Agatha Raisin and The Murderous Marriage

SIX

IN the morning, a hung-over Agatha Raisin crept downstairs to receive a taste of what marriage to James might have been like.

"That was incredibly selfish behaviour last night, Agatha. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"James, can't you wait till I get a cup of coffee?"

"Selfish!" James paced up and down the small kitchen. "I thought we were in this investigation together, and yet you pair go off. I went to the Red Lion but you hadn't gone there. The next thing I know, you are both back here drunk at closing time. I have to run you back to Moreton, leave my car, run Bill home, get a cab back to Moreton to pick up my own car - well, it's just too much."

Agatha poured a cup of coffee with a shaking hand and then lit a cigarette. James angrily jerked open the kitchen window, letting in a blast of cold autumn air. "And that's a filthy habit, Agatha. This whole house is beginning to stink of cigarette smoke."

"Leave me alone," wailed Agatha, slumping down at the kitchen table.

There was a ring at the bell. James stumped off to answer it. Soon he was back. "It's that Mrs. Hardy for you. I didn't invite her in."

Curiosity momentarily banishing her pounding hangover, Agatha went to the door.

"Good morning," said Mrs. Hardy. "I am reconsidering your offer."

Hope shone in Agatha's eyes. "You mean I can buy my cottage back?"

"If you wish."

"I'll get dressed and come along and see you," said Agatha eagerly.

"Don't take all day about it. I'm going out."

Agatha went upstairs and hurriedly washed and dressed. "Going next door," she called to James. "The Hardy woman's prepared to sell."

Seated a few minutes later in Mrs. Hardy's kitchen and studying her covertly, Agatha wondered if she herself in the not-so-far-off days had been a bit like this Mrs. Hardy, blunt and abrasive.

"Why do you want to sell?" asked Agatha.

"Does it matter? Carsely does not suit." She poured herself a cup of coffee but did not offer Agatha any.

So they got down to business. Agatha at last rose at the I end of it, feeling weak and not only with hangover. Mrs. Hardy drove a hard bargain. Agatha would have to pay a lot more to get her cottage back than Mrs. Hardy had given her for it. Later, Agatha was to Wonder why she had not tried to hold off a little, to drive the price down, but she was so eager to have her old home back and get from living with James that she had agreed to the price Mrs. Hardy had named.

"Great news," she said to James when she returned. "The Hardy creature is selling me back my cottage."

"How much?"

"A lot'. 'Is it worth it, Agatha? You can stay here as long as you like."

Agatha threw him a frustrated look. She could not be herself, living with James. He did most of the cooking and cleaning. She realized that even if they had married, it would probably have been just the same. She lived as if in a hotel, carefully keeping her clothes and belongings to the spare room; trying to remember to scrub out the bath every time, realizing that she was quite a messy person. Housekeepers, thought Agatha, were born, not made. Being a good housekeeper was a separate talent, like being a ballet dancer or opera singer. Being brought up in a slum, where food came out of cans and cleaning was sporadic and clothes often were not washed from one week to the other, didn't help one in future life. While she had had her own house, James had only seen the best of her. Had she suffered then from this hangover, she would have stayed indoors until she got rid of it, and then emerged, made up and dressed to kill. She ran an exploratory finger over her upper lip. A stiff, little couple of hairs were sprouting there. She felt they were waving their antennae at James like insects. She made a hurried excuse and went up to the bathroom, waxed her upper lip clean, opened the bathroom window and tossed the wax out into the bushes, planning to retrieve it later and hide it in the kitchen garbage where James would not spot it. It's such hard work being middle-aged, thought Agatha bleakly, and it will get much worse when I'm old, what with farting and incontinence and falling hair and teeth. God, I wish I were dead. And on that cheerful thought she went back downstairs.

"Bill and I weren't talking about the case," she said to James's rigid back as he stood over the cooker scrambling eggs. "Maddie's rejected him and he is deeply hurt."

"Oh." James's back relaxed. "And you didn't tell him about our visit to Gloria Comfort?"

"No," said Agatha. "We got drunk to comfort him. Stupid, I know, and you were really good to take him home. Maddie may be a pill, but he's mourning her all the same."

James slid a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs under Agatha's nose. "Eat that and you'll feel better."

"Nothing will make me feel better but the passing of time and the first stiff Scotch," said Agatha, but she managed to eat some of the egg and a piece of toast.

The doorbell went again and she clutched her head and groaned. "If that's anyone for me, get rid of them, James. I can't even bear to see Mrs. Bloxby."

But James returned with Bill, Maddie, and Wilkes. Agatha felt her stomach lurch.

"Now," said Wilkes severely, "I gather from descriptions received that you and Mr. Lacey here called on a Mrs. Gloria Comfort yesterday."

Agatha bleakly marvelled at the life of the English village. It had seemed completely deserted when they had called on Mrs. Comfort, but hidden eyes had probably taken in every detail of their appearance.

"She's not dead, is she?" asked Agatha.

