Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

THREE

CHARLES stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his side. At first, Agatha was too taken aback to realize it was an act.

“I’ve been out for dinner with John,” she said. “Charles, may I introduce you? This is-”

“I don’t want to meet scum like this.” Charles seized her arm and jerked her towards him. Her clutch handbag went spinning and the contents spilled out over the road, exposed in the security lights which had come on in the front of Agatha’s cottage. Her little black tape recorder went flying across the cobbled surface of the road and landed at Mr. John’s feet.

He picked it up. Charles stood frozen, his hand on Agatha’s arm.

“Yours, I think.” Mr. John held out the tape recorder to Agatha, who numbly took it. His eyes glittered with malice and amusement.

Then he waved his hand and got into his car and roared off.

Agatha rounded on Charles. “What the hell were you playing at?” She stooped and began to gather up the contents of her bag.

“I was just playing my part,” said Charles mildly. “I went to the Red Lion and learned you were off with Mr. John. So I decided to hang about until you came home and play the jealous lover.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t know what you were up to. Why didn’t you phone me? I thought we were in this together.”

“Oh, come into the house. I’m fed up. He saw the tape recorder, so he’s wise to us.”

He followed her into the house and through to the kitchen. “Maybe not.”

“Why not?” demanded Agatha, angrily plugging in the kettle. “I saw the expression in his eyes when he handed me that tape recorder.”

“Well, he knows you were in publicity. Lots of people carry those little tape recorders around. I sometimes carry one myself to remind me of appointments and things to do.”

“A blackmailer is not going to think that,” jeered Agatha.

“We don’t know he’s a blackmailer. Make me a coffee while I think. Give me a cigarette.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I only smoke other people’s. It’s a charitable gesture. It reduces their intake.”

“And stops you spending the money yourself. Cheapskate! Oh, help yourself. There’s a packet in my handbag.”

Agatha made two cups of instant coffee. She had given up making fresh coffee and was back to microwaving most of her meals. Old habits refused to die. She was weary of trying to be “a village person.”

“What can we possibly do now?” she asked, sitting down at the table.

“I’m thinking. Let’s assume he is a blackmailer. Why does one become a blackmailer?”

“Power?”

“But money must be a strong motive. Money and greed. Think about this one. If you were to give him an expensive present. Drop the James business. Glow at him. Let him think he’s the one.”

“What present?” asked Agatha suspiciously.

“Little something from Asprey’s. Does he smoke?”

“No, not even mine.”

“What about a tasteful pair of solid-gold cuff-links in a dinky little Asprey box?”

“What about spending a thousand pounds? Are you going to contribute?”

He looked shifty and his hand instinctively clasped protectively over the breast of his jacket. The foreigner presses his heart, thought Agatha cynically, but your true blue-blooded Englishman presses his wallet to make sure it’s safe.

“Why should I waste a lot of money on a provincial hairdresser?” Agatha demanded.

“Because,” said Charles patiently, “it would keep the game going, and the reason for keeping the game going is you’re bored.”

“And so are you,” said Agatha shrewdly.

“But not as bored and depressed and lovelorn as you, light of my life.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Do. You’ll find he’ll melt like butter and only think the best of you.”

“If you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll show you out.” “I’m tired. Can’t I stay here?” “No. Out.”

“Okay.” He got to his feet. “Let me know how you get on.”

“I haven’t said I’ll do it.”

“Think about it, Aggie. Think about it.”

Charles was right. Agatha could not bear to drop what she was beginning to consider ‘her case.’

She drove to Moreton-in-Marsh station early the next morning and joined the commuters on the platform. Then the woman who manned the ticket office came out and shouted, “There will be no trains due to a shortage of engine drivers.”

Cursing, Agatha walked back over the iron bridge to the car-park. She got in her car and drove to Oxford and took a train from there to Paddington. From Paddington, she took a taxi to Asprey’s in Bond Street. In the almost religious hush of the great jeweller’s, she examined trays of cuff-links, finally selecting a heavy, solid-gold pair and paying a price for them which left her feeling breathless.

She then travelled to the City to see her stockbroker and be reassured that her stocks and shares were prospering. As she was in the City, she called at Pedmans to see Roy Silver, a public relations officer who had originally worked for her before she had sold out to Pedmans.

“I haven’t heard from you for a while,” said Agatha, reflecting that Roy looked as weedy and unhealthy as ever. But obviously he was doing well. Her practised eye noticed that his suit was Armani.

“I’ve been very busy, sweetie. How’s life in Boresville?”

