Agatha Raisin and the Case of the Curious Curate

∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

9

The day of the duck races was fine. Hazy sunshine gilded the countryside. Agatha was there early to supervise the arrangements. John had said he would join her later.

Miss Simms was to sell programmes at the field gate. Six races were to be run. The entrance fee was one pound, but as Agatha had put a sign up on the main road saying free drinks, she was sure that the entrance charge would not deter the crowd. The free drinks were to be fruit punch laced with Miss Jellop’s wine. The bottles of wine could be bought for three pounds each. The ducks, for anyone wanting to take part in the race, were to be sold for two pounds each. One of Miss Simms’s ex-lovers, a bookie, had volunteered to take the racing bets. Agatha had donated small engraved silver cups to be given to the winner of each race. Agatha was glad the day was warm because the three men who had volunteered to start the duck races would have to stand in the stream in their bare feet to lift the restraining plank across the stream which held the ducks at the starting line.

Agatha was glad she had trusted the weather report and had cancelled the marquee. The day set fair without a breath of wind. The sun sparkled on the rushing stream and shone on the red and yellow leaves of the trees bordering the field.

Some of the local farmers, along with Farmer Brent, had set up tables to sell meat and local vegetables. Mrs. Tremp had two tables, one with home-made jam and the other with cakes.

Agatha mixed fruit juice and two bottles of Miss Jellop’s wine into a giant punch-bowl, ready to be ladled into small plastic cups. The event was to start at ten. A small trickle of people began to enter the field. Agatha noticed old Mrs. Feathers. Why didn’t I think to question her about Tristan? she wondered. But deep down she knew it was because Mrs. Feathers was old and frail and Agatha was ashamed when she remembered the trouble the old woman had gone to producing that expensive dinner. More people arrived and Agatha was suddenly very busy ladling out punch and selling wine. John appeared and she appealed to him for help because a large crowd of people were demanding punch.

Although Agatha had vowed to have nothing more to do with the case, she could not help turning over what she knew in her mind. There were noisy cheers from the stream where the races were taking place. The bookie was doing well, taking bets. After the first hour, Mrs. Tremp had sold practically everything. More and more people were arriving, drawn by the offer of free drink. Agatha began to feel marginalized. After all, she had paid for the cups. She should be the one to present them. But it was Mrs. Bloxby who was making the presentations.

Agatha tried to console herself with the thought that the day had turned out to be a roaring success. But the press were there in force and she was getting none of the glory.

John tugged out his mobile phone. “Won’t be moment,” he said. “Just phoning home to see if there are any messages.”

“All right. But hurry up,” said Agatha sulkily. Then she thought about mobile phones. What had people ever done without them? A thin woman a little away from her was shouting into one. Doesn’t need a phone, thought Agatha. Her voice is loud enough to carry miles.

And then she stood with her mouth a little open, the ladle in her hand while a customer looked at her impatiently.

Had Tristan had a mobile phone? If he had, could someone have phoned him the night he died and threatened him? But the police would have found it and checked the numbers.

“Are you going to give me any of that punch or not?” demanded a man in front of her.

“Sure.” Agatha ladled some into a cup. She realized she had served the same man about five times before. The crowd was getting noisy and boisterous. Agatha, seeing the punchbowl was nearly empty, added a bottle of wine and fruit juice to fill it up again. Perhaps two bottles of the stuff had been too strong. A team of Morris dancers had just arrived in their flowered hats and jingling bells and started buying bottles of wine. “I don’t have a spare corkscrew,” said Agatha uneasily. She had not imagined that anyone would drink that lethal stuff until they got home. “Got one here,” said a red-faced Morris dancer and his friends all cheered.

Over the Tannoy came an announcement that there would be a break for lunch. Agatha picked a placard off the ground at her feet which said closed for lunch and placed it on the table. “Do you think anyone will pinch anything?” asked John.

“We’ll put the bottles back in the boxes for now and tape them over.”

