TWO

THE heat mounted. Ninety-nine degrees Fahrenheit was recorded at Pershore in Worcester. Incidents of road rage mounted, tar melted on the roads, and Agatha Raisin longed for her old shorter haircut.

She realized that the reason she had not the courage to ask for it to be cut was in case she was accused of having low self-worth. Having come to this conclusion, Agatha decided it was all too ridiculous and made another appointment with Mr. John. Back to Evesham, where the women had swapped their leggings for shorts. Acres of white, mottled flesh gleamed in the sunlight.

The hairdresser’s was as busy as ever. Mr. John had two male assistants, one female, and two juniors. Agatha asked if she could use the toilet. The window at the back of the toilet was open to a little weedy yard.

Then Agatha heard a woman whisper urgently, “I can’t go on. You’ve got to let me off the hook.”

There was the answering mumble of a man’s voice.

“I’ll kill you!” shouted the woman, suddenly and violently.

Agatha poked her head out of the window, but she could not make out where the voices had come from.

She went back into the salon, had her hair washed and then braced herself to tell Mr. John that she wanted her hair cut short. She found herself wrapped into that anxiety of writing scripts of “I’ll say and then he’ll say.” It was the lawn-mower syndrome.

Mr. Jones goes out to mow the lawn but finds his lawn-mower has broken down. “Why don’t you ask that nice Mr. Smith next door if you can borrow his?” suggests his wife.

“I can’t do that,” protests Mr. Jones. “Bit of an imposition.”

“Don’t be silly,” says his wife. “You’re being childish. Mr. Smith is a very nice man.”

All afternoon Mr. Jones frets. He will ask Mr. Smith for the loan of his lawn-mower and Mr. Smith will say, “Sorry, old chap, I’m using it myself.” Mr. Smith will say, “I don’t like lending out things.” Mr. Smith will lie. Mr. Smith will look shifty and Mr. Smith will say, “Actually, mine’s broken as well.”

At last, nagged by his wife, Mr. Jones goes and knocks on Mr. Smith’s door.

When Mr. Smith answers the door, Mr. Jones shouts, “Fuck you and your lawn-mower,” and walks away.

So when Agatha barked at Mr. John that she wanted her hair cut, she blushed and felt ridiculous when he said mildly, “There’s no need to shout, Agatha.”

He set about snipping busily. Agatha glanced about the busy salon. It was done in American in Paris Brothel. Gilt mirrors, curtains with bobbles separating the rooms, ToulouseLautrec posters. Mr. John wore a white coat like an American dentist. His assistants wore pink smocks.

“I heard a funny thing when I was in the toilet,” Agatha began.

“That sounds like the beginning of a dirty joke.”

“No, really. I heard a woman say something like, ‘I can’t go on. You’ve got to let me off the hook.’ She was answered by some man. Then she said, ‘I’ll kill you.’ ”

“It’s probably the couple who run the shop next door,” he said. “They’re always quarrelling. Their back shop is on the other side of our backyard and voices carry.”

“Oh,” said Agatha, a little disappointed that what had sounded like an intriguing mystery was only a marital quarrel. “Are you married yourself?”

“I was once,” said Mr. John. Those incredibly blue eyes of his glittered with humour. “Didn’t last long. Now I am free to enjoy the company of beautiful women. Speaking of which, when are you going to have dinner with me?”

“Tonight,” said Agatha, confident that he would not be free to make it.

“Tonight’s fine,” he said. “Give me your address and I’ll pick you up at eight.”

He put down his scissors and reached for a notepad. Agatha told him where she lived and he wrote it down. Agatha began to feel as nervous as a teenager. Would he expect her to have sex with him? She surreptitiously glanced at her wrist-watch. She would be home before the salon closed. She could always phone and say something had come up.

But when her hair was blow-dried into a simple shorter style she felt a wave of gratitude for this magician.

And when she got home and felt the silence, the loneliness of the cottage settling round her, as suffocating as the humid heat, she decided that she would be mad to throw away the chance of dinner with a handsome man.

If the climate had changed, thought Agatha, and hot summers were going to become the norm, she would need to think about getting air-conditioning. She had read that to install air-conditioning cost twenty thousand pounds. It was two thousand for a portable unit. The last time she had visited America, she had noticed air-conditioners sticking out of windows of ordinary houses. Surely the average American family could not afford, say, thirty thousand dollars for air-conditioning or even three thousand for a portable unit.

