Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

SIX

AGATHA awoke in the morning to find Charles gone. She stretched and yawned and then remembered the night’s love-making as if it had all happened in a dream. But the sun was shining outside and the horrors had gone.

She went down to the kitchen. Charles had left a note: “Just remembered I’ve got guests arriving. Phone you later, Charles.”

It wouldn’t have hurt him to have said something affectionate, thought Agatha. She went back upstairs and washed and dressed and came down just as the doorbell rang. For the first time, she did not hope it was James. It must be Charles. With a glad smile, she flung open the door.

Mrs. Bloxby stood there. Agatha’s face fell. “Oh, it’s you. Come in.”

“Who were you expecting?”

“Charles. You’ve heard about the murder? Of course you have. It was dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. Did she have any family?”

“She has a daughter and son,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “They are with the police at the moment.”

Agatha told her all about Mrs. Dairy, about the attempted blackmail, and how Mrs. Dairy had said she was going to play detective herself.

“But she couldn’t have got very far,” exclaimed the vicar’s wife. “Unless, of course, she had known John Shaw-part somewhere before. Where was he before he came to Evesham?”

“Portsmouth. He said Portsmouth. I might drive there today and see what I can find out.”

“So who are your suspects?”

“I don’t think we have any except perhaps either Mrs. Friendly’s husband or Maggie Henderson’s husband. There is a certain Jessie Lang who works at a dentist’s in Evesham who knew him and was seen at his house. Oh, and John told me he had been married once. Damn, the police probably know who to and where but they won’t tell me.”

“And where is Charles today?” asked Mrs. Bloxby brightly-too brightly, thought Agatha as those mild eyes studied her face.

“Oh, he’s got guests. He’ll probably be back later.” Did he pack? wondered Agatha suddenly.

“Of course, I don’t think it can be a man,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Why?”

“Just a feeling.”

“I don’t know. Of course poisoning is traditionally a woman’s weapon.”

“In history, a lot of the famous poisoners were actually men-Neill Cream, Carlyle Harris, Roland B. Molineux, Henri Landru, and so on.”

Agatha sighed. “I keep forgetting that fire. Whoever set that fire killed John; I’m sure of it. Where was Mrs. Dairy living before she came here?”

Mrs. Bloxby frowned in concentration. Then she shook her head. “She told me, but I can’t remember at the moment. It’ll come back to me. I think perhaps you should leave this to the police. That killing of Mrs. Dairy was savage. Perhaps it might be wise if you went away for a bit. If the murderer is one of the people you’ve already talked to, they might come after you.”

“I’ll try just a little bit longer. In villages, people are supposed to know everyone else’s comings and goings. It’s a wonder no one was seen going to Mrs. Dairy’s cottage.”

“Ah, but our local bobby, Fred, told me the police think whoever it was entered from the back. If someone went round by the back lane, they wouldn’t be seen. No other cottages overlook the back.”

“Someone broke in?”

Mrs. Bloxby shook her head. “They think she knew her caller. She had already served tea before she was struck down. Didn’t you notice that? But she always left her doors unlocked when she was at home.”

“All I saw was her shattered head and that poor dog.” Agatha shivered. Why hadn’t Charles phoned?

“Please don’t do anything more about it.” The vicar’s wife looked worried. “I really do believe it will put you in danger.”

“I’ll just ask around a bit.” And maybe it was a good idea to get away from Carsely, thought Agatha. Serve Charles right if he called and found her gone.

…

After lunch, a restless Agatha decided to drive to Worcester and present herelf at police headquarters to see if they might tell her how far they had got.

She drove into Evesham and turned onto the Pershore Road just before the bridge. She glanced across the road at the river. People were fishing and other people were watching them. Then she jammed on the brakes and pulled into the side of the road. An infuriated truck driver roared past, flashing his lights.

Agatha peered across the road, but her view was blocked by traffic. She eased out, drove on, found a convenient place to turn and headed back. For she had seen a blonde, rabbity-looking girl watching the fishing and all at once she was sure that girl was Jessie Lang.