"Mrs. Gloria Comfort packed up after you left, deposited her keyes at the local police station, and said she was going on holiday to Spain. She took a flight to Madrid from Heathrow, hired a car at the Madrid airport and took off for God knows where. Now what we want to know is what did you say to her?"

"And why," said Maddie in a flat voice, "were you calling on any suspect when you had been told not to?"

"It's a free country," said Agatha. "Anyway, she hadn't much to say. She said she wasn't being blackmailed by Jimmy, even after we told her the police would probably examine her bank accounts to make sure. She said nothing about going to Spain."

The questioning began in earnest. They told them everything, except the bit about Mrs. Comfort spending the night with Jimmy.

At last they rose to go. Maddie leaned over Agatha and said, "Just butt out, will you?"

"Oh, go away," snarled Agatha. "Your face gives me a pain."

Bill looked at Agatha bleakly, but said nothing.

After James had closed the door on them, Agatha said, "That's a turn-up for the book. Why would she run like that? What had she to fear?"

"Let's go and break into her cottage tonight," said James.

"What if we're caught? And look how many people seemed to notice our visit and describe us. What if they phone the police?"

"They won't see us if we go in the middle of the night."

"Security lights? Burglar alarms?"

"She had neither. I noticed that."

Agatha looked at him doubtfully. "These Cotswold villages are crammed with geriatrics, James, and old people don't sleep much. They'd hear the car."

"We'll drive a little way to Ancombe and then walk the rest. We'll wear dark clothes but nothing too sinister-looking in case someone meets us .on the road. Now, if I were you, I would go back to bed and sleep off that hangover. You'll need all your wits about you tonight."

Agatha felt better physically by that evening, but apprehensive about the night to come. She knew in her bones that if they were caught breaking into Mrs. Comfort's cottage, they could certainly be arrested for that and also for interfering in police business. Roy Silver phoned from London and Agatha asked him if he could check up on the woman who had posed as Lady Derrington at the health clinic and find out what he could.

They set out at two in the morning. James parked the car beside a farm gate outside the village and they got out and began to walk. It was a dark, moonless night with a rising wind. Beech-nuts crunched under their feet and more beechnuts hurtled down from the trees which arched over the narrow road. "I've never seen so many beech-nuts," complained Agatha. "Is this the sign of a hard winter, or what?"

"Everything's always the sign of a hard winter in the country," said James. "If people go on saying it often enough, they're bound to be right one of those years. Shh, we're nearly at the village."

They moved quietly. The darker bulk of the church rose against the black sky. "Not a sign of life anywhere," whispered James, but nervous Agatha was sure sleepless old people were sitting behind their net curtains, watching their approach with beady eyes. The silence seemed absolute. Nothing stirred except the wind in the trees.

James quietly opened the front gate to Mrs. Comfort's cottage and once more they made their way around the back. Agatha was comforted somewhat by the secluded darkness of the garden.

James took out a pencil-torch and gave it to Agatha. "Shine that at the door," he whispered, taking out a bunch of lock-picks.

For the umpteenth time, Agatha wondered what a seemingly respectable retired colonel was doing with a bunch of lock-picks.

In the movies, locks were picked with amazing speed and ease. Agatha hugged herself and shivered as half an hour dragged past.

"How much longer are you going to be?" she hissed.

"Keep your hair on. I've done the Yale. It's the second lock that's the problem."

A light came on in a cottage on the other side of the back garden, a shaft of yellow light cutting through the sheltering trees. James froze and Agatha let out a little whimper of alarm. Then the light went out again and they were plunged back into comforting darkness.

At last, just when Agatha was about to suggest they give up the whole mad scheme, James gave a grunt of satisfaction and the door swung open.

He reached for Agatha's hand and led her in behind him, flashing the pen-light on and off.

"Upstairs," said James. "I didn't notice anywhere in the living-room where she might keep letters or papers."

Soon the thin beam from his torch was flickering over the chaos of the bedroom. Drawers hung open at crazy angles and the wardrobe stood open as well.

"Someone has been here before us," said Agatha. "The police?"

"I think it's panic-packing. You sit on that chair over there by the window and peer through the curtains and keep a look-out and I'll search around."

After searching through letters and papers in the dressing-table drawers, James gave a muffled exclamation and brought a letter over to Agatha. "Get down on the floor while I shine the torch on this," he said. "It's worth reading."

Agatha squatted down on the floor and read the letter. Dear Gloria,

Please, please reconsider. I've said I'm sorry so many times. We had a good marriage and could have a good marriage again if only you would see me, listen to me. We could go away somewhere, anywhere you like, and mend fences. Just see me the once anyway. What harm could it do? You can't still be bitter after all this time. I love you.

Please call. Geoffrey.

The letter had been typed on business paper, a Mircester firm called Potato Plus.

Agatha looked up in amazement. "So what was all that about the ruined marriage when she could have had it all back? She must have gone off with him."

"Looks like it. But let me have another look."

