Agatha Raisin and The Walkers of Dembley

Eight

Deborah sailed up the drive to Barfield House in her little car. Her heart was light. Sir Charles had told her that Gustav had been given the day off and that his aunt was in London.

Sir Charles answered the door. He was wearing an old open-necked shirt and jeans, making her glad that she wasn't too 'dressy'. She was wearing a pink silk blouse from Marks & Spencer and a short navy acrylic skirt with a slit at the back and white sandals.

She approved of the kitchen, which was large and modern. So much more cheerful than the dark-panelled rooms of the rest of the house.

Sir Charles, as he opened a bottle of wine and listened to her prattling away about her teaching job, eyed her thoughtfully. He intended getting her into bed after lunch but was beginning to wonder how she would react. Her thinness and whiteness still excited him. He liked her shy little voice, so different from the robust tones of the girls he usually dated. Her neck was thin and fragile-looking. It looked as if it could almost be snapped like a flower stalk, he thought. He said, "Any news about Jeffrey's murder?"

Deborah shook her head. "They've been questioning and questioning all of us. They've still got Alice."

"The big one? Why her?"

"She knew Jessica ages ago and lied about it."

Sir Charles looked at her shrewdly. "If the police still have her in for questioning, how do you know that?"

"There's one of the teachers at the school whose sister works at police headquarters. She told me."

"Do you think Alice did it, then?"

"She could have done," said Deborah. "She's got ever such a bad temper."

As they ate, Sir Charles wondered how he was going to get around to proposing that they go upstairs to bed. Perhaps he should suggest they have coffee in the drawing-room and get down to work on the sofa first.

He really loves me, thought Deborah with a fast-beating heart. I can tell by the look in his eyes.

Conversation was flagging toward the end of the meal and then Deborah said, "Can I go and powder my nose?"

He saw his chance. "Come upstairs and use my bathroom."

He led the way upstairs and along a corridor and opened a door. Deborah glanced quickly about his bedroom. She was disappointed that there wasn't a four-poster bed but a modern one. The room, like the rest of the rooms in the house, was dark because of the tiny panes of the mullioned windows.

"In here," said Sir Charles, opening a door off the bedroom.

Deborah went in and closed the door behind her. Sir Charles jerked open the drawer of a bedside table to check that the packet of condoms he had bought was still there and that Gustav had not found them and taken them away, an act which would have been perfectly in keeping with Gustav's character.

There were shuffling noises from the bathroom. Deborah was taking a long time. The rising wind outside gave a cheerless moan. Sir Charles shivered. His lust was ebbing fast. It all began to seem silly.

And then the bathroom door opened and Deborah stood there. She was wearing nothing more than a brief bra, a suspender belt and black stockings.

Sir Charles walked towards her, saying huskily, "Come to bed, Deborah."

"Is this as fast as you can go?" asked James.

"I'm going as fast as I can," wailed Agatha. "But that poxy tractor won't move, and I can't get past it." She pressed the horn and flashed her lights. The tractor driver raised two fingers. Just when Agatha was thinking she might drive straight into the back of him in a sheer fury, he turned off into a farm gate and Agatha roared past, relieving her feelings with another blast on the horn.

"But why would he kill Jeffrey?" she asked.

"He might have a thing about ramblers. If he's crazy like his father, he might not need a motive."

Agatha raced round a bend and screeched to a halt. A line of cars stretched out in front of her. She got out of the car and peered ahead. Some distance in front of the line of cars a truck was slewed across the road. A small Mini was crushed in a ditch.

"Bugger, an accident," said Agatha, getting back into the car. She beat the steering wheel with her hands in sheer frustration. Then she saw to her right an open farm gate. She set off, swinging the wheel. The car lurched crazily over a field of wheat.

"What are you doing?" shouted James. "The farmer will kill us."

"I'll compensate him," yelled Agatha. "Barfield is over this way. I'm going as the crow flies."