By the time she had parked in the meadows and set out on foot, she had begun to think that Evesham was probably full of blonde, rabbity-looking girls. Still, it was worth a try.

She approached the place where she thought she had seen the girl who looked like Jessie. No sign of her. No sign of any blonde. Men fished. People watched them. Children ran around screaming. Children always screamed these days, thought Agatha sourly.

And then, farther along the tow-path, she saw a blonde head bobbing along. She hurried and when she was nearly up to her, she called, “Jessie!”

The girl stopped and turned around. Yes, there were the rabbity teeth and skinny legs.

Agatha smiled and held out her hand. “Jessie Lang? I’m Agatha Raisin.”

The girl touched Agatha’s hand with her own skeletal one. “Who are you? I don’t know you. Are you one of the patients?”

“No, I’m investigating the murder of John Shawpart,” Agatha blurted out.

Jessie backed away, fear darting into her eyes. “Are you the police?”

Agatha knew in that moment that if she said she was a private individual, the girl would run away from her.

She took out her credit-card case and snapped it quickly open and shut. “Detective Constable Raisin,” said Agatha. “Shall we sit over there and have a few words?”

She led the way to a bench. The girl followed her, stumbling as her high heels spiked into the grass.

They sat down side by side.

“We know,” said Agatha, “that you were seen visiting John Shawpart at his house.”

Jessie began to cry. “My m-mum’ll kill me,” she sobbed.

“We do not need to bring your mother or any of your family into this,” said Agatha. “Just tell the truth and you’ve got nothing to fear. Here.” She opened her capacious handbag and drew out a packet of tissues.

Jessie blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “Sure Mum won’t get to know?”

“I see no reason why she should.”

Jessie took a deep breath. “Mum doesn’t like me, see. She’s always been picking on me. My sister Rachel’s the favourite. If Mum knew, she’d tell my boyfriend, Wayne. She’s like that, Mum is.”

“So what happened?”

“He come on to me, John did.”

“When? Where? In the salon?”

“No, at the disco off Bridge Street.”

“A disco? I thought he would have been a bit old for a disco.”

She hiccuped and gave a pathetic little sniff. “That’s what my pals thought. Wayne was away. He’s a long-distance driver, so I was there with the girls and they was giggling about him. But I thought he looked like a film star. He saw me clocking him and he come over and offered to buy me a drink. We got talking. He was flash, y’know. He asked me if I’d like to meet him for dinner the following night and Wayne was still away and I thought then it was a bit of a giggle, so I said yes.”

She fell silent. Children played, mothers gossiped, the river Avon chuckled past between its grassy banks. A pleasure boat like the one Agatha and Charles had sailed on cruised past. Charles, why didn’t you phone?

“So then what happened?”

“It was ever such a posh restaurant and we drank a lot and one thing led to another.”

“You slept with him?” What a euphemism, thought Agatha bleakly, remembering the previous night.

“Yes,” she whispered. “And I was a virgin. I was saving meself for Wayne.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

Oh, God, I could kill him myself were the bastard still alive, thought Agatha fiercely.

Aloud she asked, “How long did the affair go on?”

Her thin hands twisted together. “That was it. He never took me out again. I called at his house. He said it was a one-night stand. I should have known that. I told him he had taken my virginity and he said, ‘So what? You’re old enough to lose it.’ I could’ve killed him.” Her eyes dilated. “But I didn’t!”

“Are you sure Wayne doesn’t know about this?”

She shook her head. “My pals teased him about some fellow at the disco buying me a drink, but they said he was old.”

“Did you know we believe John Shawpart to have been a blackmailer?”

She shook her head.

Agatha patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m amazed that a girl of your age these days should still be a virgin.”

Jessie gave a wry smile. “You oldies all think we’re at it like rabbits, but I was saving myself for Wayne, just like in those Barbara Cartland books. I’ll need to tell Wayne.”

“Is he very experienced?”

“He’s a virgin like I was before that sodding hairdresser got me.”

Well, well, God bless Evesham, the last home of innocence, thought Agatha.