Her cats lay stretched out on the kitchen floor, lethargic in the heat. She sat down on the floor next to them and stroked their warm fur. Where was James Lacey, and would he ever come back again?

She was flooded with such yearning that she let out a small moan. Depression settled down on her once more.

She sat there miserably until a glance at the clock showed her that she would need to hurry if she was to be ready on time.


Mr. John took her to a French restaurant in the village of Blockley, which was only a few miles from Carsely.

“I still can’t understand why an expert like you should settle for Evesham of all places,” said Agatha. “You are good enough to compete with the best in London.”

“What’s up with Evesham?” he teased. “Evesham is the cradle of democracy.”

“How come?”

“Well, Simon de Montfort.”

Agatha looked blank.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never hear of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester!”

“No,” said Agatha with all the irritation one feels on being made to feel ignorant of historical facts, or any facts, for that matter.

“You’ve heard of King John and the Magna Carta?”

“Yes, got that at school.”

“It was to curb the power of the king. It didn’t really work. Both John and his son, Henry the Third broke the charter whenever they could and only adhered to it when the barons threatened and complained. So they had to find a better way of making the king keep his word. In 1258, King Henry agreed to the Provisions of Oxford, which set up a permanent council to supervise his actions.

“Anyway, Henry paid as little attention to the Provisions of Oxford as John had paid to the Magna Carta. Simon, with the barons, decided to impose control. In 1264 there was a civil war. The king’s army was beaten at Lewes in Sussex. Henry was taken prisoner along with his son, Edward.

“Simon called an emergency parliament of not only barons, but bishops and abbots, two knights from each shire and burgesses from a number of towns. He hoped to make it a lasting establishment.”

He paused to eat a piece of sea bass.

“What happened then?” asked Agatha. The story was keeping her mind off thoughts of James Lacey.

“Simon’s support began to crumble. The Marcher lords from the borders of Wales rose against him and were joined by Gilbert de Clare, the young and powerful Earl of Gloucester. Simon led an army to the Severn, taking the king and Prince Edward with him as hostages, but the prince escaped at Hereford to lead the royalist uprising.

“Both forces converged on Evesham as Simon was preparing to enter the town. Simon’s troops were massacred. Simon was beheaded and the head sent to his widow. His arms and legs and, erm, private parts, were cut off. All that remained was the torso, which was buried at Evesham Abbey.”

“That’s interesting,” said Agatha. “Is his grave in the churchyard?”

“There’s a memorial stone, but that’s all. No one knows what happened to his remains. You see, people began to make pilgrimages to his grave to pay their respects to the ‘good Earl Simon.’ Rumour has it that the remains were dug up, burnt, and the ashes scattered to prevent worship of this dangerous democrat. The curator at the Almonry-the Evesham museum-he thinks Henry the Eighth was responsible, because a lot of the relics at Evesham Abbey were destroyed during the dissolution of the monasteries. Am I boring you?”

“No, I didn’t know all this. I’d better take a closer look at Evesham.”

“So tell me all about yourself and your love life.”

They had drunk one bottle of wine and he had ordered another. Agatha, now slightly tipsy, found herself telling him all about James and about her brief fling with Charles. But she did not tell him that James knew all about Charles.

“So where is James now?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha sadly. “Abroad somewhere.”

“You’re an attractive woman.” He reached across the table and took her hand in his.

Agatha laughed and disengaged her hand. “You make women feel attractive.”

“Tell me more about yourself.”

Agatha talked on but mostly about her days in public relations. Somehow the fact that Bill Wong hadn’t phoned her hurt and so she did not brag about her detective abilities or mention his name.

And while she talked she began to wonder whether he would want to stay the night and whether she would let him. By the end of the meal she was languorously tipsy and was planning to invite him in when they got home.

As they left the restaurant, which was attached to the Crown Inn, Agatha saw Mrs. Friendly emerging from the adjoining bar. “Mrs. Friendly,” called Agatha.

Mrs. Friendly stood stock-still. Her eyes were wide with fright and her face paper-white as she looked at Mr. John. She made an inarticulate sound and turned and went hurriedly back into the bar, pushing her way through people until she was lost to view.

Outside, Agatha said, “You frightened her.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Friendly.”

“Who’s she? Sounds like Happy Families. Miss Bun, the Baker’s Daughter, Mrs. Friendly, the-”

“No, no. She was really frightened. The woman who was staring at you just as we left.”