After an hour he said, "No, nothing else. I think we'd better leave it at that. Give me that letter, Agatha, and I'll put it back exactly as I found it."

As they went down the stairs, Agatha suddenly grabbed his arm, making him jump.

"The living-room. She's got an answering machine. Let's check it for messages before we go."

"All right," said James. "But I doubt if we'll learn more than we have. That letter from the husband was dated three days ago. It's clear to me she's gone off with him."

They went into the living-room. James played back the answering machine. "This is Jane," said a voice. "I'm sorry I was out when you called, Gloria. Yes, I'll look after your garden. I've still got your keys. Have a good trip. Bye."

Then a man's voice. "Hallo, Basil here, sweetheart. I've got the tickets and I'll see you at Heathrow at four-thirty at the check-in. Don't be late."

They looked at each other in surprise. "Basil?" exclaimed Agatha. "But her husband's name is Geoffrey. And she must have phoned him after we left to arrange the trip because he says nothing about Madrid, only that he's got the tickets."

"Let's just get out of here before our luck runs out," said James. "I'm tired of whispering."

"Will it take ages for you to lock up?"

"No, that's the easy bit."

Soon they were walking out of Ancombe, towards their car. "I've been thinking," said James as they drove off, "that we've been concentrating on people who were blackmailed or used by Jimmy Raisin. We never really thought of the partners or spouses, except perhaps Lady Derrington. Look at it this way. Mrs. Comfort is upset by our visit, though I don't know why. Her husband wants her back. But she phones Basil, someone she's obviously close enough to so that he promptly arranges they head off for Spain, just like that."

"The police said she hired a car in Madrid. They didn't say anything about anyone being with her. Of course, this Basil could be married. They could have travelled separately on the plane, she hires the car and picks him up outside the airport. Easy. Oh, God, James, stop the car!"

He screeched to a halt. "What's up?"

"That call from Basil was the last one. There were only two calls on that answering machine. If that was the very last call she got, we could dial one-four-seven-one and find out this Basil's phone number."

"Agatha! That would mean picking those locks again. I daren't risk it. Look, this Jane female should be easy to find. We'll go back to Ancombe tomorrow. She'll probably know who it was."

"But she might not be a close friend. She might just be some woman who looks after people's houses and gardens when they're away. Please, James."

He set off again. "No, Agatha, absolutely not. Trust me. This Jane will know."

They found Jane easily enough after inquiring at the church the next morning. The verger told them that Jane Barclay was the lady they were looking for and directed them to her cottage.

Jane Barclay was a powerful, masculine-looking middle-aged woman with cropped grey hair.

It took them only a short time, during which Agatha slid the silk scarf from her neck and put it in her pocket, to establish that Jane Barclay was not an intimate friend of Mrs. Gloria Comfort.

"The real reason we have come," gushed Agatha, while James looked at her in surprise, "I left my scarf at Gloria's yesterday. She told me you looked after the garden and the way she talked about you made us believe you were a close friend and might know exactly where in Spain she had gone. But you do have the keys. Could you be an angel and let us in so that I can look for it?"

"I suppose so," said Jane. "Who did you say you were?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Perth," said James quickly, before Agatha could say anything. He was frightened that if she heard Agatha's name, she might be more cautious about letting the wife of a murdered man into that cottage.

"Have you any identification?"

Agatha's heart sank, but to her amazement James fished a card-case out of his inside pocket and extracted a card.

"Colonel and Mrs. Perth," Jane read aloud. "From Stratford. She never mentioned you, but then I don't know her all that well. Come along. Don't take too long about it."

They walked with her the short distance to Mrs. Comfort's cottage. James kept glancing down at Agatha, guessing that she wanted to get to that phone. When they entered the living-room, Agatha looked around brightly. "Now where did I put that scarf. I know I left it here."

James crossed to the window and looked out. "The dahlias haven't been damaged by frost yet," he said. "They make a fine show."

Jane Barclay crossed to join him. "I planted those," she said proudly. "Mrs. Comfort - Gloria - really doesn't know a thing about gardening."

Agatha took the scarf from her pocket and thrust it down between the cushions of the sofa.

"I've found it," she cried, fishing it out as Jane turned round. "It must have slipped between the cushions."

James was still at the window. "Some of those roses could do with being cut back."

"What? Where?" demanded Jane angrily. "Those are the best-tended roses in the Cotswolds. I'll show you."

"You go ahead," said Agatha. "I'll just powder my nose."

Jane wasn't even listening to her. She was too angry at this slur on her gardening capabilities.

When they both walked out, Agatha quickly crossed to the phone and dialled 1471. A tinny voice said, "Telephone number oh-one-five-six-oh-three-eight-nine-nine-three-two has been stored."

Agatha made a rapid note and then went out to the garden, where James was saying plaintively, "Well, bless me, what a splendid job you've done. Forgive me, Miss Barclay. It's my damned eyesight. Not as good as it was."

Jane was mollified enough to talk for what seemed to Agatha an unconscionable time about gardening.