She said aloud, “Look, I don’t think you’ve given us anything we can use. We’re only interested in the people he was blackmailing. As one woman to another, I’ll do this for you; I won’t tell my bosses I’ve met you.”

“Oh, thank you. What was your name again?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Agatha, a small feeling of panic beginning to enter her brain. What if the police did catch up with this girl and learned she had been impersonating a police officer!

“You’re ever so kind,” said Jessie, her face now radiant with relief.

Agatha walked quickly away. But what, niggled a voice in her brain, just what if Wayne knew about it and took revenge? I should have asked for Wayne’s address, but then I can’t ask now. I’ve done enough damage by pretending to be a detective. I hope to God I never run into her in Evesham. I hope she never learns that I’ve got nothing to do with the police.

She felt a weariness when she walked back to her car. How pleasant it would be to forget about the whole thing and sit in the meadows and watch the placid river flowing past. Evesham people did not seemed to be plagued with ambition. Yes, that’s it, Agatha Raisin! It’s just ambition. You want to prove to the police you can do better.

Then she thought, what about that woman who was complaining about her daughter, Betty, pushing drugs? Her husband was called Jim. How to find out? Not from Josie. Damn Charles, he should have asked her about it. There was Garry, however. If she made an appointment with Garry, she could maybe get something out of him.

She had not tipped him that time he had done her hair, she had been so cross with the result. She could go in and, if he was free, start off my apologizing for her previous lapse and tip him generously. Agatha decided to forget about going to Worcester.

She drove to the Merstow Green car-park and then walked along the High Street to Eve’s. Eve was perming a woman’s hair. Apart from that, there were no other customers in the shop.

Josie looked at Agatha with barely concealed animosity. “Is Garry free?” asked Agatha.

“I’ll get him,” said Josie ungraciously.

She disappeared into the back premises and then came back followed by Garry.

“I just happen to have a cancellation,” said Garry brightly. He swirled a gown around Agatha and led her through to the wash-basins. No juniors, Agatha noticed. Had they been sacked due to lack of business? She fumbled under her gown and drew a fiver out of the pocket of her jacket. “Here, I forgot to tip you last time.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Garry, visibly brightening.

“Very quiet today,” said Agatha. “I just want a blow-dry, please.”

Garry looked around and then bent over her. “Don’t know what’s happening. All Mr. John’s customers came here at first.”

“Are they going somewhere else?”

“I think they’re going to Thomas Oliver down the street.”

“Got a good reputation, have they?”

“Never been in there.”

Agatha waited until her hair was washed and she was led through into the salon. Eve was heading out of the door. “Won’t be long, Garry,” she said curtly. “Mind the store.”

“There she goes,” he said. “You’d think she might wait around a bit. Sometimes customers walk in off the street.”

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself much here,” said Agatha sympathetically.

“It’s dead boring. Too quiet.” He raised the blow-drier.

“Mr. John’s always seemed to be full of people and gossip,” Agatha said. “And the things they said! I remember hearing a woman talking about her husband, Jim, and her daughter Betty. She even said that she thought her daughter might be pushing drugs.”

“Oh, that’d be Mavis Burke. You have to take everything she says with a pinch of salt.”

“Local woman?”

“Yes, lives in one of those new houses on the Four Pools Estate.” He switched on the drier and began to work busily.

I can’t ask him if he knows the address, thought Agatha. That would be pushing it. I’ll go to the post office and check the phone book for Burkes.

She suffered dismally under the ministrations of the energetic Garry. He had been bad enough before, but now he was worse. She looked sadly at her bouffant hair-style.

“Very nice,” she said bleakly. She tipped him again, paid Josie and went out into the High Street.

She went into a phone-box at the post office and checked her Call Minder. “No messages,” said the tinny, elocuted voice, with what Agatha felt was smug satisfaction. So face up to it. Charles had laid her and now he was gone and she was on her own.

She asked at the counter for the Worcestershire phone book and ran her finger down the Burkes. There was one Burke on the Four Pools Estate, and J. Burke at that.