And with that the car plunged headlong into a ditch at the end of the field.

Agatha felt like bursting into tears. "Now what do we do?" she wailed.

James's face was grim and set. "We get out and ramble!"

Sir Charles and Deborah lay on their backs, immersed in their different thoughts. What a mistake, Sir Charles was thinking gloomily. That had been like making love to a corpse. Besides, she smelt like something off the burning-ghats of India. In the bathroom, Deborah had anointed her body with an aromatic oil from a new shop in Dembley called Planet Earth, which specialized in aromatherapy.

And then he was aware Deborah was speaking. "When we're married - and I hope you don't mind this, Charles dear - I would like to paint all that wood panelling white."

"Married?" croaked Sir Charles.

"Of course your aunt will need to find somewhere else to live. Can't have two women in one house. My mother says...my mother used to say, it never works. Isn't there a dower house or something?" asked Deborah with vague memories of Georgette Heyer novels.

Sir Charles swung his legs out of bed and began to struggle into his clothes.

"You should have a bath, darling," chided Deborah. She stretched and yawned. "Run one for me."

"Okay," said Sir Charles gloomily. He zipped up his trousers and padded on his bare feet into the bathroom and turned on the taps.

He turned round and let out a squawk of dismay. Deborah must have moved like lightning. She was standing behind him wearing his dressing-gown.

He turned away and stared down at the rushing water. "Look, Deborah," he said, "we've had a bit of a fling, that's all. I never said anything about marriage." He tried to laugh. "Not the marrying kind, me."

"But you've got to marry me!" Deborah sounded more surprised than angry.

"No, Deborah," he said firmly. "I am not marrying you or anyone. I said absolutely nothing to give you that impression. I would never have had sex with you if I thought you were going to jump to this mad conclusion."

"Mad?" Her voice was thin and brittle. "Mad?"

"We had a bit of fun, dear, let's leave it at that." He turned back to the bath. "Would you like some old-fashioned bath salts? Now, where did I put them?"

"Here, dear!" Deborah brought a glassy jar of rose-scented bath salts down on his head.

Agatha's tights were ripped and she had pulled off the sweater she had been wearing over a blouse and thrown it away because she was sweating so much. She had a blister on one heel and a stitch in her side. James had taken her hand as they raced together through crops of golden oil-seed rape and fields of blue flax flowers, wheat and turnips.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" shouted James.

"Yes," shouted back Agatha, who enjoyed studying Ordnance Survey maps as a pastime. But one bit of the countryside was beginning to look so much like another that she could hardly believe it when at last at some distance across the fields she saw the bulk of Barfield House.

She plunged gamely on, forgetting about the blister on her heel and the stitch in her side. Deborah was in danger. She, Agatha, the great detective, had been called in to help Deborah, and help Deborah she must.

Deborah turned off the bath taps and looked down at the unconscious Sir Charles Fraith as he lay on his own bathroom floor. The air around smelt of roses.

She sat down on a bathroom chair and stared bleakly in front of her. It had all been for nothing. All of it. And yet her mind felt quite cold and set. She knew what she had to do.

She dressed neatly and carefully and then went around and wiped every surface she might have touched, scrubbing and polishing, cocking her head occasionally in case there was the sound of an approaching car. Then she seized Sir Charles by the ankles and began to drag him out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, slowly along the corridor and then, bump, bump, bump, down the stairs and then slid him easily across the polished floor of the hall, along the corridor at the end and, bump, bump, down the two steps to the kitchen.

She then set about cleaning up the kitchen, clearing and washing the remains of the meal, her mind carefully sorting things out. Gustav would tell the police she had been invited. But she had been incredibly lucky so far. It was Gustav's word against her own. All she had to do was to stick to her story. She pulled Sir Charles over to the oven and turned on the gas. She frowned. Wasn't there something about North Sea gas not doing the job the way the old coal gas used to? Perhaps she was worrying over too much. She heaved his head into the oven, then looked around. She picked up two dishcloths and got out various cleaning rags. She went out and shut the kitchen door behind her and stuffed the cloths and rags under the space at the bottom of the door.

