Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came

∨ The Day the Floods Came ∧

4

Once indoors, Agatha settled John in the living room with a drink and went upstairs. She removed the wig and glasses and put on fresh make-up, reflecting that the best treatment for shock must surely be the company of a good-looking man.

John looked up as she entered. She certainly had made a remarkable recovery, he thought.

Agatha poured herself a shot of brandy and sat down opposite him.

“Thank you for your help,” she said. “I don’t want the police to know about this. You see, someone’s just tried to kill me.”

He did not exclaim or protest that she should indeed tell the police, but merely looked at her questioningly.

She began to tell him all about the death of Kylie and about how she was masquerading as a television producer. John Armitage smiled.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Agatha.

“It explains the blond wig. You should really take it off before you return to Carsely. Your disguise has caused a lot of speculation. Mrs. Anstruther-Jones thinks she has the answer.”

“What’s that?”

“That you have a toy-boy and are striving to look younger.”

Agatha’s face flamed with anger. “Silly old bat.”

“Go on. You were telling me about this mystery.”

So Agatha proceeded to tell him the rest of it, ending up by saying that she did not want to report the attempt on her life because the police would be furious with her.

“So what are you going to do now?”

“Go on. If I got attacked just because I was trying to see Harry McCoy, then he might be the clue I need.”

He looked at her thoughtfully and then he said, “You’ve done this sort of thing before?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. She was about to brag about other cases, but her knees began to shake. She was still not over her shock. Had she shown off in her usual way, then John Armitage would have lost interest in her. But the very fact that she was not flirting or simpering or trying to impress him endeared her to him.

“You show a great deal of courage,” he said. “Were you always on your own when things like this happened before?”

“I usually had someone helping me. My ex-husband, James, or a friend, Charles. But I’m on my own in this one. I must admit I had a bad fright. I might leave it for a few days.”

He looked at the clock. “Goodness. It’s one in the morning. I’d better let you get some sleep.”

And that’s that, thought Agatha. She racked her brains trying to think of a way to keep him or suggest another meeting, but she was too shaky and tired.

He rose to his feet. “I tell you what: Why don’t you leave everything to Saturday, and I’ll come with you and we’ll talk to this McCoy fellow on Saturday morning, when he’s off work.”

“Thank you,” said Agatha. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at nine in the morning.”

Then Agatha’s face fell. “Your face is on the jacket of one of your books in Evesham. You’ll be recognized. I didn’t know what you looked like until I saw your photo. You see, when you arrived on my doorstep, carrying that Bible, I thought you were a Mormon.”

He laughed. “What have you got against the Mormons?”

“Nothing at all. I’m sure they are splendid people. I just don’t like being preached at on my own doorstep.”

“I have no intention of going in disguise,” he said. “You can say you have drafted in a celebrity author to help you with the script. I have done television scripts before.”

“Then I’ll see you Saturday.”

After he had gone, Agatha went upstairs, undressed, washed, put on a voluminous night-gown and crawled under the duvet. The events of the evening now seemed like a dream. He was a handsome man. How old was he? Despite his looks, probably around fifty. But men who kept their looks and figures after the age of forty were usually gay. Still, she found the thought of his support comforting. And, she told herself firmly, she had no intention of starting to think romatically about him.

She fell asleep and woke two hours later, suddenly sweating with fear. The old cottage creaked and the wind sighed around outside. Agatha switched on the bedside light and then got out and switched on the overhead light as well. Her cats, who usually slept downstairs in their basket, appeared in the bedroom at that moment and climbed onto the bed. She settled down with a cat on either side of her and their purring soon soothed her back to sleep.

♦

“How old do you think John Armitage is?” Agatha asked Mrs. Bloxby when the vicar’s wife called on her the next day.

“Older than he looks. Miss Simms said she read an article about him. He’s actually fifty-three.”

“I think he’s gay,” said Agatha.

“Despite the fact that he’s been married? Why?”

“Heterosexual men let themselves go.”

“No necessarily. Look at my husband. Alf’s in good shape.”

Agatha thought of the vicar – grey-haired, glasses, scholarly, slightly stooped – and reflected that love was indeed blind.

“But to get back to the attempt on your life,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “That really worries me. Couldn’t you even tell Bill Wong about it?”

“Bill Wong is a dear friend, but he’s a policeman, first and last. He would feel obliged to put in a report.”