At last they thanked Jane and went back to their car. As soon as they were out of earshot, Agatha said excitedly, "I got the number."

"It may not be this mysterious Basil's number." James drove a little way along the road and then stopped. "Let me see it."

Agatha gave him the slip of paper with the number on it.

"It's a Mircester number," said James, "but it could also belong to any of the villages just outside Mircester. How are we going to find out the address that goes with it?"

Agatha sat scowling horribly. "I've got an idea," she said at last. "Any time I've been to police headquarters in Mircester to talk to Bill Wong or someone about a case, I've been put in an interview room and had to wait ages. The interview room has a phone. I could phone the operator and say I was a police detective, and before they get suspicious say something like, "Phone me back immediately at police headquarters on this extension.""

"Agatha, I forbid you to do anything so insane!"

"You what? Who the hell do you think you are to order me around?"

"See sense, woman. The one time someone will come to see you immediately is just when you don't want it. The phone will ring and someone like the dreadful Maddie will pick it up and promptly charge you with trying to impersonate a police officer."

"One has," said Agatha Raisin haughtily, "got to take risks in this business."

"Oh, don't get carried away. All we've done so far is create mayhem. I'll drop you off home. I'm going to the market in Moreton to get fish for dinner. If time lies heavy on your hands, you might try a little weeding, dear. It has not escaped my notice that you treat my place like a hotel."

"That's because it is your place," said Agatha, deeply hurt. "I can't wait to get my own home back."

"Can't wait either," said James, and they completed the drive home in bitter silence.

James went off to Moreton-in-Marsh and Agatha let herself in, smarting with hurt and fury. So this is what marriage would have been like? Being ordered about? How dare he. Well, she'd show him.

She went back out and got into her own car and drove as fast as she could to Mircester.

Feeling a bit nervous now, she approached the desk sergeant at Mircester Police Headquarters and said sweetly, "I would like to see someone in connection with the murder of Jimmy Raisin."

"It's Mrs. Raisin, isn't it?"

"Yes."

He lifted the flap, came round the desk and ushered her into an interview room off the entrance hall.

"Shouldn't be long," he said cheerfully. "Like a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you."

He left and shut the door. Agatha seized the phone and dialed the operator. Nothing happened. Then she realized she probably had to dial nine for an outside line and, hoping it was nine, tried again. The operator came on the line.

"This is Detective Sergeant Crumb," said Agatha, quickly taking her alias from the remains of a biscuit on a plate on the desk. She gave the operator the number she had culled from Mrs. Comfort's phone, asked for the name and address that went with it, and then gave her the number of the extension on the desk.

"We'll call you back," said the operator.

And Agatha waited and waited.

Then panic took over. She lifted the phone off the desk and put it on the floor. She seized the desk and pushed it across the floor and rammed it against the door. She had just finished doing that when two things happened at once. Someone tried to get in and the phone rang.

Agatha dropped to her knees on the floor, seized the receiver and muttered hoarsely into it. "Yes?"

"Detective Sergeant Crumb?"

"Yes, yes," hissed Agatha as she heard Maddie's voice calling from the other side of the door, "Mrs. Raisin? Are you in there? This door's jammed."

"The name and address you require is Basil Morton, number six, The Loanings, London Road, Mircester."

"Thanks," said Agatha.

She moved the desk and lay down alongside the door, just as she heard Maddie shouting, "Dave, come and help me with i this door."

Agatha groaned theatrically. "Are you all right?" Maddie called, her voice more sharp with suspicion than concern.

"I fainted," called Agatha. "I'll move. I'm blocking the door."

She got to her feet and stood back as Maddie, with policeman behind her, opened the door. Maddie's eyes went Straight to Agatha's flushed face and then to the phone, which was lying on the floor.

"You don't look at all like a woman who has just recovered from a faint," snapped Maddie. "And what's that phone doing on the floor? And didn't I hear it ringing?"

"I must have dragged it off the desk when I fell. It only rang a couple of times and then stopped."

"And it landed right side up with the receiver still in place?"

"Odd, that," said Agatha. She put her hand to her head. "I feel very hot. Could I have a glass of water?"

"Get it," Maddie ordered the policeman. "It's probably a menopausal hot flush."

Agatha glared at her, hating her.

"So let's cut the crap, Mrs. Raisin. Why are you here?"

"If that's your attitude, I think I'd rather speak to Bill."

"Bill's out on a job, and either you speak to me or I'll have you for wasting police time."

"It's a wonder you ever solve anything," said Agatha, "considering the way you put people's backs up."

The policeman came in with the glass of water and handed it to Agatha. She took it from him with a murmur of thanks, sat down, and began to drink it thirstily. Maddie watched her crossly and then said, "Out with it, Agatha."

"Mrs. Raisin to you." The glass of water had given Agatha time to improvise. She hadn't prepared a story, thinking that they would surely send Bill to see her.

"I have reason to believe," she said, "that Help Our Homeless was a scam and not a properly organized charity."