She went into Sir Charles's study, where she remembered seeing a typewriter. All she had to do was find some documents with his signature on them, and forge his signature to a typed suicide note, in which he also confessed to the murders of Jeffrey and Jessica. But a handwriting expert would no doubt find the signature to be a forgery. Oh, well, she thought on a sigh, she would just need to leave an unsigned note. It was such a pity about handwriting experts; without their interference it might have been possible to make out a will supposed to be from Sir Charles, leaving everything to her. Everything.

For one moment, her eyes filled with weak tears. All her dreams. Everything. She had imagined holding fetes and garden parties at Barfield, with her in a wide shady straw hat greeting the guests, maybe making the opening speech. She blinked her tears away. She sat down at Sir Charles's desk and began to type.

Agatha and James ran up the drive of Barfield House. Behind them in the distance they could hear the wail of police sirens. "Something must have happened," panted Agatha.

"I think we might be what's happened," said James. "Angry farmers phoning in with reports about trespassers. God, this is beginning to seem ridiculous." He grabbed Agatha's arm, forcing her to stop. "We can't go bursting into Barfield House, shouting, "We know you did it because your father was mad.""

"Deborah's car's there," said Agatha stubbornly. "You can do what you like, but I'm just going to walk in and say I knocked and no one answered."

She heaved the handle of the massive door and let out a sigh of relief when it swung open. James followed her into the hall. He was beginning to think the only person who was mad was Agatha. How on earth were they going to explain themselves?

And then Agatha said, "Gas. There's a smell of gas. Where's the kitchen?"

"The smell seems to be coming from there," said James pointing off the hall and down the corridor. They ran along and immediately saw the rags under the door. They pulled open the door. Agatha rushed across to the oven, turned off the gas, and flung open the kitchen windows.

"I'll call the police," said James.

Approaching sirens wailed from outside.

"They're here," said James. "I'll go and meet them. Oh, God, it was Deborah all the time, unless Gustav has murdered both of them."

He went back out, but as he was approaching the door, he heard the sound of a typewriter coming from the study. He pushed open the study door. Deborah was sitting typing, her back to him. He took off his belt and crept up behind her, then whipped it round her to pin her arms to her side.

The loud screams of invective that burst from Deborah's lips drowned out the sound of the sirens.

James and Agatha sat in the flat in Sheep Street that evening, sharing a bottle of wine and waiting for Bill Wong to call on them as he had promised. Both felt that it was unfair that the reason for the convenient police presence at Barfield House had been because both of them had been charged with trespass, some irate farmer reporting how two hooligans had driven their car right through his crop, dumped their car in the ditch, and taken off across the fields to trample down more crops on foot.

"Deborah! I just don't understand it," said Agatha, for seemingly the umpteenth time. "Oh, there's the doorbell. That must be Bill."

James rose and went to let him in. Bill looked weary. He accepted James's offer of a glass of wine, saying he was off duty, and then turned to Agatha. "How did you suss out it was Deborah?"

Agatha flashed James a little warning look and said airily, "Woman's intuition. But we'd rather hear all about it from you, Bill." She did not want to lose face by admitting to Bill Wong that they had thought the murderer was Sir Charles.

Bill shook his head in bewilderment. "She must be crazy. She told us the whole thing in this little-girl voice, on and on and on. She had always driven herself on to get away from her background, aided and abetted by her doting mother. The reason she had an affair with Jessica was not because Deborah is lesbian but, would you believe it, because she thought Jessica was 'good class'. Jessica had been to Oxford, you see. Deborah had adopted the politics of Jessica and her friends as a passport to a better society. I think it was on the fatal day Sir Charles invited her for tea that something in her snapped. Even over the first cup of tea, she saw a chance of becoming Lady Fraith. "Jessica was in my way," she kept saying over and over again. She was terrified Jessica might tell Sir Charles about that lesbian affair, terrified that Jessica would spoil her chances by creating a scene. Can I have some more wine?"