“Anything to do with drugs is highly dangerous,” cautioned Mrs. Bloxby.

“I can’t understand it,” said Agatha, half joking. “I thought all the drug barons had gone over to smuggling cigarettes. They keep jacking up the price so it’s getting a bit like the States during prohibition. Do you know, there was an item on the news that said that twenty-five per cent of the British population bought their cigarettes on the black market. No one’s ever approached me.”

“I think you’re in enough trouble as it is without buying contraband cigarettes,” said Mrs. Bloxby severely. “Anyway, I thought you were giving them up.”

“I will, I will.” Agatha lit a cigarette. “When this case is over.”

“If you’re still alive. Why don’t you believe Phyllis’s story that she and Zak had sex?”

“Because she’s a nasty bitch and a compulsive liar.”

“Still…Let’s think about Zak. It appears Kylie was a decent girl and her mother is a sterling woman. What sort of man orders his fiancée to get a bikini wax before the wedding? I mean, a lot of women who are going on their honeymoon get it done as a matter of course, not because of sex, but because of those thong swimsuits or even the ones that are high-cut on the leg.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’m not totally cut off from the world.”

“But Zak was genuinely upset about her death. Those weren’t fake tears.”

“Keep an open mind and do be careful, dear Mrs. Raisin.”

“I’ll have John to look after me.”

“May I give you some advice?”

“I hate it when people say that. Okay, go on.”

“I think it’s important you have some sort of protection during your inquiries,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “But men do not like needy women. Believe me, they can smell needy across two continents. Please do not think of him in terms of romance. I think he could be easily driven away.”

“I don’t fancy him,” said Agatha sulkily. “You seem to think I’m like some sort of teenager.”

That was what the vicar’s wife did think but she refrained from saying so.

♦

Half an hour after Mrs. Bloxby had left, the doorbell went again. Agatha gave a nervous shiver but reassured herself that the sun was shining brightly outside, and the villain or villains, whoever they were, surely did not know her real identity. Unless they followed you home, came the heart-stopping thought. She peered through the spyhole she’d had installed in the door. At first she did not recognize the man standing outside, and then, with surprise, she did. She opened the door.

“Charles?”

It was indeed Sir Charles Fraith, her old friend and sometime lover. But instead of being small, and neat and slim, he was decidedly chubby. His hair had thinned and he had a double chin.

“Come in,” said Agatha. “I’ve a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Although I shouldn’t even be speaking to you. Why didn’t you invite me to your wedding? I could have flown over to Paris.”

Charles sat down at the kitchen table. “I couldn’t. You see, I’d told my wife, Anne-Marie, that we’d once been…er…intimate. It came up, sort of, when I was telling her about some of the murder cases we’d been involved in. She ordered me not to invite you.”

“So what does she think about you being here today?”

“She doesn’t know. I don’t like to upset her. She’s expecting twins.”

Agatha put a mug of coffee down in front of him. “So what did you come for?” she demanded harshly.

“Curious to see how you were getting along.”

“Splendidly, thank you.”

“Any news of James?”

“No.”

“Any murders? What about this business in Evesham?”

“Nothing to do with me,” lied Agatha. “Look, Charles, I wish you would just finish your coffee and go. I’m sore because you didn’t invite me to the wedding. Even though you had blabbed to your bride about me, you could have insisted, or at least have had the guts to phone me up and tell me about it.”

“I told you. I let slip about us to Anne-Marie and so she wouldn’t let me invite you. I didn’t want to rock the boat. I don’t want to have a failed marriage like yours, Aggie. Marriage takes work,” he said pompously.

Agatha leaned across the table and slid his coffee mug away from him. “Get out, Charles. I’d forgotten how insensitive you can be.”

“What about a kiss for old times’ sake?”

“OUT!!!”

“No need to get sore. I’m going.”

He walked off stiffly, giving Agatha a good view of his now large bottom.

Agatha ran to the door and shouted just as Charles was getting into his car, “And don’t come back!”

Agatha then saw John Armitage, who was entering his front door with a bag of groceries, staring at her and gave him a weak smile before retreating indoors.

“I hate it when people change,” grumbled Agatha to her cats. Charles had really only changed in appearance, but to admit that to herself would have made Agatha feel worse.