“I saw no one I know. The restaurant behind us was crowded, Agatha. She probably saw someone behind us.”

Tipsy as she was, a little warning bell was beginning to sound in Agatha’s brain. She had talked a lot about herself, but she knew practically nothing about this hairdresser apart from the fact that he possessed a good knowledge of Evesham history.

“Should you be driving?” she asked. “We’ve had rather a lot to drink.”

“I’ve a hard head. Don’t worry.”

“If you’re sure. The fact that I know a lot of the police won’t help us if we’re caught.”

But he had marched ahead of her to the car and did not hear her.

When they reached her cottage and got out, Agatha turned to him and said firmly, “Thank you so much for a delightful evening.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

“Not tonight. I’ve had too much to drink. The next dinner’s on me.”

“I’ll keep you to that.” He bent to kiss her. Mrs. Friendly’s frightened face rose up in Agatha’s mind and she turned her face so that his kiss landed on her cheek. “Good night,” she said hurriedly and left him standing by the car, looking after her.

Agatha pottered about her house and garden the following day. It had rained during the night but the day was once more hot and stifling. The newspapers reported it was the hottest August in England since records had begun. There seemed to be a plague of mosquitoes and the Cotswold spiders were everywhere. Agatha did not like killing spiders and scooped the beasts up in kitchen paper and threw them out into the garden. One was descending from the kitchen ceiling in front of her eyes. She glared at it and it hurriedly retreated upwards, almost as if it were hauling itself up hand over hand.

She was wearing a washed-out cotton caftan she had bought years ago, with nothing underneath. On the kitchen floor, still in its box, was an electric fan she had bought in Evesham. She sighed. She tore open the box and lifted it out. It was in pieces. Did nothing come whole these days? She read the instructions carefully but could not unscrew one piece so as to attach the fan. She was just about to kick the infuriating thing across the floor when the doorbell rang.

Would she ever stop going to answer the door without hoping with all her heart that when she opened it James Lacey would be standing on the doorstep?

But it was Charles who stood there, looking cool and barbered.

“Come in,” said Agatha, her voice curt with disappointment. “What brings you?”

“Got bored.” He followed her into the kitchen.

“You can make yourself useful. I can’t put that fan together.”

“Make us a cup of coffee and I’ll do it.”

Charles worked away busily at the large pedestal fan. “Have you got one of those screwdrivers with the little cross at the head, Aggie?”

“In that box on the kitchen table. How do you want your coffee?”

“As ever. Milk, no sugar. If you loved me, Aggie, you would remember.”

“There’s your coffee, Charles. I’m going upstairs to put some clothes on.”

Agatha went upstairs, took a quick shower, towelled and dressed in shorts and a cotton top.

When she went back to the kitchen, the fan was spinning busily.

“How clever of you, Charles,” said Agatha. “What a relief! How did you get that big screw undone?”

“You unscrew it clockwise.”

“Now, how was anyone supposed to know that?” Agatha sat down at the kitchen table. “I may have stumbled across a mystery, Charles.”

“What bleeding body have you tripped over?”

“No body.” She told him about overhearing the pleading woman while she was in the toilet at the hairdresser’s. “Then I went out with this Mr. John for dinner and as we were leaving, we ran into Mrs. Friendly.”

“Who is she?”

“Newcomer to Carsely. Arrived last winter. Has one of those little cottages opposite the church. Mr. John said she must have been looking at someone in the restaurant behind us but I’ll swear it was him she was frightened of.”

“Is there a Mr. Friendly?”

“Yes, he’s a building contractor.”

“Do you think this hairdresser could have got his leg over, or maybe he’s indulging in a spot of blackmail?”

Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “I thought of blackmail. The way women talk to their hairdressers! You should hear them.”

“Let’s go and see this Mrs. Friendly.”

Agatha shifted uneasily. “What? Now?”

“Why not? Don’t beat about the bush. Ask her why she was so frightened.”

“Shouldn’t I phone first?”

“Let’s surprise her.”

“All right,” said Agatha reluctantly. “I’ll put the cats out in the garden and lock up.”


Mrs. Friendly’s cottage was small and neat, two-storied, with no garden at the front.

They rang the bell. The door was opened by a very hairy man. He was wearing a tank top and shorts and grizzled hair sprouted all over his body. He had tufts of hair in his ears and hair sprouting out of his nose. His eyes were surprisingly weak and pale, peering at them from out of all this hairy virility. He must have been nearly sixty and Agatha thought he looked thoroughly unpleasant.