James filled his glass. Bill took a sip of wine and went on. "She was amazingly lucky. She drove to the Barfield estate. She said she wanted to catch up with Jessica before she did any damage. She found Jessica at the edge of that field. When she let out that she was keen on Sir Charles, how Jessica had laughed! It seems Jessica, once the gloves were off, was a middle-class snob of the worst kind. She sneered at Deborah for her accent, background and clothes, said she hadn't a hope in hell, said she would let Sir Charles know about Deborah's lesbianism. Then Jessica started stamping her way across that field. Deborah saw the spade and saw red at the same time. She ran up behind Jessica, keeping in her tracks, and brought the spade down on her head. When she found Jessica was dead, she scraped and dug that shallow grave - when you think of all those plant roots, it must have taken manic strength - buried the body, wiped the shovel and took off."

"But she asked Mrs Mason for my help," cried Agatha. "Why would she do that?"

Bill looked rueful. "You're not going to like this. Evidently Mrs Mason had given Deborah the impression that you were an inept amateur, taking credit for police work, and so she thought that by hiring you, she would look innocent and yet be in no danger of being found out."

"I will never speak to Mrs Mason again," said Agatha wrathfully. "Old toad. I never liked her anyway."

Bill smiled at her and took up his story. "As I say, she was amazingly lucky. Her car had been seen on the road out of Dembley, but no one had actually seen her going into the estate. Then the waters were muddied by Sir Charles's lying about what he had been doing and by the others' lying as well."

"But why Jeffrey?" asked James.

"Ah, well, she had let slip in the pub that she was going to dinner at Barfield House. Jeffrey, who had got a bit tipsy after his confrontation with Ratcliffe, phoned her up just as she was leaving for Barfield House and asked her to come round, saying he was a better bet any day than Sir Charles. Deborah told him to get lost. He then told her, maliciously, that he had a good mind to tell Sir Charles about her affair with Jessica. Deborah said, still in that awful little voice, that she didn't take it really seriously until she was on her way back from the dinner at Barfield House. She decided to 'silence' him. So she changed and went round to his flat. She suggested they should get even with Ratcliffe. She and Jeffrey should drive out and cut the chain that held that padlocked gate and then both return to Jeffrey's flat for a bit of whoopee. So Jeffrey went like a lamb, cut the chain, and got struck on the head by Deborah, who had searched around while he was doing it and found that rock.

"She had somehow persuaded herself when Sir Charles asked her for that lunch he was all set for marriage. When he told her he had no intention of marrying her, she went right round the twist. That was why she was still working on that fake suicide note when you found her, James, even though she heard the police sirens outside. She was bewildered. All her life, she said, she had been driving towards the top. Do you know, in the beginning, getting to be a schoolteacher, for Deborah, was like an actor winning an Oscar. For a while, I think that was enough."

"It was the mad father who set us off to Barfield House," said James, and then stifled a yelp as Agatha kicked him. Agatha was determined that Bill should think they had guessed that Deborah was the one who had committed the murders.

"Oh, yes, Deborah's father," said Bill to Agatha's surprise. "Yes, we found he's in that prison for the criminally insane, Tadmartin. He'd murdered a woman he was living with, the one he left Mrs Camden for."

"Did either Mrs Camden or Deborah know this?" asked James.

"I don't think so," said Bill.

"Lots of madness in this," said James, drawing his legs out of Agatha's reach. "There was something in the back of my mind that Sir Charles's father died mad."

"No, he died drunk," said Bill. "Terrible old sot, he was. It's a pity you two are going to have to appear in court yourselves for trespass and damage to crops after all your hard work."

"Yes, I think you might have overlooked that," commented Agatha.