“I thought you liked the country. You’re always saying how lucky I am.”

“A passing aberration. Sophisticates like me would wilt in the country.”

“You’re joking, of course.”

“Not really. What are you doing anyway? Village fetes?”

“No, much more exciting than that,” said Agatha, but remembered that she had to arrange the teas for Ancombe and had better get back and call a catering company.

“Murder?”

Agatha wanted to brag. “I’m chasing a blackmailer.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Agatha did.

Roy was intrigued. “Tell you what, I’ll come down this weekend and help you.”

He hadn’t bothered phoning her for a long time, so Agatha said huffily, “Can’t. I’m busy this weekend.”

When she got home, she phoned the hairdresser’s and made an appointment for the day after the next. The following day was the concert at Ancombe. Then she phoned a top catering firm in Mircester and ordered sandwiches, cakes and hot savouries to be delivered to her early the following morning. Agatha meant to convey the goodies to the concert herself and produce them as her own.

On the following morning, she transferred all the catering firm’s supplies into her own boxes and put them in the boot of her car and drove to Ancombe.

With the good excuse that she could not watch the concert because she would be too busy preparing the teas, she escaped into an adjoining hall where three schoolgirls had been drafted to help her put out the tables and chairs. The hall smelt like all church halls, dusty and redolent of dry rot and sweat. The church hall was not only used by the Scouts but by an aerobics class as well.

She could hear Miss Simms’s voice raised in shrill song. If it was meant to be Cher, then it was a Cher in the process of getting liposuction.

Agatha heated trays of savouries in the oven and spread cakes and sandwiches on plates. It looked a magnificent feast.

Finally she heard the strains of “God Save the Queen”-the Ancombe ladies were traditionalists-raised in song. Then there was the scraping back of chairs and they all came filing in, exclaiming in delight at the spread laid out for them.

But Mrs. Dairy was not amongst them. What a lot of money I do waste on pettiness, thought Agatha with a rare pang of remorse.

There was no Mrs. Friendly either, so she could not even continue her investigation.

By the end of the event, she felt tired and sticky. Mrs. Bloxby stayed behind to help Agatha load and stack empty foil trays in her car.

“You did us proud, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “If you ever feel like going into business again, you could be a professional caterer.”

Agatha looked at her sharply and the vicar’s wife gave her an innocent look. But Agatha knew she had been rumbled and felt silly.

For the first time in her life, she began to feel that living alone was an effort. Not that she had ever lived with anyone else, apart from a brief sojourn with James. If she lived with someone, then that someone would be there to chatter to her as she contemplated washing out the foil trays. After the catering company had called to pick up theirs, she reminded herself that the main purpose of foil trays was that they were disposable and put the whole lot in a garbage bag.

The heat was suffocating. She wandered out into her garden. She had lost interest in gardening and hired a local man to do that. Mrs. Simpson did her cleaning for her. Pity she couldn’t hire someone to do the living for her. The gardener was not due to call for another two days, and despite the recent rain the flowers were beginning to wilt in the heat.

She got out the hose and went to fix it to the tap in the garden but sat down in a garden chair instead. The depression she had been fighting off all day engulfed her and immobilized her.

She sat there while the sun slowly sank in the sky and the trees at the end of the garden cast long shadows over the grass. The pursuit of money and success had been everything in her life. Money meant the best restaurants, security, the best medical attention if she fell ill, and, at the end of her days, a good old folks’ home where they actually looked after the patients. She felt as if the tide of life had receded, leaving her stranded on a sandbank of money.

“I will not sink down under this,” she muttered to herself. Feeling like an old woman, she rose from her chair and went to the garden shed and wheeled out her bicycle. Minutes later, she was cycling off down the country lanes, pedalling fast like one possessed, racing to leave that tired failure of an Agatha behind her.

She pedalled while darkness fell over the countryside and light came on in cottage windows. When she at last turned homewards and free-wheeled down the hill into Carsely under the arched tunnels made by the trees on either side of the road, she felt calm and exhausted.

She let the cats in from the garden, locked up for the night, made herself a ham sandwich, then showered and went to bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When Agatha awoke in the morning, she felt stiff and sore from the exercise, but prepared for the day ahead. She put the little Asprey’s box in her handbag and drove to the hairdresser’s. On the other side of Broadway she looked up at the sky. Mares’ tails streamed across the blue of the sky. The weather must be about to change.

By the time she drove into Evesham, the sky was changing to grey. To her delight, there was actually a legal parking space right outside the hairdresser’s.