The members of the ladies’ societies had set up a buffet at the far corner of the field and had laid out tables and chairs.

Mrs. Bloxby came up to Agatha, her eyes shining. “Such a success,” she said. “We were going to confine it to six races, but we’ve decided to hold more in the afternoon and finish with the Morris dancers.”

“What about prizes?” asked Agatha. “Surely all the cups have gone.”

“I thought we might present each winner with two bottles of wine.”

“Good idea,” said Agatha in a flat voice because she still thought that she should have been the one to present the prizes.

“And seeing as the organization has been largely done by you, Mrs. Raisin, I thought it would be nice if you could address the crowd at the end.”

Agatha brightened visibly.

When Mrs. Bloxby had left, John said, “What now? Do we go over there and fight for something to eat?”

“I wonder if you could get me a plate of something, John. I want to speak to Mrs. Feathers.”

“What about?” he demanded sharply. “I thought you had given up.”

“Just one question. I’ll tell you later.”

Agatha began to search. Mrs. Feathers was not with the lunch crowd nor among the people still crowding in front of the farmers’ stalls, Agatha being the only one who had packed up for lunch. And then she saw her grey head bobbing along in the direction of the gate. She ran after her, shouting, “Mrs. Feathers!”

The old lady turned around slowly, blinking in the sunlight. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Raisin. Lovely day.”

“Yes, it is. We’re very lucky. Mrs. Feathers, did Tristan have a mobile phone?”

“I was sure he had. But I must have been mistaken. He always used mine.”

“What makes you think he had one?”

“I went into his flat one day when I thought he was out, to change the bed linen. But he was in and he was using a mobile phone. He put it away quickly when he saw me. Later when he came down to use the phone, I asked him why he didn’t use his own phone and he said it had been a friend’s and he had returned it. It was a terrible business, that murder. It really shook me up.”

“And Tristan never at any time said anything that you might think would give the police a clue to his murder?”

“Oh, no, they’ve asked me and asked me. Dear Tristan. He said I was like a mother to him.”

“I’m sure you were,” said Agatha. “When’s the funeral?”

“That took place some time ago. A cousin arranged it.”

Drat, thought Agatha, I’d forgotten all about the funeral. But what good would that have done me?

“Do you have a name and address for this cousin?”

“Reckon as how you’ll need to ask the police, m’dear. They took away all his stuff and then I think they sent it on to the cousin.”

Agatha thanked her and was about to turn away when she saw Bill and Alice just paying their entrance fees.

“Bill,” said Agatha, approaching him. “Could I have a word?”

“What about?” demanded Alice.

Agatha looked at Bill pleadingly. “It’s a police matter.”

“All right. Alice, go and see if there’s anything at the stall that Mother would like.”

Alice shot Agatha a venomous look and trudged off.

Agatha told Bill about the mobile phone. “Good work,” he said. “I’ll get them on to it. They can check all the mobile phone companies and see which one he was registered with. But I thought I told you to stop investigating.”

“It just came up in conversation with Mrs. Feathers,” said Agatha. “Oh, here’s your beloved back again.”

“I want a drink,” said Alice, “but that stall is closed.”

God forgive me for what I am about to do, thought Agatha. “I’ll get you a drink, Alice.” She went to her stall and drew the cork on a bottle of home-made wine while Bill had pulled out his mobile and was phoning headquarters. She picked up one of the large tumblers she had kept for people who only wanted fruit juice and filled it up. “I’d tell Bill that’s just punch,” said Agatha. “It’s pretty strong stuff.”

“I can drink any man under the table,” sneered Alice. She went back to join Bill.

John came back with a plate of ham and salad, which he handed to Agatha. “Thanks,” she said.

“What’s going on?” asked John. “When I was queuing up, I saw you talking to Bill and he looked very serious.”

Agatha told him about the mobile phone. “That might be something,” said John. “Say he had his phone beside the bed. Someone phones him after you left and frightens him. He decides to make a run for it, but first of all, he thinks he’ll take that money out of the church box. Whoever threatened him is watching the house, follows him to the vicar’s study and stabs him.”