"Can't," said Bill. "The irate farmer won't let us."

"How's Sir Charles?" asked James.

"Lucky to be alive," said Bill. "He's in Dembley Central Hospital suffering from a bad concussion and cracked ribs. He got his ribs cracked when she dragged him down the stairs. She hit him on the head with a bottle of bath salts and then dragged him down the stairs to the kitchen. Well, I'd best be off. Thanks a lot, you two. We'd have got Deborah all right in the end. There was no way she could really cover up the murder of Sir Charles. We wouldn't have believed that suicide note for a moment. But it's thanks to you two that Sir Charles is alive. I suppose you'll be heading back to Carsely?"

"There's nothing to keep us here," said James. "I never want to see any of those walkers again."

When Bill had gone, Agatha said, "I suppose we ought to have something to eat. I don't feel like going out, do you?"

The doorbell sounded again. "Now, who can that be?" asked James. "I wish this door had a spyhole. If it's one of those ramblers, I swear I'll slam the door in their face."

He stepped back in surprise when he saw Gustav. The manservant entered. He handed James two bottles of old port. "The best in the cellars," he said. "Sir Charles has just recovered consciousness."

Gustav smiled directly at Agatha for the first time. "I understand from the police that Sir Charles would not be alive were it not for the pair of you. I am deeply grateful."

A gratified Agatha promptly forgot all her dislike of Gustav and begged him to sit down, but he shook his head. "My place is with Sir Charles. Do call and see him tomorrow. He will wish to thank you himself."

"He's quite human after all," said Agatha in surprise when Gustav had left. "Do we sample that port or do we save it for a special occasion?"

"I think this is a special occasion," said James with a smile. "I'll look out some biscuits and cheese and perhaps that will do instead of dinner."

Agatha had, in the past, in the PR days, been offered and had drunk what had merely passed for vintage port. After James had decanted a bottle, she accepted a glass, amazed that with her depraved palate, educated through the years with gin and tonics and microwave meals, she should appreciate it so much. It went down like silk. It was also very heady and somehow it seemed to disappear very quickly, and it seemed only right to decant and sample the second bottle.

And then, as they mulled over the case, in increasingly tipsy accents, it suddenly struck James as terribly funny that Agatha had driven across that farmer's field. He began to laugh and soon Agatha was giggling helplessly and that was when James suddenly stopped laughing and took her face between his hands and kissed her on the lips. All the pent-up passion in Agatha rose to meet his lips and then his wandering hands, and soon there was a trail of discarded clothing lying on the floor reaching all the way to Agatha's bed.

Agatha awoke in the grey light of dawn. Memory came flooding back immediately. Her mouth was dry with a raging thirst and her head ached.

She felt lax and immeasurably sad. She had achieved her ambition, her dreams, and got James to take her to bed, but she had not wanted it to be like this, when they were both drunk and hardly knew what they were doing. A tear rolled down one cheek and plopped on the sheet. She twisted round and looked at him. He was sleeping neatly and quietly, his face looking younger in repose.

The worst thing she could now do, she reflected, was to make anything of what had happened. She was old enough and experienced enough to know that James would never even have dreamt of kissing her had he not been extremely drunk. She would need to treat it as everyday, as lightly as she could.

If only she could reach out to him and continue the love-making of the night before. But he might reject her and she could not bear that. She got up, feeling stiff and sore after so much unaccustomed sexual exercise, and went and ran a bath and stayed soaking in it for a long time.

When she returned at last to the bedroom, the bed was empty. James put his head round the door and said, "Just going to have a bath, darling," and went off whistling. He's taking it lightly, thought Agatha, and I must do the same.

She dressed in a blouse and skirt and made her face up carefully, her own face looking strange to her in the mirror.

She then went through to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette.

The newspapers plopped through the letterbox and she went to get them. Must cancel these, she thought, and the milk.