With a twinge of apprehension, she opened the door and went in. With something like triumph, the receptionist informed her that Mr. Garry would do her hair.

“Who the hell’s Mr. Garry?” snarled Agatha. “And stop grinning when you speak to me.”

“Mr. Garry is Mr. John’s assistant,” said the receptionist, Josie. Agatha was about to cancel her appointment, but she got a glimpse of herself in one of the many mirrors. Her hair looked limp and sweaty.

Yvette washed her hair and then she was led through to the ministrations of Mr. Garry, who proved to be a youth who chattered endlessly about shows he had seen on television. Agatha interrupted the flow by asking, “What’s Mr. John got?”

“He phoned in to say he was under the weather. He didn’t say exactly what it was.”

“Does he live in Evesham?”

“Yes, one of those villas on the Cheltenham Road.”

Agatha’s hair emerged as shiny and healthy as it had recently become, but she was unhappy with the style, which looked slightly rigid. Normally she would have complained and made him do it again, but she was tired of sitting in the hairdresser’s. As she was paying for her hair-style, she saw a framed certificate behind the desk. So Mr. John’s second name was Shawpart.

She went along to the post office and asked for a phone book and found only one Shawpart. She took a note of the number in Cheltenham Road and, swinging round into the traffic, headed in that direction. As she crossed the bridge over the river Avon, she noticed the water was greenish black and very still under a lowering sky.

Up the hill, past the garage, past the hospital and along in the direction of the by-pass she went, until she found Mr. John’s house, a fairly large modern villa. She parked outside and walked up the short path and rang the doorbell.

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the traffic humming past her on the road behind her. The sky above was growing even darker. Then she faintly heard the sound of shuffling footsteps, like those of a very old man.

She suddenly wished she had not come. The door swung open on the chain.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Mr. John’s voice. “Come in.”

He unlatched the chain and stood back. The hallway was in darkness. He led the way into a sitting-room and switched on a lamp and turned around.

Agatha let out an exclamation. His face was black with bruises.

“What on earth happened to you?” she asked. “Car accident?”

“Yes, last night. Some drunken youth ran into me and I hit the windscreen.”

“Didn’t you have an air bag? Or didn’t you have your seat-belt on?”

“I don’t have one of those models with an air bag. I’d just started to drive off, so I didn’t have a seat-belt on.”

“What did the police say?”

“I didn’t bother reporting it. I mean, what could they do? I didn’t get the number of the other car.”

“But you have to report it to the police! The insurance-”

“Oh, just leave it. I don’t want to talk about it. What do you want?”

Agatha had planned to be flirtatious, but confronted with his black-and-blue face, she did not quite know how to begin.

“I heard you were ill,” she began, “and was concerned about you.”

“That was nice of you.” He rallied himself with an effort. “Can I offer you something? Tea? Something stronger?”

“No, don’t trouble. How long have you lived here?”

“Why?”

Agatha blinked. “Just wondered. “Here.” She fumbled in her handbag. “Just a silly little present I got you.” She handed him the Asprey’s box.

He opened it and stared down at the heavy gold cufflinks nestling in their little bed of velvet.

Suddenly his face and manner were transformed. “How beautiful. And how very, very generous. I don’t know what to say.”

He came across to her and bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Now, we really must have a drink to celebrate. No, we must. I insist.”

He went out and returned after a few moments carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He expertly popped the cork, filled the glasses and handed one to Agatha.

Agatha raised her glass. “Here’s to friendship,” she said.

“Oh, I’ll drink to that. I do need a friend.” His voice had a ring of sincerity for the first time. I wonder if I’ve been mistaken about him, thought Agatha.

He sat down and held his tulip glass in one slender hand. “You were asking how long I had lived here? About a year. I had been working in Portsmouth and I wanted a change of scene. I saw in the Hairdresser’s Journal that this business in Evesham was going for sale. When I first came to Evesham, I looked the place over. It seemed neither go-ahead, nor sophisticated. But there was something about the sheer laziness of the place which got to me. And I knew there were a lot of rich people in the surrounding villages. Well, the business took off almost from the beginning. Although I am thinking of moving on. I get restless after I’ve been in the same place for a bit.”

Agatha glanced around her at the heavy furniture and the dark wallpaper decorated with uninspiring scenes of the Cots-wolds, those sort of scenes, peculiarly lifeless, painted by local artists as if they had meticulously copied photographs.

“Did you take this place furnished?”