"We know that," said Maddie to Agatha's amazement. "The police went to close the place down in ninety-one, but the office was closed and the Gore-Appleton woman had disappeared."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why should I?" Maddie was barely able to conceal her contempt. "The trouble with you women who don't work is you're always poking your nose into other people's affairs. You've been told and told to leave matters to the police. I'll tell you something else. I think you were using that phone. Let's just try the call-back number and see what you were up to."

Agatha thought quickly. Maddie would only get that operator number. But she would ask everyone in the station if anyone had dialled the operator from the number in the interview room and find that no one had. Then, Agatha worried, she would phone the operator and find out what the inquiry had been about. But just at that moment, the phone rang.

Maddie picked it up. "Hallo, Bill," she said crossly. "Are you back in the building? You're not? You're phoning from outside." Bill's voice at the other end quacked busily. "Well, listen to this," said Maddie. "Your darling Mrs. Raisin is in the interview room and I think she was using this phone and I was about to get the call-back to tell me who it was phoned her, but because you found out I was in the interview room and decided to get through on an outside line, I can't find out now. Why didn't you just let the switchboard put yotl through?"

The voice quacked again. It was obvious to Agatha that Bill was explaining that whatever he had to say to Maddie he hadn't wanted to be overheard by the switchboard, because Maddie said, "This is neither the time nor place, and if you want to know the truth, there never is going to be a time and place...ever. Geddit?"

She slammed the phone down and said to Agatha, "Get out of here."

And Agatha went, gladly.

James was too curious about this new information to be angry with Agatha. In fact, he seemed to find her story about the desk and the manufactured faint amusing.

"Roy Silver phoned when you were out," he said "That secretary, Helen Warwick, the one Derrington was having the affair with, is back. I have the address. Want to go up to London today?"

"Can we leave it tomorrow?" pleaded Agatha. "I've got to go to Cheltenham with the awful Hardy woman and sort out the house sale."

"Are you driving her or is she driving you?"

"Neither. She's meeting me there."

"Do you want me to come with you in case she tries to put the price up again?"

"She wouldn't!"

"She might. She's a tough customer."

"I hate her," said Agatha passionately. "I hate her almost as much as I hate that Maddie Hurd. What Bill ever saw in her is beyond me. What a bitch! And we've got Basil to check out."

"You go and see to getting your home back and we'll drive over to Mircester afterwards and see what we can find out about Basil."

"And there's the husband, Geoffrey Comfort of the Potato Plus. What is Potato Plus anyway?"

"It's a small factory where they put potatoes in plastic bags for the supermarkets. But his home number is in the book. Guess where he lives?"

"Here? Carsely?"

"No, Ashton-Le-Walls, same place as the late Miss Purvey. Off you go."

Agatha found Mrs. Hardy waiting for her in the lawyer's office in Montpelier Terrace in Cheltenham.

Agatha had paid PS110,000 for the cottage and had sold it to Mrs. Hardy for PS120,000. Mrs. Hardy was asking PS130,000, a ridiculous price, thought Agatha, now that the market had slumped.

Agatha was about to sign the papers when the price of PS150,000 seemed to leap off the page at her.

"What's this?" she snapped.

"The price?" The lawyer smiled. "Mrs. Hardy said that was the price agreed on."

"What the hell are the pair of you up to?" snarled Agatha. She rounded on the lawyer. "You agree to the price of one hundred and thirty thousand on the phone!"

"Well, Mrs. Hardy seems to think one hundred and fifty thousand a fair price."

Agatha gathered up her handbag and gloves. "You can get stuffed, the pair of you. I'll tell you what my figure is now - one hundred and ten thousand pounds. Take it or leave it."

She marched out of the office.

Oh, my home, she mourned as she got in her car. I'd better give it up. Fd better find another cottage in another village and get away from James entirely and get my life back. The world is full of other men.

But when she walked into James's cottage and he looked up and smiled at her, she felt her heart turn over and wondered if she would ever really be free of the feelings she had for him.

She told him what had happened and James said mildly, "There are other cottages, you know. Let's have an early dinner and go to Mircester."

The Loanings, where Basil Morton lived, was a builder's development, rather like the one where the Wong family had 1 their house. It was like a council estate, the only difference that Agatha could see being that the houses were slightly larger and the gardens well tended.

They rang the doorbell, not expecting a reply, but using it as a preliminary to calling on the neighbours and asking where their 'friend', Basil, had got to. To their surprise, the door was answered by a thin, dark-haired woman. At first they thought she was a girl because she was wearing a short navy skirt and white blouse, almost like a school uniform, and her hair was braided into two plaits. But when she switched on the overhead light over the door, they saw the fine wrinkles around her eyes and judged her to be in her late thirties.

"May we speak to Mr. Morton?" asked James.

"Basil's away abroad on business. He's often away." Loneliness shone in the dark eyes. "Won't you come in?"