James came in as she was reading them. He stooped and kissed her cheek. "Anything about the murder?" he asked.

"Just a bit about Deborah being charged but not much more yet," said Agatha, suddenly shy, not able to look directly at him.

"We'll take the papers along with us and have breakfast outside," he said, "and then we'll get some grapes or something and go and visit Charles. Do you think he'll pay us?"

"I didn't think of that," said Agatha. "Should he?"

"Oh, I think so. I mean, we're going to have to pay that farmer for the damage, along with a fine and court costs. If Fraith doesn't offer anything, I'll bill him on behalf of both of us. Coming? You'd better put on a sweater or a jacket or something. It looks a bit chilly."

Agatha went to get a sweater, glad all at once that they were going to have breakfast outside, among people.

As they tucked into bacon and eggs in a hotel dining-room, James eyed Agatha across the table. She looked smaller, vulnerable and very withdrawn. She would not meet his eyes. They had been very drunk the night before, admittedly, and he should do the gentlemanly thing and not refer to it, but her passion and generosity had been amazing. Quite amazing. Who would have thought that Agatha, of all people...

The thought broke off as Agatha said, "Do you think there'll be anything in the newspapers about us?"

"Not unless the police tell them. We'll be present at the trial as witnesses, so our part in it will come out then."

"Should we phone the papers ourselves?" He laughed. "Maybe not. Better to keep a low profile. Perhaps we'll make a career of it - Raisin and Lacey, detectives, set up our own bureau of investigation." Agatha's face lit up. "Why not?"

"Are you serious? I was only joking."

"I don't see why not. We make a good team."

"We'll think about it. Now, if you're finished, let's go and see Charles."

Sir Charles was sitting up in bed at the end of a long ward. His head was bandaged and he looked very white. But he gave a wan smile when he saw them. "Nice to see my saviours," he said. "Isn't it odd that if Deborah hadn't called you in, I'd probably be dead?"

"Very odd," said James, depositing a bag of grapes on the bedside table. "Why aren't you in a private room?"

"Why pay out money when I've been paying taxes all these years?"

James decided in that moment that Charles would not think of giving them any money at all unless they asked for it, so he said, "You'll be getting our bill. Sorry, but it's going to be a bit steep. You see, in our race to rescue you, we damaged some of your neighbour's crops."

"It's all right," said Sir Charles. "Just send it in. The land agent will see to settling it."

"How are you feeling?" asked Agatha.

"I'm feeling more silly and stupid than anything," said Sir Charles. "Absolutely shiters, in fact.Gustav told me Deborah was creepy. She must have been totally deranged and I never even guessed it. Then my aunt said she was common and that put my back up. I don't like snobbery."

"And yet in a way, it was Deborah's snobbery and ambition that drove her to murder," said James.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sir Charles peered in the bag and plucked off a grape from the bunch and began to eat it.

"Only that Deborah was determined to be Lady Fraith and run Barfield House," explained James.

Sir Charles looked puzzled. "But it's a nasty building, hardly an architectural gem, more like a glorified farm in a way. Still, it's rather lowering to think it wasn't my delicious body she was after. God, I was stupid. Took her to bed, you know. Awful. Like necrophilia."

James had a sudden vivid memory of a fiery and passionate Agatha and blushed dark red.

"Sorry," said Sir Charles, mistaking the reason for the blush. "Always was a bit coarse." He leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Get better soon," said James.

"I will," he said faintly. "As soon as I can get up, I'm off to the south of France for a holiday."

Agatha and James packed up and returned to Carsely that evening, James to his cottage, Agatha to hers. Agatha busied herself with household chores, fed the cats, watered the garden, and then went to the Red Lion, trying not to hope that James would be there. But there were only the locals, who talked to her with the sort of half-smiles which told Agatha that she and James going off together had been much discussed and that whatever Mrs Bloxby had said about them had fallen on deaf ears.