♦

On Saturday, Agatha’s alarm failed to work and she awoke to find it was a quarter to nine, so instead of the long session she had planned with make-up and clothes, she washed quickly and dressed in the first clothes that came to hand, and put on a little foundation cream and lipstick before scrambling down the stairs just as the doorbell rang.

“Ready?” asked John. He was wearing a blue shirt under a soft suede jacket and casual trousers.

“Ready,” said Agatha breathlessly.

“No disguise?”

“Rats! Won’t be a minute.” Agatha ran back up the stairs and put on the blond wig and glasses.

“I meant to advise you to put on your disguise in the car,” said John when she reappeared. “No, leave it now,” he added as Agatha reached up a hand to pull the wig off again. “We’ll take my car.”

He drove out of the village, smoothly and competently, while Agatha tried to think of things to say but felt unusually shy. At last she said, “I hope he’s at home.”

“We’ll try anyway. How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right now. Things are never so scary in daylight.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” said John. “In fact, I’ve never lived in a village before. Always been in cities.”

“Like Birmingham? I read one of yours books and it was based in Birmingham.”

“I only did research there. No, I lived in London until my divorce.”

“And when was that?”

“Two years ago.”

“An amicable divorce?”

“Had to be done without fuss on her part. She had been unfaithful to me too many times.”

“Did that hurt?” asked Agatha curiously.

“Not now. I’m glad it’s all over. What about you?”

“He left me for the church. Last heard, he’s in some monastery in France.”

“That must have been difficult.”

Agatha sighed. “I never really had him. It was an odd marriage. We were like two bachelors rather than a married couple.”

“That wasn’t the man I heard you shouting at a few days ago?”

“No, that was someone else. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Why do you set your stories in inner cities?” asked Agatha. “You don’t look like an inner-city person.”

He had a pleasant, cultured voice, no trace of accent.

“I wanted to write about real people.”

“Sordid surroundings don’t make people real,” said Agatha with sudden passion as she remembered her own impoverished upbringing. “Their minds are often twisted with drink or drugs and their bodies old before their time with cheap junk food.”

“You sound as if you are speaking from personal experience.”

Agatha was a snob, and Agatha was not going to admit she had been brought up in a Birmingham slum. “I’m a good observer,” she said quickly.

“I thought I was, too. We must talk some more about this.”

When they got to Evesham, Agatha instructed him to park in Merstow Green. They left the car and were soon walking along the road that Agatha had so recently fled along in terror. People were walking along, women pushing babies in prams, men talking in groups; it all looked so harmless.

They arrived at the house. “Which bell?” he asked. “There aren’t any names.”

“The light was on in the upstairs before I was attacked.”

“We’ll try that.”

He rang the bell.

They waited a few minutes. Then John said, “May as well try the bottom one,” and rang it.

The door was opened by a young man, a very clean young man. He had neat light brown hair, a round face, a gleaming white short-sleeved shirt and jeans with creases like knife-edges. “Mr. McCoy?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, but if you’re selling anything – ”

“No, we represent a television company. We can’t cover the young people of Evesham without mentioning Kylie’s death. We would, of course, like to know what sort of amusements young people enjoy in a town like this. May we come in?”

“I’ve got someone with me at the moment,” he said. “Can we go somewhere? There’s a café along towards the river.”

“That’ll do fine.”

“I’ll get my jacket.”

He closed the door. “Seems a nice-enough fellow,” said John.

“Shhh!” said Agatha.

“Why can’t I come, too?” demanded a shrill female voice. Harry McCoy mumbled something in return and then the door opened. His face was red with embarrassment.

They walked along the road together until they came to a café, the kind that sold light snacks. They took a table at the window. Outside, the river Avon slid along on its green-black way. A launch cruised past, sending waves of water to either bank.

“I’m surprised this place is still open,” said Agatha. “I thought it would have been flooded out.”

“It came right up to the doors,” said Harry. “Mrs. Joyce, that’s her behind the counter, who owns the place, had piles of sandbags at the front. Also the café’s higher up on a sort of mound than the houses on either side. They got the worst of it.”

John returned from the counter, where he had gone to fetch cups of coffee.

Agatha started by asking him questions about how young people amused themselves. Harry said sometimes they went up to Birmingham, a few of them sharing a car and taking turns at staying sober.

“And what about Hollywood Nights, the disco?”

“I wouldn’t be seen dead there,” said Harry. “Lot of layabouts.”