“Could be. Oh, they’re starting up again and I haven’t had time to eat.”

“You go ahead. I’ll cope with the first lot and then you take over so that I can eat something.”

Agatha walked over towards the duck races carrying her plate. People were cheering on the ducks, bets were being laid. The little yellow plastic ducks were bobbing down the stream, occasionally swirling round in the eddies. Agatha found it too difficult to eat with just one plastic fork, so she headed for the lunch tables and found a chair. A little way away from her the Morris men were downing glasses of Miss Jellop’s wine, their faces flushed and their voices loud.

“Mrs. Raisin? It is Agatha Raisin, isn’t it?”

Agatha looked up. A pretty young woman was standing over her holding a child by the hand. With a wrench of memory, Agatha said, “Bunty! How are you?”

The woman seated next to Agatha moved away and Bunty sat down and put the child on her knee.

Bunty had been Agatha’s last secretary before she retired. “Is that yours?” asked Agatha, pointing with her fork to the little girl Bunty was holding.

“Yes, this is Philippa.”

“Who did you marry?”

“Philip Jervsey.”

“Of Jervsey Advertising?”

“That’s the one. After you packed up and retired, I took a job as his secretary.”

Agatha frowned. “I thought he was married.”

“Yes, he was…then.”

“Did he get a divorce to marry you?” asked Agatha, ever curious.

“Yes. I feel guilty about it. But I was mad about him. Still am. I took my time about saying yes. You know how it is, Agatha, secretaries and bosses. It gets like a marriage. You get to know them better than their wives.”

“Was it a bitter divorce?”

“Not too bad. Cost him a lot, though. But there were no children. We’ve got a place over in Cirencester we use for weekends. Give Philippa here some country air. And what about you? I see your name from time to time in the newspapers. Death does seem to follow you around.” She looked at the ring sparkling on Agatha’s finger. “Are you married?”

“I was. I’m divorced. I still wear my rings.” Agatha did not want to talk about John.

Bunty looked around. “It all looks so peaceful here. You wouldn’t think there had been any murders in such a quiet rural spot. Have the police any idea who did it?”

Agatha shook her head. Philippa squirmed on her mother’s knee. “I want to see the ducks,” she wailed.

“I’d better take her or I’ll get no peace.” Bunty rose to her feet. “Nice to see you again.”

Agatha saw Alice sitting a little way away on her own, drinking wine. She must have bought a whole bottle from John. There was no sign of Bill. He was probably off somewhere phoning to see if there was any news about that mobile phone. She finished her food and went back to where John was ladling out punch. “We’d better stop selling that wine,” he said when he saw her. “The Morris men won’t be able to dance if they have any more.”

“Are we selling much?”

“Yes, quite a lot. But people are mostly taking it home.”

“We’ll put the bottles on the table in the boxes and if the Morris men come back, tell them we’re sold out and we’ll keep on selling it when they go away.”

The afternoon wore on and a chill crept into the air. Mrs. Bloxby came up. “The Morris men are getting ready to perform and then it’s your speech, Agatha. You may as well close up here. You’ve done splendidly.”

Agatha thankfully put a closed sign on the table and she and John put the remaining plastic cups in a box.

They walked to where the crowd was gathering to watch the Morris men. Bill and Alice were standing just behind the crowd and Alice was red-faced and shouting at him. “You’re nothing but a mother’s boy.”

“Let’s go round the other side. I don’t want to listen to this,” said Agatha. She felt guilty. She should have warned Alice about the effects of the wine.

They found a space where they could watch the Morris men. Alf Bloxby’s voice sounded over the crowd. “We will now see a performance of the stick dance by the Mircester Morris Men. Morris dancing is one of the characteristic folk dances of England. We do not know its origins, although we know it was derived from agrarian traditions of fertility rites and celebrations at sowing and at harvest time.”