Agatha introduced herself and Charles and said they had called to see Mrs. Friendly.

“Why?” His voice was thin and high.

“Ladies’ Society.”

“Come in,” he said reluctantly.

The little cottage was dark and stifling. It had the original leaded windows, which looked so quaint and pretty from outside but allowed very little light to penetrate the inside. Mr. Friendly ushered them into a hot, dark living room and said, “I’ll get Liza.”

“I didn’t know he was retired,” whispered Agatha. “Looks as if he must be.” Fierce whispers were coming from the nether regions, then Mr. Friendly’s voice, sharp and angry: “Just get rid of them.”

“Oh, dear,” muttered Agatha.

Liza Friendly came in. She had a round pleasant face, pretty even in middle age.

“Is it about the concert?” she asked.

“Not really,” said Agatha. “I was at that French restaurant in Blockley last night with Mr. John and you saw us and I thought you look frightened.”

For one brief moment, Liza looked every bit as frightened as she had been the night before, but then she said brightly, “Oh, I must have looked odd. It was the heat. I had to get out of there. I thought I was going to faint. Anything else?”

“Well, no,” said Agatha.

Liza had remained standing. She moved towards the door. “In that case, I won’t keep you.”

There was nothing else they could do but leave. “I haven’t introduced my friend,” said Agatha. “Sir Charles Fraith.”

But Liza had reached the front door and was holding it open.

“Goodbye,” she said formally. “How kind of you to call.”

“Well, that was a wash-out,” said Charles. “Let’s go back to your place and talk.”

They returned to the kitchen of Agatha’s cottage. Agatha switched on the fan and poured two more cups of coffee.

“Now,” said Charles, “if he’s a blackmailer, there is one way to find out.”

“How?”

“You think of some truly awful secret, Aggie, and take him out for dinner and cry on his shoulder. Then we’ll wait and see.”

“I could do that,” said Agatha slowly. “You know, we could be imagining things. Maybe she’s just frightened of her hairy husband. Wait a bit. At the ladies’ society meeting, I said I was going to Mr. John in Evesham and she said something like, ‘I wouldn’t go there.’ Oh, and there’s something else. I did ask Mr. John about those voices I overheard when I was in the toilet, but he said it was a husband and wife who owned the shop next door and who were always quarelling. Should we watch Mrs. Friendly’s cottage and see if her husband goes out?”

“I think we should try my way first,” said Charles. “Let’s go somewhere for lunch and then I’ll take a look at this hairdresser’s in Evesham. You could make another appointment. Your hair looks nice like that.”

“Thank you. Where shall we have lunch?”

“Your choice.”

“I don’t lunch in Evesham, but there’s bound to be somewhere.”

They got into Charles’s car and drove up through the hot countryside to the A-44. “You’d best cut off at the top of Fish Hill and go through Willersley,” said Agatha.

“Why?”

“It’s the new Broadway by-pass they’re building. There’re traffic lights at the bottom of Fish Hill and you can get stuck there for ages.”

“Right you are.”

In Evesham and following Agatha’s directions, Charles parked at the top of the multi-storey car-park next to the river Avon. They left the car and walked to Bridge Street. “That looks all right.” Agatha pointed to a restaurant called the Lantern.

“I hope they do good chips,” said Charles, holding the door open for her. “I like chips.”

The chips turned out to be real ones and not the frozen variety. “Now what am I going to tell Mr. John?” asked Agatha.

“Don’t rush it. Wait till you get him out for dinner. I’ll bet you told him about James.”

Agatha blushed guiltily.

“Ah, I thought so. Let me see. I know, James is due back but you’ve been having an affair with me.”

Agatha stared at the table.

“Oho, you gabby thing. You told him about me, too. He does have a way of winkling out secrets.”

“I didn’t tell him that James had found out about us,” mumbled Agatha.

“There we have it. You want to marry James. He’s a violently jealous man. He’s written to say he loves you. You are terrified he finds out about me because I am violent and jealous.”

“I could do that,” said Agatha. “I’m not normally so gossipy. It’s just I seemed to have drunk quite a lot.”

“Did he try to go to bed with you?”

“He did expect to be asked in. No, Charles. I am not amoral like you. I shall tell him I am keeping myself pure for James.”