So I've got the reputation of being a fallen woman with none of the pleasure, thought Agatha, and was relieved to escape after a pub meal and get home and go to bed. Before she slipped her nightgown over her head, she stared in the mirror at a naked body which seemed to be slipping back into a sort of spinsterhood, which looked already to her jaundiced eyes as if it had never, ever been made love to.

She took a long time to get to sleep and awoke to find the sun high in the sky and the sound of her doorbell jangling through the house.

She put on her housecoat and ran to answer it, blinking up at the tall figure of James.

"I've got something I want to ask you, Agatha," he said seriously. And then a voice from a car in the road called, "Coo-ee!"

Agatha peered round him and saw getting out of a little red car her former secretary, Bunty.

"Hi!" said Bunty, walking up to join them. "I was in the area and thought I'd pop in to say hello."

"Come in," said Agatha wearily to both James and Bunty. She led them into her sitting-room. "I'll go and get coffee," she said.

When she carried in a tray of coffee mugs, Bunty and James were laughing about something, Bunty's fresh young face glowing with health.

All at once Agatha felt so depressed, she thought she would be sick.

She could not bear to sit and watch James being charmed by this young girl, could not bear to have any more evidence that what she had experienced with him was simply a drunken one-night stand.

"I'm awfully sorry," said Agatha, putting down the tray of coffee very carefully on the table, "but I am feeling unwell. I'm sorry, Bunty, but I have got to go and lie down."

"Can I get the doctor?" asked James, alarmed.

"No," said Agatha. "Entertain Bunty for me, would you, James?"

Agatha trailed back to her bedroom, threw her housecoat across the room and crawled back into bed and drew the duvet up over her ears. She was so depressed, she felt she hurt all over. She was nothing but a silly, middle-aged woman.

She dimly heard the door downstairs slam and a car driving off. They had gone. Maybe they had gone off together for a happy lunch in a pub. Maybe Bunty would ask her to their wedding.

A hand shaking her shoulder made her twist round and stare up.

"Agatha," said James gently. "What's the matter?"

With a great effort, Agatha forced herself to say, "Just a headache, James. If I lie quietly for a bit, I'll be all right."

"Would you like me to bring you some aspirin?"

"No, no. I'll be fine."

He stroked her forehead. "Poor thing. I'll leave you in peace."

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" asked Agatha. "The bill for Sir Charles?"

"Oh, that. No." He gave a little laugh. "Of all the times to pick. I actually came round to ask you to marry me, but you'd better get over your headache first before you even think about it."

He turned to walk away.

Agatha sat bolt upright. "Are you joking? What was that about marriage? I mean, marriage!"

He came back and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I know you probably like your independence. It hit me last night. We get on very well. The fact is, it all seemed a bit lonely without you. Agatha! What are you doing, Agatha?"

She had started to unbutton his shirt.

"Agatha, what about your headache?"

"What headache?" asked Agatha as she pulled him down on top of her.

An hour later, James said dreamily, "I don't know why, but I seem to remember your telling me that you had walked out on your husband but not divorced him."

Agatha felt a stab of cold fear in her stomach. It had all been so long ago. The last time she had seen Jimmy Raisin had been over thirty years ago, when she left him as he lay in a drunken stupor. He was bound to be dead by now.

She forced herself to laugh. "No, you're mistaken," she said. "Jimmy died of drink ages ago."

"So whose house shall we live in?" he asked. "They're both the same size."

"Yours, I think," said Agatha, promptly forgetting about Jimmy. "You're the one with the most possessions. All those books."

"Did you hear about Mrs Mason?"

"Oh, her," snorted Agatha. "The cheek of it, telling Deborah I was a phony. What about her?"

"She's devastated about her niece. She's moved off to live with her sister, not Mrs Camden, another one in Wales, and she's putting her house up for sale. It looks as if the Carsely Ladies' Society will be looking for a new chairwoman. Interested?"

"No," said Agatha lazily. "My managing days are over."