A Morris man fell over and lay on the grass.

“Though well-known during Shakespeare’s time,” continued the vicar, “it almost died away during the Industrial Revolution, but has now thankfully been revived. You will enjoy the colourful sight of the dancers with their bells and waving hankies dancing to tunes played on the fiddle, pipe and tabor and melodeon. Over to you, boys.”

The Morris man who had fallen over was dragged to his feet and he stood there, blinking in the fading sunlight. A tape was put into a player and the jingly, jaunty tune of Morris music sounded out. The dancers with flowers in their hats and silver bells at their knees clutched their sticks and faced each other. They were supposed to bang their crossed sticks as they met in the dance but two of them missed and hit their opposite number a thwack. “You did that o’ purpose, Fred,” yelled one, and seizing his stick brought it down on the unfortunate Fred’s head. Soon the dance had degenerated into a rumble.

Alf Bloxby tried to separate the warring dancers but was thrust aside with cries of “Get away, you murderer.”

The vicar, his face flaming, looked around for help, shouting to the crowd to stop laughing and do something.

“Police!” shouted Bill Wong. Alf switched off the music. The dancers stopped hitting each other and stood there sheepishly.

Bill shouted to the crowd. “All of you, go home. Show’s over.”

The crowd began to stream off towards the gate. “My speech,” wailed Agatha.

“Too late,” said John. “We’d better get back and start loading up the rest of the wine and stuff.” John had borrowed a trailer which was hitched to his car, parked at the edge of the field.

John stared at the ground behind the table. “Agatha, the wine’s gone. Someone’s nicked the rest of it.”

“I don’t care,” said Agatha. “I hope it poisons them.”

“But we’d better tell Bill!”

“Bill’s got his hands full. You didn’t leave the money behind?”

“No, I’ve got it here in a bag. We’ll count it out at home and then take it along to the vicarage. Are you sure you don’t want to report the missing wine?”

“I’m sure. Just let’s hope it wasn’t a married couple who took it. A few slugs of that wine and they’ll be in the divorce courts in no time at all. I don’t like Alice, but I should have never let her drink that wine.”

“Better Bill finds out what she’s really like now instead of later,” said John. “Hurry up and help me, Agatha. It’s getting cold.”

The sun had turned red and was low on the horizon. They loaded up the trailer with the remainder of the plastic cups, the glasses, the punch-bowl, and then the table itself. As they drove out of the field, Agatha said, “I should have told Bill as well about Brent and his wife.”

“I really don’t think they had anything to do with it, Agatha.”

“Someone had. Someone somewhere. Someone who could have been at this very fete.”

They drove to the church hall first and carried the table in. There was still plenty of wine, stacked in boxes. “Just as well we didn’t take the whole lot along,” said John. “Where did you get the punch-bowl from?”

“I bought it.”

“No one could call you mean, Agatha Raisin. It must have cost you a lot, what with the silver cups and all.”

“Just doing my bit,” said Agatha wearily.

“Will Bill book the Morris dancers?”

“No, I think he’ll give them a warning and tell them not to dare drive until they’ve sobered up.”

“That’s all right. They’d hired a minibus. As long as the bus driver didn’t have any of the wine, they’ll be all right.”

“We’ll leave the cups and glasses here,” said Agatha. “They can be used another time. I was too upset to notice. I hope the press had all gone by the time the dancers started fighting.”

“Sorry. There was at least one television camera in action and I saw two press photographers.”

“Damn.”

“Let’s go to my place and have a drink.”

“No, mine,” said Agatha. “I want to let my cats out.”

After they had finished their drinks, they counted out the money on the kitchen table. “Nearly one hundred and fifty pounds, and that for the wine alone,” said John. “Not bad. There must have been about only two boxes of wine left for them to steal.”

