a young man of your age to do nothing. And you have shown such an interest in the church--so rare these days. You will notice that we do not have many young people in the village. We have children but not teenagers."

Probably got out of the damn place as soon as they could, thought Simon. Aloud, he asked, "What am I supposed to be doing?"

"I think driving someone somewhere."

When Simon rang the bell at the vicarage the next morning, the vicar hailed him cheerily. "Just the fellow! Mr. and Mrs. Summers and Mr. and Mrs. Beagle will be here shortly. They want to take a shopping trip to Cheltenham."

"I don't think for a minute they'll all fit into my car," said Simon.

"You can drive my people carrier. It's big enough for all of you. Ah, here they come. You might like to take them for a modest meal and I will refund you."

The vicar tenderly helped the couples into the vehicle. The day was sunny and warm but they all seemed to be well wrapped up.

"Lovely day," said Simon.

Silence.

"Why don't we all sing?" suggested Simon, unnerved by the brooding atmosphere.

"Shut up and drive," growled Fred Summer, "and keep your eyes on the road."

It seemed to take ages to reach Cheltenham. Elderly bladders meant frequent stops.

Cheltenham was the site of a monastery as early as 803. Alfred the Great admired the peace of the place, but the town's sudden rise began in the eighteenth century with the discovery of the famous spa waters. People like Handel and Samuel Johnson flocked to the town to take the restorative cure.

Simon drove into the Evesham Road car park. He had to let his elderly cargo out before he parked because the parking places there are so small that every vehicle seemed to have just squeezed its way in.

He caught up with the two couples as they shuffled their way out of the car park. "Here, you," said Fred. "You ain't coming with us. Meet us back here at five o' clock."

"But I'm supposed to take you to lunch," said Simon.

"Us'll get our own lunch and charge the vicar. Shove off."

Simon glanced at his watch. It was only half past ten in the morning. Perhaps Toni could join him. He phoned her mobile.

"Toni," he began eagerly. "Simon here."

"Oh, hullo, Lucy," said Toni brightly. "I'm in the office."

"I'm stuck in Cheltenham. If you can get away for lunch, I'll meet you at that pasta place on the Parade at one."

"I'll try. Got to go."

After he had rung off, Simon realised he wasn't much of a detective. Anyone from the village was surely a suspect. He should have followed his passengers and seen what they were up to. They walked so slowly, they couldn't possibly have got far. But as he raced down the slope into the centre of the town, he could not see them.

He stopped his search when he realised how idiotic he was being. His four passengers had been inside the vicarage drawing room when the murder had been committed.

He passed a pleasant time looking around the shops and then made his way to the restaurant on the Parade where he hoped to meet Toni. He managed to secure a table outside, ordered a glass of lager and said he would order the meal when his friend arrived.

Fifteen minutes later, he had just decided she would not be able to come when he saw her bright golden hair and slim figure heading towards him through the crowd.

"Hi!" said Toni. "What are you doing in Cheltenham? I thought you were stuck in that village looking for suspects."

"I got stuck with running four of the crinklies here for the day."

"Which four?"

"The Summers and the Beagles."

Toni leapt to her feet, nearly colliding with the hovering waiter. "You idiot!" she said. "They know what I look like. Your cover'll be blown if they see you here with me." And she was off and running.

Simon watched miserably as her fair head bobbed up and down as she ran through the crowd and then disappeared from view. Simon gloomily ordered a toasted cheese baguette. He felt every bit the idiot Toni had called him. He found her very attractive, but if he was going to make any success of this job, he'd better keep his mind strictly on it until he found out something useful. The only person in the village who seemed prepared to gossip to him was May Dinwoody. The likeliest subject was Tilly Glossop. She had had an affair, as far as anyone knew, with Sunday. He had a photograph of her in a compromising position with the mayor. Nothing of her affair with the mayor had leaked into the press.

He could only assume that the whole business had been hushed up. In the report which Simon had accessed, Patrick had said that Tilly had claimed it was a brief fling and there was nothing in the mayor's bank statements that revealed he was being blackmailed. How had Sunday got hold of the photo? Tilly swore she did not know.

I must manage to get friendly with Tilly, thought Simon as he passed a slow afternoon and eventually made his way back to the car park in time to pick up his passengers.

His charges arrived promptly at five o' clock, carrying various plastic shopping bags. He gathered from their conversation--for not one of them addressed him directly--that apart from shopping they had been "taking the waters."

On the road back to the village there had to be even more "comfort stops" than there had been on the road in, so it was dark by the time he thankfully reached the village and helped them out of the people carrier before taking it back to the vicarage and leaving it outside.

Either his imagination was working overtime or Odley Cruesis was an eerie place. As he made his way across the village green and along the lane to the old mill house, it was completely silent. No dog barked, no voices sounded in the still summer air, not even the blare of a television set.

He sighed. Another evening of polite conversation with May. If only he could find out something, anything, to enable him to get out of this place. There was a large yellow moon in the sky, turning the waters of the old millpond to gold.

He stood at the edge of the pond, looking at the water. A vicious shove right between the shoulder blades sent him hurtling down into the pool.

Something prompted him to stay down as long as possible. His terrified mind conjured up visions of medieval-type villagers with pickaxes and billhooks waiting for him to surface. At last, he thrust himself upwards, shaking the water from his eyes and casting terrified looks around but there was no one there. He hauled himself up the steep bank and lay panting on the grass.

Instead of going to the mill house, he ran to his car and drove as fast as he could to Agatha's cottage in Carsely.

Agatha answered the door and stared in amazement at the soaking figure of Simon. "Come in," she said. "What on earth happened?"

Simon told her about the attack on him. "I'm a good swimmer," he said, "otherwise I would have drowned."

"I'll run you a hot bath," said Agatha. "My friend, Charles, has left a dressing gown and some clothes in the spare room. Brandy? Maybe not. Hot sweet tea is the answer."

"I know," said Simon, "but I'd rather have the brandy."

"Leave your clothes outside the bathroom and I'll put them in the tumble dryer. Good thing you were only wearing a shirt and trousers and not your best suit."

After Simon had bathed and was dressed in Charles's dressing gown and waiting for his clothes to dry, Agatha said, "Well, that's you finished with that village. What did you do today?"

So Simon told her but could not admit he had seen Toni. Yet someone must have seen him. Perhaps the old people. Even so, surely they hadn't had any time to gossip to anyone in the village. Of course they always could have phoned someone. But he said none of this aloud.

"I want you to type out every little thing you can think of," said Agatha. "Describe your stay at the village from beginning to end, what people said, what impression you had of them. I suppose they all hope that Tom Courtney for some odd reason killed Sunday himself. You may know more than you think you know. Take the whole day tomorrow to do it. I'll break it to the others that you were employed by me after all. Now, do we report this to the police? No, they'll start raging about us interfering. You'd better phone May Dinwoody and tell her that you're visiting a friend and then you're moving out. I know. I'll phone her and say I am your aunt. I'm very good at accents."

Agatha phoned May and adopted what she cheerfully thought was a Gloucestershire accent. After she had finished calling, she told Simon cheerfully, "She's a bit upset about losing you. Do you want me to get Patrick or Phil to go and collect your stuff? It does seem as if someone in that cursed village guessed you were working for me."

"No, I'll go myself," said Simon. "May and I got very friendly. I don't want her to know."

"If you like. But I would go as soon as your clothes are dry, because I bet the gossip will be all round the village by the morning."

On his return to the mill house, Simon discovered that Agatha's fond interpretation of a Gloucestershire accent had not fooled May one bit. "It was that Raisin female," she said. "I recognised that bullying voice of hers the minute she spoke."