I’ll show Charles, I’ll show the police, I’ll show everybody I can do it on my own. Agatha strode along the High Street to the car-park. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a shop window and shuddered. The things I suffer in the name of detection!

She drove to the Four Pools Estate. How quickly Evesham was spreading out. A new McDonald’s had been built in about two weeks earlier in the year and a large new pub in about two months. Soon the countryside would be swallowed up. Agatha realized that she was in danger of becoming one of those people she had hitherto despised-the I-know-they’ve-got-to-live-somewhere, but-why-can’t-it-be-some-where-else? type of person.

Before she got out of the car, she took a comb out of her handbag and wrenched it down through her lacquered hair until she felt she had flattened it a bit.

As she braced herself to walk up a neat garden path, she was engulfed in a sudden wave of depression. Charles’s cavalier treatment of her brought back all her fierce longing for James and her mind began to credit him with warmth and affections that he did not have.

She rang the doorbell.

The door was opened. She recognised Mavis immediately, but Mavis did not recognise her.

“I would like you to know, we go to mass every Sunday,” said Mavis crossly, “and we don’t want anything to do with the likes of you!”

The door began to close.

“I’m not a Jehovah,” said Agatha quickly. “I was a client of Mr. John’s.”

The door opened again. “The one that died?”

“Was murdered, yes. May we talk?”

“Yes, come in.” Mavis had an ordinary sort of face without any particular distinguishing features, pale blue eyes and a surprisingly smooth and shining stylish head of hair.

Mavis, as she led the way into a cosy living-room, did not evince any signs of fear or nervousness. “Sit down, Mrs…?”

“Raisin. Call me Agatha.”

“Right Agatha. I’ll get us some tea. I’d just put the kettle on and I’m dying for a cuppa.”

When Mavis left the room, Agatha looked about her. She had somehow expected the mother of a drug addict and pusher would live in squalor. But the living-room was furnished with a three-piece suite in shades of gold and brown. An electric fire with mock coals glowed cheerfully. There were framed family photographs on the walls and a crucifix over the fireplace. Women’s magazines and television guides lay on the coffee-table.

After a short time Mavis entered carrying a tray on which was a fat teapot and china mugs decorated with roses and a plate of cakes, bright with pink and white icing.

“Terrible business, that,” said Mavis, pouring tea. “And to think I knew him!”

“As a client?”‘ Agatha accepted a mug of very dark strong tea.

“Oh, no, he even took me out for dinner once. What’s your interest?”

“I suppose I am by way of being an amateur detective,” said Agatha modestly, for she privately thought there was nothing amateur about her efforts at all.

“Oh, I know. You was in the papers once. Your hubby got bumped off. This is exciting. Just like on telly. Wait till I tell my Jim.”

Jim, the monster! Agatha was beginning to feel bewildered.

“Why did he ask you out and you a married woman?”

“Well, look, it all started with a sort of bet I’d had with Selma Figgs next door. She was saying how Mr. John was like a film star. ‘We couldn’t get off with one of those, now could we, Mavis,’ she says to me. So I said, ‘I bet you a tenner I can.’ I knew our Mr. John was a bit of a ladies’ man and he always seemed to be chatting up right frumps, if you ask me.”

Agatha winced.

“So I spun him a line about an unhappy home-life and all that. I’d pinched it out of one of the soaps, the story, like. So he asks me out for dinner. I told Jim and we had ever such a laugh. ‘Go on,’ says Jim, ‘enjoy yourself. Let the silly sod pay for it.’ ”

“And did he come on to you?” asked Agatha.

“Naw. He was ever so polite and I had a rare good meal. Course it was a bit of a strain, what with me having to keep the story going.”

“Did he ask you about money?”

“Wait a bit. I s’pose he did. Asked what Jim did. I said he was in bathroom sales over at Cheltenham and had a fair enough wage, but what with Betty’s university education and our Jack’s needing new bits for his computer every week, I said it was a miracle we made ends meet.”