“Yes, I rent it. Not my taste. So how’s your muddled love life, Agatha?”

She manufactured a world-weary shrug. “That scene Charles threw was the last straw. I’m weary of James.” She looked down at the floor and wished she could blush to order. “I kept thinking about you, instead.”

“I’ve been thinking about you as well,” he said. “We could make a great team.”

She looked at him in surprise.

He put his glass down and leaned forward. “You wondered why I didn’t move to London. Well, I’ve been thinking about it. One of my customers told me about how successful you were at organizing things and about your public relations job. Oh, I know you told me, but it was only I thought of it later. I’ve enough money put by to take a lease on a place in the centre of town, Knightsbridge, Sloane Street, somewhere near Harrods. With my hairdressing skills and your public relations skills, I could be another Vidal Sassoon.”

If only I could believe he was not a blackmailer, thought Agatha quickly. But string him along anyway.

“Do you know, that could be very exciting. I miss London. And it would get me out of the mess I’ve made for myself down here. When do we start?”

“It’ll take some time to wind things up in Evesham. We could think about starting next year.”

He can’t have thought that tape recorder meant anything. Agatha stood up. “I really must be going. I’m sorry about your accident. When are you back at work?”

“Couple of days.”

“I’ll make an appointment when I know you’re going to be there.”

He surveyed her. “Garry did that to you, didn’t he?” She nodded. “You see, that’s the trouble. It’s so hard to get assistants with any flair. Good hairdressers are born, not made.”

He walked with her to the door. “When you come in for that appointment, we’ll fix up a date for dinner.” He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “We’re going to be a great partnership. I’m good at raising money, so funds won’t be any problem.”

“I’ve got some money of my own. I could help you.”

He swept her into his arms and kissed her passionately. “What did I ever do before I met you,” he said huskily.

Well, well, well, thought Agatha shakily as she made her way to her car. Perhaps I really was mistaken in him. He is rather a dish.

She decided to drive into Evesham and buy some groceries in case Charles wanted to come to dinner. She was tired of eating out. The villa was on the corner of a side road.

She drove round into the side road to make a three-point turn and so drive back into town. It was then she noticed Mr. John’s car at the side of the house, gleaming, unmarked.

Surely he could not have got it repaired in time. Did some jealous husband beat him up? Someone he had been blackmailing?

But that kiss still burned on Agatha’s lips and she found she was becoming inclined to think that there was nothing wrong with him, except perhaps that he was a bit of a philanderer.

As she drove back into town and to Tesco’s supermarket, she began to feel the first surge of excitement about his idea of starting a salon in London. She was a shrewd enough businesswoman to make certain it prospered. He certainly was talented, more talented than London hairdressers Agatha had gone to. She had only said that bit about putting her money into his business to get him on the hook and allay his suspicions that she was on to him.

But what if he was genuine? She could get out of Carsely and back into an exciting, busy life. James would return and found her gone. With work to do, she would not have time to think of him.

She wandered around the supermarket wondering what to get for dinner. Then she reflected it was silly to waste money on expensive food for Charles, who would probably prefer sausage, egg and chips to anything else.

She queued and paid for her groceries, all the time thinking of the hairdressing project as escape.

It was only when she finally entered her cottage and began to unpack her groceries that Agatha’s common sense began to reassert itself. Mr. John surely got women on the hook by being charming to them. And yet… and yet… If he had reason to suspect she was on to him, why offer her a business proposition where she would be working closely with him? He had not asked for any money. She had offered it. She phoned Charles and asked him for dinner, telling him she would let him know her news when he arrived.

The sad fact was that Agatha had become addicted to the state of being in love and was all too ready to transfer that love to someone, anyone, other than James Lacey.

Charles arrived just as the first crack of lightning split the sky overhead. “Let’s hope the weather’s broken at last,” he said.

“Do you mind if we eat in the kitchen?” said Agatha.

“Not at all. What delicacies are you going to microwave for me?”

“Sausage, egg and chips, all fried.”

“Good. I’d like a bit of fried bread as well.”

“You’ve got it. Go and make yourself a drink and get me a gin and tonic while I fry. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

Agatha turned to the stove. There was another great crack of thunder and then all the lights went out.

“Blast!” she shouted to Charles, who was at the drinks trolley in the living-room. “I’ll light candles. Don’t fall over anything.”

She fumbled in the kitchen drawer for the candles she kept in readiness to cope with Carsely’s many power cuts. Charles came in holding a branch of candles he had taken from the dining-room table. “If you’re all right, I’ll go back and get the drinks.”