“Miss Jellop must have brought most of the wine down here with her when she moved. It must have taken years to make a cellar-full of the stuff,” said Agatha. “Let’s take this money along to Mrs. Bloxby. She could raise a lot of money for the church with the wine that’s left. But I think someone in the village who knows about home-made wine should figure out how to weaken it before any more is sold. At least that should be the end of Alice. I never could figure out what Bill saw in her.”

“Maybe she’s good in bed.”

Agatha shuddered. For some reason she did not want to imagine Bill Wong in bed with anyone, least of all Alice.

Mrs. Bloxby welcomed them at the vicarage and took the bag of money from John. “I’ll give this to Alf. He’s in his study counting out the takings. From the initial look of things, we’ve done very well. It is all thanks to you, Agatha, and Alf is going to say so in his sermon next Sunday. I saw you talking to old Mrs. Feathers. Did she have anything interesting to say?”

“I should have spoken to her before,” said Agatha. “She said she was sure Tristan had a mobile phone.”

“And how does that help?”

“Because Mrs. Feathers said he had no calls the night after I left. But if, say, he had a mobile in his bedroom, someone could have rung him up and threatened him. He could have decided to flee and decided at the same time to take the church takings with him. He was too mean, I think, to let Mrs. Feathers know he had a phone of his own. He preferred to run up bills on hers.”

“Did you tell Bill?”

“Yes, for once, I did. He’s getting the police to check it.”

“If only, oh, if only these murders could be solved.”

“If they ever are,” said Agatha, “I’ll never complain of being bored again. But Bill has definitely warned me off for the last time, so I’ll need to leave it to the police.”

“He didn’t warn me off,” John pointed out.

But Agatha didn’t like the idea of John playing detective when she herself was not allowed to.

“Mind you,” she said, “there would be no harm in continuing to ask around the village. Look at the news I got from Mrs. Feathers. Might do no harm to go and talk to Mr. Crinsted, the man Tristan used to play chess with.”

“I’ll come with you,” said John. “We’ll try him in the morning.”

“What do you know of Mark Brent?” Agatha asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“Nothing bad. Nice man. Always willing to help out. Why?”

“He was upset with Tristan. Seems his wife, Gladys, got a crush on Tristan and Brent warned him off.”

“I cannot imagine for a moment that such as Mr. Brent or his wife would resort to violence of any kind,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Well, we’ll try Mr. Crinsted. Oh, and the mobile library is due round during the week. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Brown.”

“Do you think it will do any good?” asked the vicar’s wife wearily.

Agatha could feel a resurgence of her old energy for investigation which had so recently deserted her. “I’ve blundered around asking questions before. Something’s got to break.”

Agatha and John drove to the council estate on Monday morning. “Do you think he’ll be at home?” asked John.

“He’s very old,” replied Agatha. “Bound to be.” Mr. Crinsted answered the door to them. He was stooped and frail with a thin, lined face and mild eyes behind thick glasses. “Do come in,” he said. “Dear me, how nice to have some company. The only company I usually have is the television set.”

His living-room was neat and clean. Agatha looked at photographs on the mantelpiece of couples with children. “How many children do you have?” she asked.

“A son and daughter and six grandchildren.”

“Must be nice for you when they come on a visit.”

“I’m afraid I only see them at Christmas. I think they find visits to me rather boring. The children are dreadfully spoilt.” How awful, thought Agatha, to be trapped here, never seeing anyone. Her mind worked busily. She would suggest to Mrs. Bloxby that they start an old folks’ club. Her stocks and shares had been doing very well. Maybe she could see about getting the church hall renovated, turn it into an old folks’ club.

“The reason we called,” said John, “is to ask you for your opinion of Tristan Delon.”

“Oh dear. Do sit down. I’ll make some tea.” Agatha glanced at her watch. “Don’t worry. It’s nearly lunch-time. Tell you what, we’ll chat for a bit and then we’ll go down to Moreton for some lunch. My treat.”