“You were engaged to Kylie?”

“Yes.”

“What went wrong with the engagement?”

“Zak’s what went wrong,” said Harry moodily. “Have you seen that car of his?” Agatha shook her head. “It’s a Jag. It turned her head. He took to waiting outside Barrington’s for her when she finished work and offering her a lift home. Phyllis Heger, she was engaged to Zak at the time, had told him Kylie was a virgin, and he said something like he would soon see to that. I tried to warn her. I couldn’t believe it when she broke off her engagement to me and became engaged to him.”

“I thought Phyllis would be here any moment,” said Agatha.

“Why?”

“That was her with you this morning. I recognized her voice.”

“I told her we were going to Butler’s in the High Street,” said Harry and flushed under Agatha’s curious gaze.

“And are you and Phyllis an item?”

He flushed again. “Naw. Phyllis is…Well, she’s just a girl. Not the kind you get serious about.”

“So was Kylie really in love with Zak?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think she could see beyond the wedding. Zak’s father insisted on paying for a grand wedding. And they were going to spend their honeymoon in the Maldives. Kylie had never been abroad before, never been on an aeroplane, never even been up to London. She couldn’t talk about anything else.”

“Bit insensitive of her to talk about it to you.”

“She talked to the other girls in the office and they told me.”

“Who lives upstairs from you?” asked John, speaking for the first time.

“Marilyn Josh.”

Agatha consulted her notes. “She works at Barrington’s?”

“That’s right.”

Was it Marilyn who had seen her the other night and alerted whoever it was who had tried to run her down? wondered Agatha.

“We might have a word with her afterwards,” said John. “Is she away? She didn’t answer the doorbell.”

“She sleeps late on Saturdays and nothing usually wakes her.”

“So,” pursued Agatha, “what kind of girl was Kylie?”

“She was lovely to look at. I mean, you see girls like that on the telly,” said Harry, “but you never expect to see one like that here. I couldn’t believe my luck when she agreed to be my fiancée. Mind you, I was a bit worried I’d got her on the rebound.”

John and Agatha exchanged glances.

“Who was she rebounding from?” asked John.

“Mr. Barrington.”

“What? The owner of Barrington’s.”

“Him. Yes.”

“Wait a bit. He can’t be a young man, surely, to own a firm like that.”

Harry scowled. “He’s a dirty old man, nearly fifty.”

“And not married?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, he is, but he told Kylie he would get a divorce.”

Agatha looked at Harry in amazement. “And what did the other girls think about Kylie dating the boss?”

“They didn’t know. She never told them. I knew, because I was mad about her.” He flushed an even deeper red than before. “I used to follow her. She’d told the other girls she was taking French classes at Evesham College, so after work, she’d walk to the car-park at Evesham College and he’d pick her up there.”

“And were they having an affair?”

“Kylie swore to me they’d never had an affair. He used to drive her out to restaurants in the country for dinner. He’d give her presents.”

“Like what?” asked John.

“He gave her a solid-gold necklace, that I know. She showed it to me and said she’d told her mum it was gilt.”

“So how did that end?” asked Agatha, who was rapidly revising her opinion of Kylie.

“A friend of his wife’s saw them together in that Greek restaurant in Chipping Camden and told her. Turns out his wife has a lot of money and he’d never intended getting a divorce. He managed to persuade his wife that Kylie had been thinking of leaving work and that because she was such a good worker, he had taken her out for dinner to persuade her to stay. Anyway, Kylie started going out with me. I thought all my Christmases had come. She was a beautiful girl.”

“But what was she like?” demanded Agatha.

“Of course, you never met her. She had a sweet face and this long blond hair and a figure like a model and…”

Agatha did not want to say she had once seen Kylie at the beauticians because that might give Harry a hint that she was a local. “I’m not interested in what she looked like,” said Agatha. “I’m interested in her character.”

Harry blinked a little, a puzzled frown between his brows. John thought that Harry had never bothered much about what Kylie was really like.

“She chattered away about the office and the girls and things like that. Girl talk, you know. She said she was ambitious. She didn’t want to be stuck in Evesham for the rest of her life.”

Agatha sighed. “But that’s exactly what would have happened if she had married you. Was she a virgin?”

Harry turned red. “That’s a very personal question.”

“No harm in answering it now she’s dead.”

“No, she wasn’t,” he mumbled. “She was pretty hot.”