They followed her into a living-room, which was almost frightening in its sterile cleanliness. There were no books or magazines lying about. "How long have you lived here?" asked Agatha, looking around her.

"Ten years."

And not a scuff-mark or stain or wear anywhere, marvelled Agatha. Can't be any children.

"Sherry?"

"Yes, please."

"Then please sit down."

She knelt down in front of a sideboard which shone and gleamed from frequent polishing and took out a crystal decanter, then three crystal glasses and a small silver tray. She put the tray on the carpet and placed glasses and decanter on it.

"Allow me." James carried the tray and its contents to a low coffee-table, which also shone and gleamed like glass.

How terrifying, thought Agatha. Doesn't she ever spill anything?

The woman poured out three glasses of what turned out to be very sweet sherry, probably British sherry, thought James, wrinkling his nose as he sniffed it.

"Did you want to see Basil about business?"

"No, Mrs____ er...Morton?"

"That's me."

"We just wanted to talk to him about a personal matter," said James.

"He's gone abroad. Spain. He often travels."

"What is his business, Mrs. Morton?"

"Bathrooms. Morton's Bathrooms, that's the company."

"Why Spain?"

"He buys tiles there," she said vaguely. "To be honest, I don't really know anything about the business. I have so much to do here, and I'm so tired when Basil gets home that I usually fall asleep."

"Do you work at home?" asked James.

She gave a little laugh and one thin hand waved to take i in the gleaming living-room. "Housekeeping. It never ends. You must find that, Mrs...?"

"Call me Agatha. I get a woman to clean. I'm not very good at housekeeping."

"Oh, but you've got to keep on top of it. It's the least one can do for a hard-working husband. I like my Basil to have his little nest to come home to...when he does come home," she added wistfully.

James drained his glass with a little grimace and signalled with his eyes to Agatha.

"Well, we must be on our way, Mrs. Morton. We have other calls to make."

"Oh, must you go? Just a little more sherry?"

"No, really. You're very kind."

"Who shall I say called?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Perth."

"And what else could we ask?" said James as they drove off. "We could hardly tell that poor neurotic house-cleaner that her husband has gone off to Spain with another woman."

"What now?" asked Agatha.

"Mr. Comfort, I think. Ashton-Le-Walls again, and wouldn't you know it. The fog is back."

"Are we going to tell this Mr. Comfort our real names?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Why did we waste time going to see Basil?"

"Well, we didn't go to see him because we know he's out of the country. I was going to ask the neighbours about him. Funny, I didn't think for a moment that he would be married."

"I suppose if we had been kind, we should have broken it to her," said Agatha slowly. "I think the police will check up and they'll tell her. Oh dear, all that cleaning and polishing in the name of love. He's probably spitting on the floor of his hotel room and leaving rings from his wineglasses on the bedside table."

"Just look at that bloody fog." James rubbed at the windscreen with a gloved hand. They had left the dual carriageway and were inching through the fog towards Ashton-Le-Walls.

"What are we going to ask him? Oh, look out!" screamed Agatha as a badger loomed up in the headlights. James braked and the badger shambled off into the hedge.

"I don't know," said James testily. "For God's sake." He had moved off again, only to brake savagely once more as a deer leaped through the fog in front of them. "Why don't those bloody animals stay warm and comfortable instead of wandering about on a filthy night like this? Mr. Comfort? We'll play it by ear. He may not even be home. Or we may find ourselves faced with the second Mrs. Comfort."

Geoffrey Comfort lived in a large manor-house on the outskirts of the village. "You'd never think there was all that amount of money in putting potatoes in plastic bags," marvelled Agatha. "I'm beginning to think I've spent my life in the wrong trade."

"Place looks deserted," muttered James, peering through the fog. "No, wait a bit. There's a chink of light through the downstairs curtains."

They parked the car and approached the house and rang the bell.

They waited and waited. "Probably left the light on because of burglars," Agatha was beginning, when the door suddenly opened and a middle-aged man stood there, peering at them. He was very fat and round, rather like a potato himself, one of those potatoes washed and bagged for the supermarkets. To add to the impression, his fat face was lightly tanned and he had two black moles on his face, like the eyes of a potato.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Comfort?"

"Yes."

"I am James Lacey and this is Mrs. Agatha Raisin."

"So?"

"Mrs. Raisin's husband was murdered recently. He stayed at a health farm at the same time as your wife."

"Fuck off!" The heavy door was slammed in their faces.

"What do we do now?" asked Agatha.

"We go to the nearest pub and eat and drink, that's what we do. We can't very well ring the bell again and demand he speaks to us."

A window opened and Mr. Comfort's round head ap peared. "And bugger off fast or I'll let the dog out."

"There's your answer. In the car, quick, Agatha."

They sped off, James swerving in the drive to avoid a pheasant. "What's that stupid bird doing awake? Why isn't it up in the trees with the rest of the birds? Why has the whol damned countryside turned suicidal?"

"I could do with a bucket of gin," said Agatha gloomily. "Pity you're driving."