“Wait a bit. I’ve got a big torch in this cupboard under the sink.” Agatha found it and handed it to him.

He put the candles with the others on the kitchen table and retreated with the torch.

“Thank God this is a gas cooker,” muttered Agatha.

When dinner was cooked, they sat down to eat it in candle-light.

“Now,” said Charles, “what happened?”

Agatha told him about her visit, about the hairdresser’s

bruised face, about the business offer and how she had found

the car, unmarked, at the side of the house.

“So it does look as if someone might have beaten him

up. Good,” remarked Charles.

Agatha said, “I’ve been wondering if we’ve been

wrong… about the blackmailing, I mean. Maybe he’s just a

ladies’ man.”

“A successful one, too, by the look in your eyes. Agatha,

he’s after your money.”

“I offered it. All he was doing was offering me a job.”

“Which you wouldn’t dream of accepting.”

“It might be a good idea. I mean, I’m rotting here in

Carsely.”

“When you talked about your life in London, I always

got the impression you were rotting there without knowing it.

You’ve got friends here. Something always seems to be happening to you.”

“I could do it for a bit. See how it works. I wouldn’t

sell up here till I was sure.”

“Aggie, he has got to you, you silly old thing.” Agatha winced at that “old” but said defensively, “In

any case I mean to string him along. It’s a good way of getting

to know him better. Then I can be sure.”

“I think that’s a damn dangerous thing to do.” “Why? If he does try to blackmail me, then I’ll go

straight to the police.”

“Aggie, blackmailers create violence. You’ve gone potty.” But Agatha had begun to build a dream up in her head of

being back working in London. Why not go for Bond Street?

Start with a splash. Big party. Get all the celebs. She could practically smell the petrol fumes of Bond Street, the scent from the perfume counter at Fenwick’s, the glowing pictures in the art galleries, the glittering jewels in Asprey’s window.

And perhaps, just perhaps, if he kissed her again like that, the bright pictures of James would fade and die.

“If you don’t want to know any more about it…” she began huffily.

“Oh, I do. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need my help soon. Listen to that storm, Aggie. You’re surely not going to send me home tonight.”

“You can sleep here… in the spare room.”

The phone rang. Agatha picked up the kitchen extension. It was Mr. John, his voice warm and concerned. “I just wanted to know you were all right.”

“Yes, I’m fine. Why?”

“This terrible storm. There are trees down everywhere. Have you electricity?”

“No, but I’ve a gas cooker and candles.”

“I’m very excited about our business project and would like to talk some more about it. Why don’t you drop over here tomorrow afternoon at three, say?”

“Yes, I’d like that. Get off!” Charles had crept up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.

“What’s going on?” demanded the hairdresser sharply. “Who’s there?

“No one,” said Agatha. “Just a mosquito. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”

She swung round on Charles. “What did you do that for? That was John.”

“I guessed as much. You are getting into deep water, Aggie.”

“I’m not,” she protested huffily. She took a Sarah Lee apple pie out of the freezer and put it in the oven. “I should have put that on earlier,” she said. “Let’s go sit and relax.”

As they went into the living-room, all the lights came on again. “Good,” said Charles, “we can watch telly.”

He switched it on and flicked the channels until he came across a rerun of “Hill Street Blues” and settled down happily to watch.

“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to see that,” aid Agatha crossly. “And it is my television set.”

“Shh!”

So they watched “Hill Street Blues” and then there was a Barbra Streisand movie and Charles was addicted to Barbra Streisand. While he watched, Agatha let dreams of a new life curl around her brain rather like the smoke which was beginning to curl under the kitchen door. She had forgotten about the apple pie and it was only as smoke began to drift between them and the television set that she realized with a squawk of alarm what had happened. She ran to the kitchen and switched off the oven and opened the door and windows. Sweet cool air drifted in. She walked out into the garden. The rain had stopped and a little chilly moon sailed overhead through ragged clouds. She stood breathing in the fresh air until all the smoke had cleared from the kitchen. The pie when she removed it was a blackened mess. She threw it into the garbage and then began to diligently clean the surfaces of the kitchen.

By the time she had finished cleaning, the movie had ended and Charles was watching “Star Trek, The Next Generation,” an early one, to judge from the beardless and baby-faced Commander Riker.

“Charles,” said Agatha crossly. “It’s late and the storm’s over. You can go home.”

“I haven’t got Sky Television and I haven’t seen this one.”

“Home, Charles.”