Agatha said, “I think we should have a word with Marilyn, seeing as how she lives above you. Do you think she’ll be awake now?”

“I’ll phone her.” He took a mobile phone out of his pocket and proceeded to dial. He turned a little away from them and muttered into it, but Agatha caught the gist of his remarks, which amounted to that he was with the television people and he didn’t want Phyllis to know because she would muscle in on the interview.

Agatha’s previous mental picture of Kylie, reinforced by the visit from her decent mother, was beginning to change. Instead of Kylie being a fresh-faced innocent, if Harry McCoy’s remarks were anything to go by, Kylie had been an empty-headed little tart. Still, the girl had been murdered and no one should be allowed to get away with that.

Marilyn arrived, breathless and excited, wearing black leggings, high-heeled white sling-backed shoes, a skimpy T-shirt, and a purple fake fur jacket. Her thin shoulders were hunched and her small mouth hung perpetually open under a long nose and heavy-lidded eyes.

“Is there a hidden camera?” she asked, looking excitedly around.

“It’s not Candid Camera,” said Agatha. “We’re just asking a few questions about the youth of Evesham in general and Kylie Stokes in particular.”

“What’s your names?” asked Marilyn.

“John Armitage,” said John with a smile. “And this is Pippa Davenport.”

He could have thought of a better name for me, thought Agatha. John took over the questioning. He started by asking her about her life. Marilyn flirted with him, giggling and punctuating her answers with hundreds of ‘you knows.’

Then he said, “Have any of you ever been in trouble over drugs?”

“Don’t think so.” Marilyn looked sideways under her heavy lids at Harry. “There’s Phyllis. She’s tough, you know. She could be taking something, know what I mean?”

“But no one you know has been in trouble with the police?”

Marilyn shook her head.

“How long had you all known each other?”

“‘Bout a year, you know. Phyllis has been with Barrington’s the longest. Maybe three years. Me, a year. The others had just joined before me. New business, you know. Been building up staff ever since, you know. They was a small firm in Worcester before then, you know. Just plumbing, like. Then Mr. Barrington decided to expand into bathroom fittings.”

“How old was Kylie?”

“Eighteen, same as me. She’d been working at the market with her mum when she left school at sixteen. She’d taken a computer course at the college. Said she wanted to better herself. Quite the little madam,” added Marilyn with sudden venom.

“You don’t seem to have liked her,” said Agatha.

The thin shoulders under the purple jacket shrugged.

“And yet you all gave her a hen party?”

“Oh, offices, you know. You get along, have a bit of a laugh.”

“So tell me about the hen party.”

“Mr. Barrington let us use the office after hours. We had drinks and a few laughs and then we dressed up Kylie in streamers and put on funny hats and walked her a bit of a way home through the town, you know. We was all a bit drunk, laughing, you know, and shouting rude remarks at the boys in the streets. Then we all split up when we got to the High Street.”

“And were there any quarrels?”

“Naw. Phyllis wasn’t there.”

“Trouble-maker, is she?”

“Yes, but don’t you go telling her I said so. She’s got a terrible temper.”

They asked her a few more questions and then parried her questions about when the programme was going to appear before taking their leave.

“There are lot of nice people in Evesham,” said Agatha as she and John walked to the car-park.

“But not that lot at Barrington’s,” commented John. “Which of the girls have you still got to question separately?”

“Three of them,” groaned Agatha. “Ann Trump, Mary Webster, and Joanna Field.”

“Got their addresses?”

“Yes.”

“So let’s try them.”

“You seem to be enjoying this.”

“Oh, it keeps me away from the computer and it’s much more interesting than fiction.”

When they got to the car, Agatha studied her notes. “Ann Trump lives out on the Cheltenham Road. We could try her.”

“What other stones are we going to lift up?” he asked, letting in the clutch.

“We’ve got to see Barrington himself.”

“Better see him at the office. Even if we find out where he lives, he won’t talk easily with his wife there.”

Agatha cast a covert glance at John as he negotiated the traffic. Here she was with a very good-looking man and, instead of feeling thrilled, feeling puzzled. He was easy in her company, rather, she judged, in the way he would be relaxed with an author he met at a book convention. That was it! His behaviour towards her was like that of a business colleague. His attitude was definitely sexless. Not a frisson.