"Never mind. I'll drink just short of any breathalyser test. I'm-more interested in food."

They found the village pub, called quaintly the Tapestry Arms. A menu was chalked up on a blackboard beside the bar James read it aloud. "Jumbo sausage and chips, curried chicken and chips, lasagne and chips, fish and chips, and ploughman's."

"Should we try somewhere else?"

"Not in this fog. Let's try a couple of ploughman's am hope for the best."

The ploughman's turned out to be rather dry French bread with a minuscule runny pat of butter and a wedge of Cheddar-type cheese which looked for all the world like an old-fashioned slab of carbolic soap.

Agatha's gin and tonic was warm, the pub having run out of ice.

Bands of fog lay across the room. Agatha thrust away her half-eaten food and lit a cigarette. "Don't glare at me, James. With all this fog about, my cigarette smoke won't make much difference."

"So you think the Hardy woman will accept your offer?" he asked.

"No, I don't. I think I'm going to have to pay her what she wants. I know it's silly and I know I could get somewhere else quite close, but I want my own place. Did you notice the garden when we were going in to her place? Weeds everywhere. Why do people live in the countryside if they don't like living things?" demanded Agatha piously. She wrinkled her nose at her warm gin and tipped it into a rubber plant which was standing on a shelf near her table.

"I gather you don't want to try another of those?"

"No, thank you. And I don't like warm beer either'. 'Then we may as well face a foggy journey home." They went outside. The fog had lifted and a fresh wind was blowing. A little moon raced through the clouds above their heads. A shower of beech-nuts fell on Agatha's head. "More nuts!"

"They're poisonous," said James. "Poisonous to sheep and cattle. Don't seem to affect the squirrels."

When they reached home, James said wearily, "I feel we are going round and round and not getting anywhere. The police have all the resources - to check histories, alibis, and bank accounts. Do you think it is really worth going to London tomorrow to see this secretary?"

"Of course." Agatha was now frightened that if they stopped their investigations, James would take off for foreign parts again. "You'll feel better about it all in the morning."

Helen Warwick was not at the Houses of Parliament but at her flat in a Victorian block in the Gloucester Road in Kensington. When she answered the door, Agatha could not believe at first that this lady could have been Sir Desmond's mistress. She was plump and placid, with light grey eyes and brown hair worn in an old-fashioned French pleat. She was wearing a tailored silk blouse and tweed skirt, sensible brogues, and no make-up. James judged her to be in her forties.

James explained, correctly this time, who they were and why they had come. "You'd better come in," she said.

The flat was large, rather dark, but very comfortable, with a fire burning brightly in the living-room. There was a large bowl of autumn leaves and chrysanthemums on a polished table by the window. The sofa and chairs had feather cushions. A good Victorian English landscape hung over the fireplace. It looked as if Miss Warwick had money and had probably always been well-off.

"I was shocked when I learned of Desmond's death," said Helen. "We were great friends. He was always so kind and courteous. I'm sorry his wife had to find out in such a dreadful way. What's all this about blackmail?"

So they told her all about Jimmy Raisin and Mrs. Gore-Appleton. "I remember them," said Helen. "No, they didn't try to blackmail me. I'm the sort that would have gone straight to the police and they probably knew that. I didn't like them one bit. How they found out my real identity I do not know."

"They probably looked in your handbag," said Agatha.

"And saw the different name on my credit cards? I suppose so. Horrible people. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I can almost pin-point the day they found out."

"Tell us about them," said Agatha eagerly. "Everyone else we've asked seems vague, even someone who slept with Jimmy."

"Let me see...would you both like coffee?"

"No, thank you," said James, anxious to hear what she had to say and frightened that if she went into the kitchen, she might change her mind about talking to them.

"Desmond and I joked about health farms at first. We weren't really interested in our health. We thought it might be an amusing place to get together. His wife might have found a visit to a hotel suspicious but Desmond had told her he was worried about his blood pressure. Jimmy Raisin was a wreck. We arrived on the same day. He was still stinking of booze, but after only a couple of days, he looked like a changed man. He was always oiling around us, my-ladying me to death and claiming to know all sorts of celebrities. He was the sort of man who calls celebs by their first name. He kept talking about his good friend, Tony, who had won an Oscar, and it turned out to be Anthony Hopkins. I don't suppose he even knew him. Mrs. Gore-Appleton was not much better. She was - what is it the Americans say? - in my face. She had an abrasive manner overlaid with syrup. You know, she paid me effusive compliments while all the time her sharp eyes watched me to see if I was swallowing any of it. Desmond finally told them we wanted some time to ourselves. The day after that - that would be about five days after we arrived - they began to throw us very knowing looks and then pass our table and give contemptuous laughs. I thought it was because Desmond had snubbed them. But they must have found out I wasn't Lady Derrington. What else can I tell you? I thought Jimmy Raisin was a wide boy, what they used to call a spiv. There was something seedy about him. I gathered from the newspapers that you had not seen him in a very long time, Mrs. Raisin. The Gore-Appleton woman was blonde and muscular, tried to be very pukka, but there was something all wrong about her. I tell you what. Let me get us all some coffee and I'll think some more."