She took a sip of tea and wrinkled her brow. “What else? Oh, I know, he said women like me were very clever and I’d no doubt got a bit put by, and well, I laughed at that one and said every penny I got came from Jim. He never asked me out again. Probably guessed I was a liar.”

Knew you hadn’t any money, thought Agatha. She said, “But when you were telling him those stories-I mean, I heard you telling him your Betty was on drugs. Weren’t you afraid someone might inform the police?”

Mavis stared at Agatha round-eyed. Then she said slowly, “I never thought of that. I mean, everyone chatters on about everything at a hairdresser’s don’t they? I mean, when you’re talking, what with the noise from the driers and all, you never think anyone is listening. I don’t think what I’ve told you can be of much help. Who would want to bump him off in that cruel way? And why?”

Agatha put down her cup and stood up. “Well, here’s my card. If you hear of anything that might be interesting, let me know.”

“Thanks a lot. You haven’t had a cake.”

“Not hungry,” said Agatha with a smile.

Mavis walked her to the door. “Bye, bye,” she said cheerfully. “Call round again if you’re ever this way.”

Now what do I do? thought Agatha. That was a waste of time.

Inside the trim house she had left, Mavis sat down, her hands to her mouth. Then she gave herself a little shake and smiled up at the photograph of herself on the wall, a photograph Agatha had failed to notice. It showed a much younger Mavis, a blonde and leggy Mavis performing as principal boy in a pantomime production of Puss and Boots.

“I could have been a real actress,” said Mavis aloud.

Agatha went home and fed her cats and played with them for a little. Then she checked her phone to see if there were any messages. None. This was silly. Why not just phone Charles? He could be ill.

She was just about to pick up the phone when it rang. Charles, at last. She picked up the receiver. “Roy here.” Roy Silver.

“What d’you want?” demanded Agatha sharply.

“I’ve got a few days off. Thought I might pop down and see you.”

“I’m afraid I’m busy.”

“Oh.”

That “oh” sounded disappointed, but Agatha calculated sourly that this sudden desire to see her meant that Roy’s boss had some public relations scheme he wanted to involve her in.

“And I’ve got something on the stove,” lied Agatha. “Look, I’ll call you back. Are you at home?”

“Yes, but don’t trouble, sweetie,” said Roy huffily.

“I’ll ring you.” Agatha put the phone down and dialled Charles’s number. The phone was answered by his aunt.

“Oh, Mrs. Raisin,” she fluted when Agatha had identified herself. “Charles is busy with our guests. Is it terribly important?”

“I have found out something that might interest him.”

“Wait a moment and I’ll see if he can come to the phone.”

The phone was in the draughty, cavernous wood-panelled hall of Charles’s home. Agatha could hear the aunt’s heels clopping across the parquet, then the door of the drawing-room opened, a burst of noise and laughter, door closed, silence again.

Charles took so long to answer the phone that Agatha almost hung up. But then she hear the door of the drawing-room open again, that burst of noise and laughter, and then Charles’s voiced: “Hullo, Aggie.”

“I thought you might have phoned,” said Agatha crossly.

“Oh, you mean our case?”

No, I don’t mean our case, Agatha wanted to howl. Don’t you remember making love to me?

“Yes, I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.”

Charles listened and then said, “Seems you do better on your own.”

“Why I phoned,” Agatha pressed on, “is I wondered when we’re going to take that trip to Portsmouth?”

“Can’t.”

“Why? Do you think it’s a waste of time?”

“No, not that. The most wonderful thing has happened. There’s this girl here. Fantastic. I’m in love.”

“In that case,” said Agatha evenly, “I won’t keep you.”

She hung up and sat down on a chair beside the phone and stared miserably into space.

The silence of the cottage suddenly seemed oppressive. And she was alone. And out there was the maniac who had killed Mrs. Dairy so brutally. No one wanted Agatha Raisin, except perhaps some murderer who wanted to silence her. There had been a murder committed in Carsely, home of that famous detective, Agatha Raisin, and yet not a reporter had called. But then the police had claimed the credit before. Still, Agatha Raisin had found the body. They probably hadn’t told the press that.