Still, Mrs. Bloxby had advised her not to scare him off, to play it cool. But what did the vicar’s wife know about men? thought Agatha sulkily.

They had expected to find another flat, but Ann Trump’s home was a prosperous-looking villa. “Must live with her parents,” commented John as they walked up the garden path. “I never asked you. How are you feeling now after your fright?”

“I’m all right now. Thanks,” said Agatha. She was about to add that she felt all right during the day, but was still sleeping with the light on and waking up in a sweat at the slightest sound during the night, but he was already ringing the doorbell.

A man in golfing clothes answered the door. Agatha went into her usual television speech and desire to interview Ann Trump. He said he was Mr. Trump, Ann’s father, and turned away and shouted, “Ann! That telly woman you were talking about is here!”

“I’ll leave you in the lounge,” he said. “My lady wife is out shopping and I’m off to play golf. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Agatha and John sat side by side on a green velvet-covered sofa. Looking round, Agatha decided that much of the family life must go on in the kitchen because everything in the lounge looked new and barely used. The room was cold.

A few moments after her father had left, Ann came into the room. She was fairly pretty, with a round face, wide brown eyes and dark curls.

“Like a drink?” asked Ann, going to a cocktail cabinet against the wall and opening it. The strains of ‘Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms’ filled the room. Inside, the cabinet was lit with pink neon. Agatha noticed that the bottles were all full and glasses of different sizes neatly ranged. Obviously not a family of drinkers.

Agatha glanced at John, who shook his head. The thought flashed into her mind that if John did not drink much, there was little hope of softening him up for the kill.

“Not for us,” she said. “Come and sit down, Ann. I decided it would be better to interview each one of you individually.” She went on to ask Ann about her job and her hobbies and the entertainments of Evesham before getting on to the subject of Kylie’s death.

“I can’t think how anyone could murder her,” said Ann. “I mean, there was nothing to murder.”

“What do you mean?” asked John.

“Well, she was pretty friendly towards everyone, easy to get on with.”

“Apart from Zak, did she have any boyfriends?” asked Agatha.

“She was engaged to a boy called Harry McCoy, but she dumped him for Zak.”

“Anyone else? What about any of the bosses?”

She laughed. “Mr. Barrington? No, not possible.” So Harry hadn’t gossiped to the girls.

“So tell me about her engagement to Zak. Was she happy?” Agatha looked in irritation at John, who had risen and crossed to the cocktail cabinet and was opening and shutting the lid, letting out bursts of tinkling music.

“Help yourself,” said Ann.

John regained his seat. “I was fascinated by the mechanism.”

“You were asking about her engagement,” said Ann. “She was ever so happy. She had a lovely diamond ring. Phyllis was mad at her, of course.” Ann blushed. “Don’t tell Phyllis I said anything. She’s got a temper.”

“Yes, I gather Phyllis was dating Zak before he got engaged to Kylie.”

“Ever so cut up about it, Phyllis was,” said Ann. “And Kylie did rather flash that ring under Phyllis’s nose.”

“And yet you say there was nothing about her that would drive anyone to murder her!”

“Oh, well, girls are always quarrelling,” said Ann sententiously.

“So you don’t think Phyllis could have murdered her?”

Ann giggled. “Are you doing Crime Watch for the TV? Sounds like it.”

“No, no,” said Agatha quickly. “Kylie’s death intrigues me. And John Armitage here is a detective-story writer, a famous one.”

Ann surveyed John without much interest. “Didn’t think anyone read books these days, with so many channels on the telly to watch.”

“John sells millions of books,” said Agatha.

“Must be to old people,” said Ann. “Awful lot of them around these days.”

To be on the safe side, Agatha turned her questioning back to the pleasures of the youth of Evesham and then they took their leave.

“Not much there,” said John, stifling a yawn.

He’s getting bored, thought Agatha. Not surprising. Men of his age who look like him usually go after younger women. I’m getting old. Soon no one will want me.

As she got into his car, she said in a small voice, “Maybe you’ve had enough.”

“Not yet. Who’s left?”

“Mary Webster and Joanna Field.”

“Okay, let’s get rid of one of them and have lunch.”

Agatha consulted her notes. “Mary Webster lives in that new housing development on the Four Pools Estate. Make a left here.”

But when they got to the address Mary Webster had given them it was to find no one was at home. “That leaves Joanna Field,” said Agatha.