“Good girl.”

They finished their meal and walked up Bridge Street and turned into the High Street.

“Look at that beautiful house,” said Charles, pointing across the road.

“It’s a Chinese restaurant,” said Agatha. “The Evesham Diner. Pretty good.”

“I don’t care if it’s pretty good. What kind of barbarians are there in this town not to preserve that lovely building properly? Look, here’s a newsagent’s. I’m going to buy a guidebook.”

Agatha sighed. The sun was beating down and the humidity had made her make-up melt.

Charles emerged with a small guidebook. “Here we are. Dresden House. Built in 1692-see, I was right about William and Mary-by a Worcester man, Robert Cookes.”

“Why Dresden?”

“Ah, one owner of the house, Dr. William Baylies, ran into financial trouble and went to live in Dresden, becoming physician to Frederick the Great of Prussia.”

“Never mind history. Here’s the hairdresser. Oh, rats!”

“What rats?”

“I forgot, it’s Wednesday. Half day. They’re closed and I was all geared up with my story.”

“Come on, Aggie, you can’t have been. Were you meaning to go in and make an appointment and then say, ‘Oh, by the way, James is coming home and I’m having an affair with Charles here’?”

“I only meant I was all geared up to ask him out for dinner.”

“We’ll trot about. Isn’t there an abbey? What does the guidebook say? Ah, there was an abbey built in 700 A.D. but Henry the Eighth got rid of it. There’s a museum in the old Almonry.”

“You’re as bad as the hairdresser,” grumbled Agatha. “I got a whole lecture on Simon de Montfort.”

“Then seduce him with your superior knowledge.”

The Almonry, where the almoner, the medical-social worker of his day, helped the less fortunate of the town, is a rambling fourteenth-century building.

Agatha and Charles went in. Agatha paid the entrance fee, for Charles took so long finding any money-deliberately, Agatha thought. Evesham is twinned with Dreux in France, where Simon de Montfort was born. They studied the charter proclaiming that fact. “Heard about Stow-in-the Wold?” asked Charles.

“No, what?”

“Some nice little town on the Loire wanted to be twinned with Stow, so the parish council put the vote to the townspeople and got a resounding NO.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t want anything to do with the French. Can you believe it? They must still be fighting the battle of Waterloo over there.”

“So who did they decide to twin with?”

“Nobody. They’re going to have a drinking fountain instead. I say, look at this map of the world, Aggie-1392, can you believe it?”

Agatha sighed. The heat was suffocating and she longed for a cigarette.

“Evesham is also twinned with Melsungen in Germany and Evesham, New Jersey.”

“Yawn,” said Agatha. “Can’t I go and sit in the garden and wait for you?”

“No, there’s more upstairs. Come on.”

Agatha found herself becoming fascinated with two examples of Victorian dress. Usually in museums the ladies’ shoes were tiny, but these Evesham ladies had great big feet.

They moved on. Agatha became uneasy as she saw household items she remembered from her youth.

She was relieved when the tour was over. But then Charles wanted to see the two churches, St. Lawrence and All Saints. She fretted behind him wondering how such a frivolous man could become so excited over the sight of a Norman arch. Then they walked through the dark arch of the old Bell Tower, built between 1529 and 1539, chattered Charles, and so across the grass and down towards the river Avon. Just before the river was a paddling pool shrill with the cries of children. “That’s where the monks used to fish,” said Charles.

“Let’s sit down for a moment,” said Agatha wearily.

They sat down together on a bench. It was a lazy, sunny scene. A band was churning out selections from My Fair Lady. Families sprawled on the grass. It looked so safe, so English, so far from the violence of the inner cities. Agatha relaxed. Evesham had a laid-back charm.

“Let’s take a boat,” said Charles.

“Are you going to row?”

“Too hot. One of those pleasure boats.”

They walked back out into Bridge Street, past the multistorey car-park and so down to the landing stage, where a boat was just about to leave.

The boat went under the Workman Bridge and circled back when it came to a weir, then went back under the bridge and slowly along beside the Abbey Gardens, as they are called.

“Do you know that Evesham Abbey was larger than Gloucester Cathedral?” said Charles.

“Urn,” said Agatha absently.

“And do you know that-What?” For Agatha had suddenly clutched his arm.

“Over there. Mr. John,” hissed Agatha.

The open pleasure boat was sliding slowly past a tea garden. Charles looked. “Blond chap?”