He left grumbling. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, “but you don’t deserve my concern.”

The next day was almost chilly and the residents of Carsely, like the rest of the British Isles who had been bitching for weeks about the heat, began to bitch instead about the cold.

Agatha dressed carefully in a tailored suit and silk blouse and headed for Evesham. Her dreams of the day before had faded and would have stayed faded had John not immediately taken her in his arms when she arrived and given her another of those warm, passionate kisses full on the mouth.

She felt quite weak at the knees as she sat down. His bruises appeared to be fading fast and his eyes were as blue, as intensely blue, as ever.

“Have you thought any more about my business proposition?” he asked.

Agatha flexed her public relations muscles. She described how she thought they should go big from the word go, open in Bond Street, say. She outlined how she would go about rousing interest so she could get it into as many newspapers as possible. “And do you know what we’ll call it?”

“I thought just Mr. John.”

“No, we’ll call it the Wizard of Evesham.”

He looked at her thoughtfully and then began to laugh. “I like that. It’s catchy. I like it a lot.”

All afternoon, they talked busily. Then he sent out for Chinese food. Before dinner, he opened a bottle of pills and popped two in his mouth. “Is that your medicine?” asked Agatha.

“No, they’re vitamin pills, a multi-vitamin called Lifex. I swear by them. I keep a supply in the shop. You should try them.”

Agatha picked up the bottle and shook one out. “I’m not very good at swallowing pills,” she said, looking at the large brown gelatine capsule in her hand. “I would choke on something this size. What do they do for you?”

“I find they give me a lot of energy. Let’s eat.”

They talked busily over dinner, firing ideas for their new venture back and forth across the table. Agatha at last said reluctantly that she should get home.

If he had asked her to stay with him, Agatha probably would have succumbed, but he only gathered her back into his arms as he said good night and again sent her senses spinning with one of those kisses, fuelling the hopelessly romantic side of Agatha to boiling point.

She decided as she drove dreamily home that all her suspicions of him had been unfounded. What were they based on after all? One frightened village woman who had probably had a crush on him, had probably written him a silly love letter or something like that and her bad-tempered husband had found out.

There was a message from Charles on her Call Minder but she did not want to phone him, did not want anything to burst the rosy bubble in which she floated. Mr. John-no, John-stop calling him that silly hairdresser’s name-had said he had taken the liberty of making an appointment for her for the following day. Soon she would see him again.

Agatha in love meant an Agatha who could not make up her mind what to wear. Although she started her preparations early the next day, she at last left in a rush, wearing a coat over a sweater and skirt and having torn off more dressy ensembles, feeling she looked as if she were trying too hard.

She would need to steer him to a good interior decorator, she thought, looking round the salon in a proprietorial way. And no receptionist like the dreadful Josie, but no one too glamorous either.

She was shampooed and with a dithering feeling of anticipation was led through to Mr. John.

“Agatha,” he said, giving her a warm smile. He pressed her shoulders and then gripped them hard.

She looked, startled, at his reflection in the mirror. Under the bruises, his face was an unhealthy red colour.

“Excuse me,” he muttered. He fled to the toilet. The tape deck was playing a selection of sixties pop. The Beatles were belting out “She’s got a ticket to ride,” filling the salon with noisy sound. The number finished and then Agatha and everyone else could hear retching sounds coming from the toilet.

Agatha went through and knocked at the door and called, “What’s the matter?”

Another bout of dreadful retching answered her. She was joined by the assistant, Garry.

“He sounds terribly ill,” said Agatha. She rattled the door handle.

“John! John! Let me in.”

She was answered by a loud tearing groan. Then crashing noises.

“Break open the door!” she shouted at Garry.

The willowy Garry threw himself against it but succeeded only in hurting his shoulder.

Agatha was joined by the other customers. Maggie was amongst them, she noticed.

“Get me a screwdriver or chisel,” said Agatha. “Quick. Josie, phone for an ambulance.”

Garry went into the nether regions and came back with a tool-box. Agatha seized a chisel and stuck it into the door jamb at the lock and jerked it sideways. There was a splintering and cracking as the flimsy lock gave way.

Mr. John was lying on the floor. He was now stretched out, immobile, his eyes staring upwards. His pale grey eyes. God, even his eyes have changed colour, thought Agatha wildly.

She knelt down and felt for his pulse, only finding a faint flutter. In the distance, she could hear the wail of the ambulance siren. Thank God, the hospital was quite near.

She gagged at the smell. Vomit was everywhere.