"So," said Mrs Bloxby happily two days later, "I am delighted that you and James are getting married in our church. It will be quite an event for the village. But I was saying to Alf the other day that for some reason I thought you were separated from your husband, not divorced." Alf Bloxby was the vicar.

Again, that stab of fear in Agatha's stomach, but she decided to ignore it and said, "Jimmy's been dead for years." Then she began to worry. Would the vicar expect to see the death certificate? She would need to try to find out what had happened to Jimmy. The wedding was set in three months' time. She and James were seeing an estate agent that very afternoon to put Agatha's cottage on the market. She had come such a long way from the days when she had worked as a waitress to support a drunken and increasingly violent husband. The vicarage sitting-room was calm and quiet, with shadows from the sun-dappled leaves in the old garden outside flitting across the walls. Carsely belonged to another world. She refused to think about Jimmy. She was marrying James, and no one was going to stop her.

Bill Wong called that evening just as Agatha was getting ready to go out for dinner with James.

"I saw the announcement of your wedding in the local paper," said Bill. "Congratulations. Have you had a divorce?"

"I don't need a divorce," snapped Agatha. "My husband's dead."

"Agatha, I'm pretty sure you told me you had left him years ago and you didn't know whether he was alive or dead."

"Just because you're a policeman doesn't mean you've got total recall," said Agatha. "You're going to be invited to the wedding, of course."

Bill leaned forward, his features solemn. "Agatha, I'm your friend and I know you well and I know what you feel for James Lacey. Take my advice and get on to a detective agency and get them to trace your husband and find out where he is."

"Are you deaf?" shouted Agatha. "I've told you. He's dead. I'm marrying James Lacey and I'll kill anyone who tries to stop me!"

The next morning, Roy Silver dropped in for a chat with Bunty.

"Haven't you any work to do?" asked Bunty.

"Loads," said Roy cheerfully. "Reluctant to get started, that's all."

"I called on your friend, Agatha Raisin, a few days ago," said Bunty.

"How is the old bat?"

"She wasn't very well. But her fiance entertained me."

"Her what? I phoned her last night and she said nothing about the engagement."

"Fact. One James Lacey, quite a dish, too. It was in the local paper yesterday. My ma phoned me with the news."

"Well, well," said Roy thoughtfully and drifted off to his own office.

He sat behind his desk and stared into space. He had phoned Agatha at the urging of Mr Wilson, his boss, who wanted Agatha back. Agatha had been rude and dismissive, had told Roy not to call her again, had told him she was tired of his creepy sycophantic ways, and a few other hard words.

He remembered when he used to work for Agatha's PR firm, Agatha once telling him over a drink that she had walked out on her husband, that she did not know where he was. Of course, that had been some time ago, and maybe Agatha had either heard of her husband's death or divorced him. Still...

What a lovely way it would be to pay Agatha back if by any chance she had lied to James and intended to commit bigamy. Would do no harm to find out. He pulled forward the Yellow Pages and began to run his thumb down a list of detective agencies.

The Dembley Walkers trudged out over the countryside. "You know, ah've been thinkin'," said Kelvin, "thon Laceys were an odd couple. Ah think they were working for the police."

"What makes you think that?" asked Mary Trapp.

"It was odd the way they surfaced among us shortly after Jessica's murder and then, when Deborah was arrested, they disappeared."

"I thought that," said Alice. "I'll tell you another thing: that flat they were in in Sheep Street was the property of Sir Charles."

"I could have told you from day one they weren't one of us," said Peter.

"So why didn't you?" jeered Kelvin.

Before Peter could retaliate, a gamekeeper surfaced and told them in no uncertain terms that they were in danger of disturbing the young pheasants. Happily they drew together to meet the challenge. Pheasants were for the rich, the land belonged to all; come the revolution, lackeys like him would be hanging from the nearest lamp-post; and the mysterious Laceys were forgotten.