Agatha and James waited until she returned with a tray. There was not only coffee but home-made toasted tea-cakes. "Did you really make these yourself?" James took another appreciative bite. "These are excellent and the coffee is divine." He stretched out his long legs. "It's very comfortable here."

Helen gave him a slow smile. "Come when you're in town and have a free hour to spare."

Agatha stiffened. This wretched woman suddenly seemed like more competition than any blonde sylph. She was suddenly anxious to get James away.

But Helen was talking again. "You say he slept with some woman?" She laughed. "I love that euphemism, "slept with." One does anything but." She gave a warm creamy laugh and Agatha's bearlike eyes fastened on her with barely concealed hate.

"That would be a Mrs. Comfort, am I right?"

"How did you know?" said James.

"Oh, he was making up to her and the Gore-Appleton woman was egging him on. I heard him say, "I'll get her tonight," and Mrs. Gore-Appleton laughed and said, "Have fun," and the next morning, well, body language and all that, you know what I mean, don't you, James?"

"Oh, absolutely."

I'll kill this bitch, thought Agatha.

"And that poor spinster lady, she was murdered," said Helen with an artistic shudder. "More coffee, James?"

Her tailored silk blouse had a deep V and she leaned forward, deliberately, Agatha thought, to reach for the coffeepot at such an angle that James could see two excellent breasts encased in a frilly brassiere.

James had another full cup of coffee and was helping himself to another tea-cake. Agatha groaned inwardly.

Helen suddenly looked at her. "I remember now. You and Mr. Lacey here were to be married but Jimmy turned up at your wedding." She laughed again. "That must have been quite a scene. You'll be able to marry now."

"Yes," said Agatha.

"We haven't made any plans," said James.

There was an awkward silence. "We should go," said Agatha harshly. "Could you just wait until I finish my coffee, dear?"

Agatha, who had half-risen, sat down again. "Lacey, Lacey," Helen was saying. "Are you any relative of Major-General Robert Lacey?"

"My father. He died some time ago'. 'Oh, then you must know..." And what followed was the sort of conversation Agatha dreaded, James and Helen animatedly talking about people she did not know.

At last, when Agatha felt she could not stand another moment without screaming, James got to his feet with obvious reluctance.

They took their leave, Agatha first, muttering a grumpy thanks, James after her, stopping to kiss Helen on the cheek and promising to see her again, giving her his card and taking one of hers.

Agatha fumed the whole way back to Carsely. She complained bitterly about harpies who sponged off men instead of going out to work. James tried to point out that as a secretary to a Member of Parliament, Helen did go out to work, but that only seemed to make Agatha worse. He left her at the cottage, saying he had to see someone, whereupon Agatha tortured herself with mad jealousy, imagining him driving back to London to spend the night with Helen. She finally went to bed and tried to read, listening all the while for the sound of his key in the door. At last, just after midnight, she heard him return, heard him come upstairs and go into the bathroom, heard him wash, heard him go to his own room without coming in to say good night to her, although he could surely see the light shining under her door.

She raised her head and banged her pillow with her fist, put out the light, and tried to compose herself for sleep. But sleep would not come as she tossed and turned, tormenting j herself with pictures of a world out there full of women all too j ready to snatch James away from her.

And then she stiffened. She heard a furtive noise from somewhere downstairs and then the clack of the letter-box, then a sound like water being poured. She pulled on her dressing-gown and ran down the stairs. She opened the door to the hall as a gloved hand threw a lighted match through the letter-box. In that instant Agatha leaped back into the living-room and screamed, "James!" just as a sheet of flame reached i out for her.

He came hurtling down the stairs. "We're on fire," j shouted Agatha. She made to open the door again but he; pulled her back.

"Go up to the bathroom and pour buckets of water on i the floor. It's over the hall. We've got to stop the fire getting to the thatch!"

James ran to the kitchen as Agatha scampered up the stairs. Swearing, he filled a bucket of water and running back with it, hurled the contents at the living-room door, which was already beginning to blister and crackle.

Upstairs, Agatha, sobbing with fright, poured water on the bathroom floor. There were shouts and yells from outside. Agatha clearly heard the voice of the landlord, John Fletcher, calling, "Keep throwing that earth. We daren't wait for the fire brigade. Oh, Mrs. Hardy. More earth. Let's be having it! That there's a petrol fire. I can smell it."

Then, just as James shouted up, "It's all right now, Agatha," she heard the sirens of police cars and the fire engine in the distance. She went slowly down the stairs and sat on the bottom steps with her head in her hands.

The living-room door now stood open to reveal the black and smouldering wreck of the little hall, piled high with a mound of earth.

"Who would do a thing like this?" demanded James. "Someone meant to roast us alive."

"Probably Helen Warwick," said Agatha, and burst into tears.