She slowly dialled Roy’s number. “I’m sorry I was so rude,” she said when he answered. “You are most welcome if you want to come.”

“I’ll be on the train that gets in around eleven-thirty in the morning.”

“Is that Great Western or Thames Turbo?”

“Don’t ask me, sweetie. I was born in the days of British Rail. Why?”

“It’s just the trains sometimes get cancelled. If you get stuck, take the train to Oxford and I’ll pick you up there.”

“Righto. See you.”

Agatha put down the phone, suddenly grateful for Roy and his thick skin. And if he had a few days free, then perhaps he might like to go to Portsmouth with her. She marvelled at the insensitivity of Charles. How on earth could you bed one woman and then tell her soon afterwards that you were in love with another?

She remembered when she was a little girl going out to play with a gang of boys who had turned nasty and thrown stones at her. She had run home to her mother, blood streaming down her face. “I told you not to play with the wrong children,” her mother had raged. “Now, see what happens?”

And I’ve never learned my lesson, thought Agatha sadly. I’ve been playing with the wrong children all my life.

It was a blustery day with red leaves swirling down into the station car-park when Roy’s train cruised in, miraculously on time. Great fluffy clouds sailed across a pale blue sky.

Roy kissed the air on either side of Agatha’s face, making mwaa, mwaa sounds.

“Lovely to see you, Aggie.” Agatha experienced a pang. Charles also called her Aggie.

“You’re looking well,” lied Agatha, privately thinking that Roy looked as seedy and unhealthy as ever with his lank hair, white, pinched face, too-tight jeans and bomber jacket.

“I’ll be healthier after a bit of country air. Tell me how you’re getting on with the hairdresser murder.”

As she drove him back to Carsely, Agatha outlined everything she had discovered, but left Charles’s name out of it. She ended up by saying, “Don’t feel like a trip to Portsmouth, do you? I feel if I dug into his past I might find something.”

“Give me a day to relax and then maybe we’ll go for it.”

“How’s business?”

“Business is very good. In fact, I’ve got another rise. There’s a new restaurant in Stratford called the Gold Duck. I took the liberty of booking us a table for dinner.”

At Agatha’s cottage, Roy took his bag up to the spare room and then joined Agatha in the kitchen.

“So how’s James?”

“I haven’t heard. He’s abroad somewhere.”

“No reason to let yourself go to seed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Grey hairs coming through.”

Agatha gave a squawk of alarm and ran up to the bathroom. She peered at the roots of her hair. Her hair grew quickly. Her old colour was beginning to show, along with unmistakably grey hairs.

She ran downstairs again. “I can’t bear it. I’ve got to get my hair done again. God, I’m spending all my days at the hairdresser’s! Now, who did Garry, say everyone was going to? Thomas Oliver, that’s it. You’ll need to amuse yourself, Roy.”

She phoned and was told there had been a cancellation and they could take her in half an hour’s time.

“See you,” she gabbled at Roy and ran out to her car.

…

The hairdresser’s seemed a slicker establishment than either Eve’s’s or Mr. John’s. There was a friendly atmosphere. She was told to take a seat and that Marie, the owner, would be with her soon. Agatha looked about her curiously. It was very busy, a good sign.

Then Marie Steele joined her. She was an attractive blonde with a friendly smile. “I’ve brought a chart of colours,” she said, opening it on Agatha’s lap. “Do you want your hair the same shade?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “I’d like it to look as natural as possible.”

“Perhaps this? Or maybe you’d like a little warm touch of auburn?”

Agatha thought of Charles, of James, of lost love. “Wouldn’t it look too false?” she asked cautiously.

“You’ll look great. I’ll tell Lucy which colour to mix and then I’ll blow-dry your hair myself.”

Lucy, a slim, elegant girl who looked like a model, soon arranged Agatha in a chair in the back salon and deftly began to tint her roots. Agatha felt soothed for the first time in days. The gossip of the hairdresser’s surrounded her. Mort, who, it transpired, was Iranian by birth, was chattering non-stop. Gus, a Sicilian, was making his customer laugh; Kevin, a beautiful young man, was washing hair and bringing coffee; and the efficient Marie was here, there and everywhere.