“Yes.”

Agatha twisted her head backwards as the boat moved on. “Don’t know. Oh, yes. I think it’s a customer of his called Maggie. We’re all first names at the hairdresser’s.”

“She didn’t look all that happy.”

“We go back this way again, don’t we?”

“Shortly, I should think. The trips are only half an hour long, so we should be turning back any moment now.”

Sure enough, the boat soon made a circle.

“Get ready,” said Agatha. “Be prepared for a good look at them this time.”

But as the boat passed the tea garden, the table at which Mr. John had been sitting with Maggie was empty.

“Pity,” said Agatha. “She was bitching to him about how her husband didn’t appreciate her. Do you think it really is blackmail? He might just be a philanderer.”

“So why was Mrs. Friendly so frightened?”

“I’d forgotten about Mrs. Friendly. I’ll ask Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife. She might know something. Want to come with me?”

He looked at his watch. “Can’t. Got to get home soon. Going out tonight.”

“Where?”

“Taking this girl to see Macbeth at Stratford.”

“Oh,” said Agatha in a small voice. She felt disappointed but reminded herself that Charles was a bachelor with his own life to lead.

When they left the boat and walked back towards the car-park, the heat was suffocating.

“Thunder tonight,” said Charles as they drove out of Evesham. Agatha looked ahead. There were purple clouds building up over Fish Hill.

“There’s a thunderstorm almost every night,” she said, “and yet the next day is always as hot and humid as ever.”

Charles grunted by way of reply. He seemed immersed in his own thoughts. Agatha could feel the edges of that depression in her brain. She would go and see Mrs. Bloxby. Perhaps that would take up some of the lonely evening ahead.

When Charles dropped her off, he did not say anything about seeing her again. Agatha had a feeling that the mystery of the hairdresser had become a bore. She said goodbye to him in a subdued voice and let herself into her cottage just as the first fat raindrops struck the thatch on the roof.

She hurried to let her cats in and then opened a can of cat food for them. Her cats, Hodge and Boswell, although they purred around her ankles, seemed so self-sufficient, so little in need of the company of Agatha Raisin.

A blinding flash of lightning lit up the kitchen. Then came a crack of thunder which seemed to rock the old cottage to its very foundations. Agatha switched on the kitchen light only to find out that Carsely was suffering from one of the village’s many power cuts.

She crept up to her bedroom and into bed without undressing, pulled the sheet over her and lay listening to the fury of the storm. She fell into an uneasy sleep, waking at seven in the evening feeling hot and gritty. Late sunlight streamed in at the windows.

She climbed out of bed and looked out of the window. Everything in the garden glittered in the sunlight. She leaned out. The air was as warm and sticky as ever.

Agatha showered and changed and then made her way along to the vicarage.

She hesitated on the doorstep as she heard the vicar’s angry voice, “Does that woman never think to phone first?”

She was about to turn away. That was the trouble with true Christians like Mrs. Bloxby; one never thought of them as having any life of their own.

But the door opened and Mrs. Bloxby smiled a welcome, pushing a wisp of grey hair out of her eyes.

“I saw you coming up the road,” she said. “Come in.”

“And so did your husband,” said Agatha ruefully. “He’s quite right. I should have phoned first.”

“Never mind him. The heat is making us all irritable and he’s got evening service.”

“In that case… ”

Agatha allowed herself to be led indoors just as the back door slammed angrily and through the window she could see the vicar striding off through the churchyard.

“The trouble is,” said Agatha, sitting down in the pleasant living room, “that when something is bothering me, I simply come along to see you without thinking you might be busy.”

“It works both ways,” said Mrs. Bloxby placidly. “I never bother calling you first. I’ll make some tea and then we’ll have it in the garden and see if we can get a breath of air.”

She never fussed, thought Agatha enviously, as through the window she watched Mrs. Bloxby wiping the raindrops from the garden table and chairs. Then she retreated to the kitchen to make tea before summoning Agatha into the garden.

“Look at that!” said Agatha. “Over at the churchyard. The gravestones are actually steaming in the heat. Looks like some Dracula film.”

“We’re heading towards the end of the month. The cooler weather should be here soon,” said Mrs. Bloxby, pouring tea. “Now, what is the matter? James?”

“No, it’s my hairdresser.” Agatha told of her suspicions and Charles’s idea of setting a trap.