John stared at Agatha in surprise, but Mr. Crinsted was obviously delighted. “Goodness me, it does seem an age since I’ve been out of the village. So what can I tell you about our late curate? Well, he called round one day when I was working out some chess moves and offered to play. I was so delighted to have a partner that I let him win on a couple of occasions. He was such good company. I thought he really liked me and that was very flattering to an old man like me. Then the last time, I became absorbed in the game and forgot to let him win. I have never in my life before seen anyone change personality so completely. He accused me of cheating. I patiently began to explain to him the moves I had made and he said, ‘You’re lying, you silly old fool,’ and he upset the chessboard and sent the pieces flying and stalked out of the house. I was very disappointed. You see, I did think we might be friends.”

“Before he became upset with you,” said John, “did he let fall anything about his private life?”

“Not really. Chess is such a silent game. He did say once that people were like chess pieces, easily moved around. I pointed out that people could be very unpredictable.”

“Let’s continue this over lunch,” said Agatha.

They went to a pub in Moreton and ate great helpings of steak-and-kidney pie. Agatha ordered wine. To John’s amazement, she sparkled for Mr. Crinsted’s benefit, telling him stories about her public relations jobs. Warmed by the wine and food, Mr. Crinsted talked in turn about his own life. He had been a nuclear physicist, working at Los Alamos, and then in Vienna. He had married an Austrian wife, Gerda, but she had died of breast cancer after their second child was born. “I spent a lot of money sending my son and daughter to the best schools and then university. Freda, my daughter, became a nurse and then married a doctor, and my son, Gerald, he became an accountant and married his secretary.” Mr. Crinsted sighed. “I never saved any money and I was lucky to get that council house. I have a comfortable pension and my needs are small. I am glad both my children are very comfortably off.”

“Don’t they help you out?” asked John.

“I never ask them. I don’t have any expensive needs. Perhaps I did too much for them and taught them to be selfish.”

“You know the church hall?” asked Agatha.

“I know where it is, but that’s all.”

“I thought I might see about getting it repaired. The roof needs doing. I could start an old folks’ club – films, bingo, stuff like that. You could give chess lessons. We’d need a minibus, too, to take people to the shops in Stratford, maybe the theatre.”

“That would be wonderful. I would love to give chess lessons.”

Again John looked at Agatha in surprise. He had recently come to think of her as a bossy, occasionally grumpy woman. But her eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm and old Mr. Crinsted looked positively rejuvenated.

He had to remind her after two hours of conversation that if they didn’t hurry up, they would miss the mobile library.

After they had left Mr. Crinsted, John said, “Are you really going ahead with this old folks’ club?”

“Yes, it’ll be fun to have something to do.”

“You surprise me.”

“I can believe that. You have me down as a pushy, selfish woman.”

“I have not,” said John, reddening.

“There’s the mobile library. Let’s see what Mrs. Brown has to say.”

They had to wait patiently while various villagers returned books, took out more books, and discussed books. At last they were left alone with Mrs. Brown.

“Mr. Delon?” Mrs. Brown looked at them thoughtfully over her half-moon glasses. “Now there was a young man just waiting to be murdered.”

“Why do you say that?” asked John.

The plump little librarian picked a book off her desk and put it back on the shelves. “I’ve often thought about the way he humiliated me, jeering at my choice of books. There was no reason for it. It was an exercise in spite. I thought after I’d heard he had been murdered that if he could be bothered to go out of his way to be nasty to a country librarian, then he had probably been extremely nasty to someone who was prepared to retaliate.”

“And you can think of no reason why he should suddenly have sounded off at you?” asked Agatha.

“There was one silly little thing. Mrs. Feathers likes romances, so I always choose one of the more innocent ones and keep it for her. She doesn’t like the ones with explicit sex. We got talking one day and she said that Mr. Delon wanted to invest her savings for her. I told her that she should hang on to them, Mr. Delon was not a stockbroker. Perhaps that was what made him angry. But when Mrs. Feathers thanked me for my advice, I asked her not to tell Mr. Delon it came from me and she promised me she wouldn’t tell him. That is why I thought his malice was unprompted.”