“Ambulance is here!” shouted Josie. Everyone except Agatha rushed to the door. She stared helplessly down at John, wishing she knew first aid. And then she saw his keys had fallen out of his pocket. She scooped them up and put them in the pocket in her skirt.

The ambulance men came in. They told everyone to stand clear. After what seemed to Agatha like an interminable wait he was carried out to the ambulance with a drip in his arm and an oxygen mask over his face.

The police arrived and took notes. “Might be food poisoning, by the sound of it,” said one.

“Can I go home now?” asked the woman called Maggie. Her face was paper-white. “I’ve had a terrible shock.”

“I suppose so,” said one. “We’ll just take a note of your names and addresses and then you can go. But you can’t leave until then.”

There were exclamations of dismay from some of the other customers who, although they were half-way through perms and tints, just wanted to leave as quickly as possible. Maggie sat down and began to cry.

Agatha felt the keys burning a hole in her pocket. Why had she taken them?

Because, she thought, her brain sharpened by fear, perhaps he was a blackmailer, perhaps I’ve been as silly as Charles thinks I am. If he were a blackmailer, then he might have something on Mrs. Friendly in his house. Poor Mrs. Friendly. Why should she suffer more? Agatha did not realize that she had become a true villager: Although Mrs. Friendly was nothing more than an acquaintance, she felt she should be protected, even if it meant breaking the law.

She gave her name and address to one of the policemen. Her hair was still wet but she didn’t care. She wanted to find out what was in that house and then somehow return with the keys and hide them somewhere in the salon. Besides, when Mr. John recovered from his bout of food poisoning, which was what it had looked like, then she would know definitely one way or the other whether he was a villain or simply a very good hairdresser with nothing sinister about him to worry her. Her mind jumped to murder. Could it be murder? The police would not search his house because of simple food poisoning.

Oh yes, they would, she suddenly thought. They’ll want to go through everything and find out what he ate. The Chinese meal! She hoped it wasn’t that. But he would have developed symptoms of food poisoning before today and she herself would have fallen ill.

Feeling naked and exposed, she parked in the back streets behind the Cheltenham Road and set off on foot for the villa. The neighbours might be watching and although they might not spot her, they might remember the make and registration number of any car parked outside the house. The day was so dark and still. As she cautiously approached the villa by way of the side street which ran along the side of it, she glanced nervously to right and left but no face glimmered at her through a window and no one was working in their garden.

After putting on a pair of gloves and fumbling with several of the keys, she found the right one and let herself in.

How many eyes had been watching her from the house opposite? She could say he had given her the keys before he collapsed. Oh, God, his staff would say he had done no such thing. But she was here and so she may as well get on with it.

She walked through the silent, dark, over-furnished rooms. No desk, no filing cabinet. She went upstairs. Two bedrooms showing no signs of recent occupation and then a large double bedroom, obviously his. She searched the bedside table and then the pockets of his jackets in the wardrobe.

Reluctant now to give up the search, she went slowly downstairs. And then, at the bottom of the stairs, she saw a door she had missed before. It was padlocked. A cellar door?

She tried all the keys until she had found the right one. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

She switched on the light inside the door and made her way down steep stone steps to a basement room. She was just reaching for the switch to illuminate the basement when she heard a noise above her head. She switched off the light on the stairs and stood in the darkness, panting like a hunted animal. The police must have arrived.

Agatha had a little torch in her handbag. If only she could find another way out of the basement! Her heart slowed down its pounding race. She cocked her head and listened hard. There were furtive noises from above. She frowned. The police would surely make more noise. Then a sinister gurgling sound. She had shut the door behind her at the top but the padlock was hanging open on the other side of the door.

Then there was a tremendous whoosh and she heard the upstairs street door close.

In one horrified split second she knew what had happened. Someone had set the house alight!

She switched on the basement light. A dusty room with exercise machines and weights and a desk in the corner-a desk that was under a dirty window.

Later Agatha was to reflect that a cool detective would have seized papers from that desk, but all she could think of was the horror of burning to death.

She climbed on the desk and tugged at the window. It was firmly shut. She climbed down and heaved up one of the heaviest of the weights and hurled it at the window, which broke leaving a jagged hole. She smashed away the rest of the glass round the hole and with her gloved hands dragged herself up and through onto a patch of weedy earth outside.

She was in the garden at the side of the house, between the house and garage.

She crouched on her hands and knees behind a bush. How to get away unobserved? She took the keys from her pocket and threw them back in through the window.