“It could be quite dangerous for you.” Mrs. Bloxby’s large grey eyes looked concerned. “Surely this Mr. John has heard of your reputation as a detective.”

“He remembers about my husband’s murder. But I have never been credited in the newspapers with solving anything,” said Agatha. “The credit has always gone to the police. Tell me about the Friendlys.”

“They haven’t been in Carsely long, as you know. Let me see, there was some scene after morning service a few weeks ago. Alf told me.” Alf was the vicar.

“Alf had been preaching a sermon about how we should have minds above material things and Mr. Friendly said something afterwards in the church porch about how he hoped his wife had been paying attention to the sermon because she was going through money like water. Mrs. Friendly protested she had only been buying a few clothes and her husband said something like, ‘what clothes? I haven’t noticed.’ ”

“You think I should leave it alone?”

“One part of me thinks you should. On the other hand, it would be quite dreadful should he prove to be a blackmailer. Just think of the misery he would cause! But why not tell your friend, Bill Wong?”

“I can’t,” said Agatha. “Bill’s on holiday.” She was still hurt by Bill’s not phoning her and did not want to say that Bill was holidaying at home.

“What about his boss, Wilkes?”

“He thinks I’m an interfering pain. No, I would need proof. There’s no harm in trying. At the worst he’s going to blackmail me. Not kill me.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

“I meant to ask him out but think I’ll make a hair appointment and this time watch and listen. See if I can suss out any other customers he might be putting the squeeze on.”

“Be careful. Now about the concert at Ancombe. It’s very good of you to take over the catering. Do you want me to help you?”

“No, I’ll manage.” Agatha had already decided to hire a catering firm to make cakes and savouries. Worth every penny to put Mrs. Dairy’s nose out of joint.

“You know, I’m beginning to wish I had never recommended Mr. John. But he has such a good reputation. Mrs. Jessie Black over at Ancombe, the chairwoman of the ladies’ society, she used to sport a terrible frizzy perm in an impossible shade of red and he tinted it auburn and put it into a beautifully smooth style.”

“I’ll see if I can get an appointment,” said Agatha. “I’ll try tomorrow.”


Agatha made her way to Evesham. The old buildings of Evesham shimmered in the dreadful heat. She parked in the carpark although she would have liked to try to find a parking place outside the hairdresser’s but did not want another confrontation with some embittered local.

Alert now for nuances, Agatha noticed this time that the receptionist, a vapid blonde in a pink overall with her name, Josie, on a badge on her left breast, gave her a sour, jealous look.

“I was certainly lucky to get a cancellation,” said Agatha brightly.

“Yes,” said Josie, jerking a pink gown round Agatha’s shoulders. “Mr. John is particularly popular with the elderly.”

“Was that crack meant for me?” demanded Agatha, rounding on her savagely.

“Oh, no, modom.” Josie backed away, flustered. “I’ll just get Yvette to shampoo you.”

Ruffled, Agatha sat down at a wash-basin and looked around. From the adjoining area, she could hear a woman’s voice raised in complaint. “I can’t do anything with her these days. I said, ‘That stuff 11 kill you,’ and she says to me, ‘Heroin is my friend.’ My own daughter on drugs! The shame of it. My neighbour says she thinks my Betty is pushing the stuff.”

“Can’t your husband have a word with her?” came Mr. John’s voice.

“Jim? Him! He doesn’t know she’s on the stuff and he wouldn’t believe me even if I told him. Betty’s always been able to twist him round her little finger. Daddy’s girl. Always been daddy’s girl.”

Yvette arrived and put a towel around Agatha’s neck. The subsequent hissing of the water drowned out the rest of the conversation between Mr. John and his customer.

A hairdresser’s salon is like the psychiatrist’s couch, reflected Agatha. The things they talk about. Didn’t that woman stop to think that one of the other customers might hear her and report her daughter to the police? But no. Hairdressers and beauty salons were like the confessional. The only one liable to profit from all these confidences was the hairdresser himself.

Agatha had her hair towelled and was led through to the salon where Mr. John flashed her a smile. Josie brought him a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam container and he added two pills of artificial sweetener called Slimtex. “I get my coffee sent in from across the road,” he said. “It’s that caff over there. Bit seedy, but they make marvellous coffee. Now, Agatha, let’s put you back together again.”

Agatha sighed. “I don’t see how you can do much in this heat. It’s worse than rain.”

“We’ll try.”

He rested his hands on her shoulders and gave them a light press.