“I think she probably did tell him,” said Agatha. “What’s the gossip about these murders?”

“I’m afraid a lot of people still suspect the vicar. They say Mr. Delon was murdered in the vicarage and that Miss Jellop and Mrs. Slither may have known something incriminating and Mr. Bloxby might have silenced them. It’s ridiculous, I know, but frightened people do talk such rubbish and people are frightened. I see the duck races made the front page of the Daily Bugle.”

“I haven’t seen the papers today,” said Agatha. “Have you got a copy?”

“Yes, I’ve one in my desk.” Mrs. Brown pulled open a drawer. “Here it is.”

There was a coloured photograph of the Morris men fighting. The headline read: The peace of the English countryside. “Oh dear,” said Agatha. “Never mind. We raised quite a bit of money.”

There was nothing more about Tristan to be got from Mrs. Brown. “Two more dead ends,” said John when he dropped Agatha off at her cottage. “Now what?”

“I’m going back to see Mrs. Bloxby,” said Agatha. “I’m going to put forward my idea for the old folks’ club.”

“You’re on your own, then. Maybe see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, maybe,” said Agatha vaguely, her mind full of plans.

“It really is too generous of you, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “But what about all that wine? We’ll need to find a new home for it.”

“I’ve had an idea about that,” said Agatha. “The wine is very heavy and sweet. We could relabel it and call it Cotswold Liqueur. I could ask John Fletcher if he would buy the wine. He could sell it by the glass as a liqueur. I could get a write-up on it in the local paper, do a bit of promotion in return. Tell him the proceeds will go to the old folks’ home.”

“That’s a brilliant idea. I don’t think all your money should go into the repairs. Now we have done so well for Save the Children, I think we should organize the next fund-raising venture to go to repairing the hall.”

“I’ll think of something good,” said Agatha confidently.

“I am so glad to see you looking like your old self,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“I think I’ve finally got fed up with suffering over James. I’m going to have fun.”

Agatha was hungry when she got home. Once more she scrabbled in the deep-freeze, scraping frost off labels in her search for something to eat. She was so tired, she did not notice that the tray of faggots she placed in the microwave was on a foil dish. She had not read the instructions properly and so did not know that foil was deemed unsuitable for microwaves. She had only read the time by dint of screwing up her eyes. Agatha should have realized that forty-five minutes in a microwave is a long time. While the dish spun round, she went into the garden and took a deep breath of the cold night air.

Was the murderer somewhere in the village? Was it possible to sleep easy at night after having committed three murders? As she stood there, lost in thought, she finally became aware of the frantic mewing of her cats and turned round. Black smoke was billowing out through the open kitchen door.

She rushed in. Flames were beginning to lick around the inside of the microwave. She switched it off and unplugged it and opened the door, coughing and waving her arms to try to clear the smoke. The foil tray had melted under a congealed black heap of food. Agatha lifted up the microwave and put it outside the kitchen door.

She found some slightly hard bread and cut two slices and toasted them with cheese under the grill. A film of black was lying over all the surfaces in the kitchen. When she had finished eating, she began to clean the kitchen. It was nearly midnight by the time she had finished.

Agatha went upstairs and had a hot bath and then changed into a long cotton night-dress. She climbed into bed and settled down with a weary sigh. What a day! At least the duck races had raised a lot of money. Pity about the bad publicity. So Bunty was married. She had achieved the dream of many secretaries by marrying the boss. Agatha’s thoughts drifted back to the days when she herself had been a secretary. Her boss, an advertising manager, had been tall and blond and charming. Agatha had slavishly spent some of her small pay packet on buying special brands of coffee to please him. But he had never seemed to pay any more attention to her than if she were some sort of piece of office machinery. Mr. Crinsted’s son had married his secretary.

She sat up, her mind racing. Miss Partle, Binser’s secretary. What if she was so in love with her boss that she would defend him every way she could?