Overhead came a great crack of thunder and the rain came down in sheets, so heavy it blotted out the view of the houses around.

A woman ran past down the street. Agatha had an excuse to be seen running hard.

She belted through the torrent, not stopping until she had reached her car.

Gasping and sobbing with fright, she drove off. She nearly ran into another car on the Four Pools Industrial Estate and realized she had not switched the windscreen wipers on.

She swung out onto the by-pass and made her way slowly and carefully home, through Broadway, up Fish Hill and along the escarpment past the Chipping Camden road, until she turned left and down through the tunnels of trees to Carsely.

She let herself into her cottage just as the rain began to slacken. She slammed the door shut behind her and slumped down onto the hall floor and took the phone onto her lap. She phoned Charles and said in a shaky voice, “Come over. Something dreadful’s happened.”

She found she was still wearing those gloves. She tore them off and carried them into the living room. She put a whole packet of fire-lighters in the fireplace, then a bunch of kindling and lit the lot. When the flames were roaring up the chimney, she threw the gloves onto the fire. Her shoes! If there was anything left of the house, they would scan the carpets and find her footprints. She took off her shoes and threw them on the fire as well and then sat in front of the blaze, hugging herself and rocking to and fro.

When the doorbell rang, she gave a gulp of relief and went to open it. Charles stood there, as neat and immaculate as ever. She threw herself into his arms and began to cry.

“There now,” he said, shoving her inside. “What have you been up to? What’s that dreadful smell? Have you been burning old boots?”

He propelled her into the living-room. “Sit down. I’ll get us a brandy. You’re all smoky and smelly and soaking wet.”

He poured two brandies and handed one to Agatha. “Now drink that and tell Uncle Charlie what happened. Did he rape you? No, you might have a smile on your face.”

“Don’t be coarse. Are you one of those fools who think women like being raped?”

“Oh my God. You poor thing. It was rape. Look, Agatha. It’s no longer the Dark Ages. We’ll phone the police right now and-”

“IT WASN’T RAPE!” screamed Agatha.

“Well, what was it?”

“Sit down. Listen. I’ll tell you. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.”

Charles listened while Agatha told of the collapse of Mr. John and how she had stolen his keys, about the house being set on fire.

“God, you’re idiotic, Aggie,” he remarked. “Someone’s bound to have seen you. You might have got away with it if the house hadn’t been torched. Police, forensics, experts from the insurance company, God, they’ll be crawling over what’s left inch by inch.”

“What am I to do?” wailed Agatha.

“Pray.”

“I mean, what am I really to do?”

“Well, if he was sick to the point of collapse and then someone torched his house, it looks to me as if someone tried to murder him. As they got him to the hospital, he’ll probably be all right, and when he recovers he can maybe tell the police who he thinks did it.”

“Now it’s you who are being stupid,” said Agatha. “If he was a blackmailer, then he won’t want to give the police the names of any suspects in case one of his victims tells all.”

“I know, we could pay him a visit, or rather you pay him a visit and tell him about taking his keys. Throw yourself on his mercy.”

“He might think I torched the house.”

“He probably knows who did it.”

“But what if he’s not a blackmailer, but just an innocent philanderer?”

“I’ve a feeling he’s a crook. But let’s go to the hospital anyway.”

When they got to Evesham Hospital, it was to find that John had been transferred to the Mircester General Hospital.

“May as well go,” said Charles.

They drove in silence to Mircester.

“What’s his second name?” asked Charles when he parked in front of the hospital.

“Shawpart.”

“Okay, here we go.”

They got out of the car.

“Oh, Aggie.”

“What?”

“How stupid we’ve been. You visited him twice, legitimately, so that will explain any fingerprint and footprints or loose hair. And how will they know they’re your fingerprints anyway?”

“I got fingerprinted on one of the earlier cases.”

“Still, it’s not too bad when you think about it. If they find the keys, they’ll think the arsonist left them. Wait, that’s odd.”

“What’s odd?”

“You heard someone come in. You didn’t hear anyone break in.”

Agatha stared at him in amazement. “That’s right.”

“So unless one of the neighbours saw you, you shouldn’t be in any trouble at all. And if it’s food poisoning, there won’t be such a fuss. He’s probably sitting up in bed, putting in his contact lenses.”

“I didn’t know he wore contact lenses.”

“Aggie, those unnaturally blue eyes.”

“So that’s why when I found him collapsed in the loo his eyes had gone grey?”

“Exactly.” He took her arm. “I make a better detective than you any day.”