“I owe you a dinner,” said Agatha.

“So you do and I’m going to keep you to it.”

Agatha took a deep breath. “Are you free tonight?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Oh. Oh, well; shall I pick you up?”

“No, I’ll call for you at eight. Josie, what are you doing standing there with your mouth hanging open? The phone’s ringing.

Josie fled. Mr. John shrugged. “Young girls these days,” he murmured.

Agatha’s hair was restored to a glossy, smooth shine. When she left the hairdresser’s, she walked quickly to the carpark, hoping she would not sweat too much and ruin the set.

When she got home, she debated whether she should phone Charles. But she felt sulky. He had said nothing about seeing her again. He seemed to walk in and out of her life, expecting her to be available.


She dressed with care but unfortunately not for comfort. She had read that stiletto heels were back in fashion and so had bought a gold sling-back pair, proud of the fact that she still had strong enough ankles to wear such high heels. But the heat had softened her skin and the criss-cross straps on the top of her shoes dug uncomfortably into her feet.

She decided that as she would be sitting in his car and then sitting in some restaurant or other, she could bear it. Just before he arrived, she slipped a little tape recorder into her handbag.

Mrs. Dairy was walking her yapping little dog down Lilac Lane as Agatha was escorted to the car by Mr. John. Agatha flashed her a triumphant look, delighted that the village bitch should witness her going out for the evening with such a handsome man. But Mrs. Dairy, instead of stopping and staring rudely, as she usually did, took to her heels and scurried off down the lane, dragging her protesting dog after her.

“Where are we going?” asked Agatha.

“The Marsh Goose in Moreton.”

“Nice,” said Agatha but reflected gloomily that there was no smoking except in the coffee lounge. It was odd that people who did not drink could never somehow say, ‘Don’t drink in front of me,’ but smokers were always made to feel guilty. Three scientists had recently issued a report that you were more in danger of getting cancer from eating dairy products than you were from passive smoking because dairy products were a killer, but smoking brought out the puritanical beast in people.

By the time she reached the restaurant, she craved a cigarette, but did not dare say so.

She put her handbag on her lap, opened it and covertly switched on the tape recorder. Then she switched it off again. A noisy party of people were at the next table, making conversation between her and the hairdresser almost impossible.

To her relief, the noisy party finally left. Agatha switched on the tape recorder again and turned a dewy-eyed look on Mr. John. “It’s such a break from my troubles to have a quiet dinner like this with you.”

“What troubles, Agatha?” He reached across the table and took her hand.

“It’s James,” said Agatha. To her horror, her eyes filled with tears.

Mr. John’s thumb caressed the palm of her hand. “Tell me about it.”

“He’s coming home, and I’ve missed him so much. I’ve been having an affair with Charles.”

“The baronet?”

“Yes, him. Charles is violently jealous. I tried to finish with him. He says he won’t go away. I’m frightened James will get to hear about it. I’d do anything-anything-to stop him finding out.”

He asked more questions and the more Agatha began to build up a picture of a violent and jealous Charles, the more she began almost to believe it.

But by the time she had moved through with Mr. John to the lounge for coffee, she realized she had done all the talking. She drew out a packet of cigarettes.

“That’s a filthy habit, Agatha. Do you mind if I ask you not to smoke?”

“Yes, I mind very much,” snapped Agatha.

“You’re killing yourself.”

“And so is everyone like you who drives a car that belts carcinogens into the air.”

Agatha then hurriedly closed her handbag, which she had opened wide in her search for cigarettes. She hoped he had not seen the tape recorder. Anyway, he was surely not going to blackmail her tonight.

He began to talk easily about how successful his business in Evesham had proved to be and that he was thinking of opening up another salon. “It’s war, hairdressing,” he said with a laugh. “It’s like the theatre. You would never believe the rivalries and jealousies. And I’m thinking of starting up a beauty salon.”

Agatha fumbled in her handbag and switched off the tape recorder. She felt heavy and sad. And her feet were killing her.

At last she said, “It’s been nice. Do you mind if we go home?” She signalled to the waiter and asked for the bill. “My treat, remember?”

“You’re looking tired,” he said, his blue eyes full of concern.

He drove a silent Agatha home. He helped her out of the car and then said, “I would really like to see the inside of your cottage.”

Agatha was wearily thinking of polite excuses when a wrathful voice behind her made her jump.

“And just who the hell is this, Aggie!”

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