At last Agatha had her hair shampooed and was led through to Marie.

“Now, how do you like it?” asked Marie, raising the hair-drier.

“Sort of smooth. I wear it in a smooth bob.”

“Right. You’ll find that tinge of auburn works great.”

She worked busily. The hairdresser’s was thinning out. Apart from Agatha, there was only one other customer left.

Finally Agatha looked with delight at her gleaming hair. “Oh, that’s very good,” she said with relief.

“Your hair’s in very good condition,” said Marie, sitting down beside her. “Are you from Evesham?”

“No, Carsely.”

“Raisin! That’s it! I knew I’d heard that name. Oh, dear, your husband was murdered.”

“Yes, but I’m over that now.”

“And you were there when John Shawpart died?”

“It was awful.”

“It must have been.”

“You don’t expect murder and mayhem at a hairdresser’s,” said Agatha.

Marie laughed. “I don’t know about that. There’s times I could have committed murder myself.”

“Awkward customers?”

“No, other hairdressers. It’s a bit like the theatre. Lots of rivalries and jealousies. I had most of my staff poached by a rival last year, and just before Christmas. I was so down, I didn’t feel like going on. But I’ve got a great team now.”

“I see that,” said Agatha. “I’ll make another appointment.”

She paid and left, scurrying to the sanctuary of her car in case the wind messed any of the glory of her auburn hair.

“That’s better,” said Roy when she arrived home. “I put your cats in the garden. Have you fed them?”

“Yes. Any phone calls?”

“That aristo friend of yours.”

“Charles?”

“Yes, him.”

“What did he want?”

“Didn’t say. Why not call him?”

“Later,” mumbled Agatha.

“So, do we go detecting?”

“Maybe, if you’re fit, I’ll drive to Portsmouth tomorrow. I spent so long at the hairdresser’s, there’s not much of the day left. I’ll have a bath and change, have a drink and watch some television and then we’ll be off. What time did you book the table for?”

“Eight o’clock.”

Agatha forced herself to make up and dress with care, just as if she were about to go out with a glamorous man and not Roy, whom she had first employed as an office boy all those years ago. He was a good public relations officer, particularly with pop groups, who hailed him as one of their own kind.

When she went downstairs, Roy was lounging in front of the television set. “Aren’t you going to change?” demanded Agatha.

“Nobody dresses up to go out for dinner these days,” said Roy, flicking aimlessly through the channels with the remote control.

“I do. So you do. Hop to it!”

Grumbling, Roy went upstairs to change.

The restaurant in Stratford-upon-Avon was crowded. They were given a corner table which commanded a good view of the rest of the customers.

And then Agatha saw Charles. He was sitting with a blonde who had one of those rich-monkey-Chelsea faces. He was telling jokes and laughing uproariously. Agatha noticed with a certain sour pleasure that the girl looked bored.

Roy, on an expense account or had Agatha been paying, would have ordered all the most expensive things on the menu, but as it was, he said he wasn’t feeling very hungry and would skip a starter and watched moodily as Agatha ate her way through quail and salad before going on to Steak Béarnaise while he himself had pasta as a main course. He ordered the house wine, saying with a false laugh, “I don’t see any point in ordering anything else. I find the house wine is usually just as good.”

Oh, James, thought Agatha, you were never mean. I feel at this moment, if you walked in the door of this restaurant, I would forgive you anything.

A young man approached Charles’s table and hailed his companion. She introduced the newcomer to Charles and asked Charles something. Charles gave a grumpy nod. A waiter was called, another chair brought and the newcomer joined Charles and his lady. She proceeded to sparkle at the newcomer and give him all her attention while Charles, after a few jocular remarks to which neither paid any attention, relapsed into a moody silence.

“Revenge is mine,” said Agatha.

Roy look at her, puzzled. “What?”

“Nothing. Yes, I think we’ll go to Portsmouth tomorrow.”