TWO

AFTER a week of working—or rather barely working—for Agatha, Emma could feel the little personality she had found for herself crumbling away bit by bit. Agatha was very much the boss. She had instructed Emma to prepare computer files for all the cases she hoped to get. Other than that, she barely spoke to her, and in the evening they went off in their respective cars to Carsely.

Agatha was cross that the first publicity for the new agency had given praise to Emma. The photographer had taken a photo of Agatha and she had worn her new power suit especially for the occasion, but that photograph had not been used.

Of course she told everyone in the village who asked that she was lucky to have “found” Emma. Only Mrs. Bloxby was not deceived.

Agatha had chosen an office in one of the old medieval lanes of central Mircester. It was situated above an antique shop. Now she wished she had gone for a cheaper place, perhaps out in the industrial estate. She felt tucked away and it was impossible for anyone to park outside.

After two weeks, Agatha felt she had good reason to sack Emma. It was silly to pay wages to a secretary who had no work to do.

She braced herself, looking truculently at Emma, who was immersed in a book. Agatha coughed. Emma looked up. She knew the chop was coming and her heart sank.

And then they both heard the voice of Dennis Burley, the antique dealer, saying, “Yes, go on right up. The agency’s on your right at the first landing.”

Both women looked at each other, momentarily bonded by hope.

A small man wearing a flat cap, a polo shirt and baggy flannels came in without knocking. His face seemed to be all nose, as if some godly hand had pulled his face forward at birth. A small toothbrush moustache lurked under its shadow.

“Please sit down,” cooed Agatha. “Tea or coffee?”

He cleared his throat. “Nothing. I wonder if you can help me.”

Emma produced her notebook.

“My son has gone missing,” he said.

“May I have your name?”

“I’m Harry Johnson. My son is called Wayne. He’s nineteen.” “Have you been to the police?”

“Yes, but Wayne’s got a bit of a record for stealing cars, so they’re not bothering much.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“Two days.”

“Does he normally live with you?”

“Yes; here’s my card.”

He extracted his wallet and fished out a card. Emma rose and took it from him, noting that Mr. Johnson was a plumber.

“Can you give us a list of places he usually frequents?”

“He likes going to Poppy’s Disco, reckon pretty much all the pubs, that’s about all.”

Emma suddenly spoke. “Mr. Johnson, why are you so anxious about him? He is nineteen, he likes pubs and clubs. Might he not just have taken off somewhere? Does he have a car?”

“Yes, he does. My bleedin’ car. That’s why I want to find him.”

“Make of car and registration?” asked Emma, while Agatha fretted. She should be the one asking all the questions.

“It’s a red Rover SL-44. Here. I’ll write down the registration number for you.”

“Quite an old car,” said Emma.

“But I kept it beautiful. I told him he was never to touch it. He must have taken the keys off the table while I was asleep in front of the telly. How much do you lot charge?”

“If we recover your car, the charge will be a hundred pounds,” said Emma, “but our expenses will be added on. They may not amount to much unless he has gone out of town.”

“I’m not a rich man,” said Mr. Johnson. “Oh, go ahead. But I don’t want to be running up no big expenses. If you haven’t found him after two days, forget it.”

“I’ll get you the form to sign,” said Emma, going to a filing cabinet. Agatha’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t even know they had a suitable form. Also, Emma was no longer wearing the old tweed suit but a smart linen skirt and blouse. I hope the cow isn’t thinking of taking over, thought Agatha sourly.

“Here we are,” said Emma. “I’ll fill in the money—here— and then you sign here and here. Fill in your address and your phone numbers and an e-mail address if you have it. If you will give us a cheque for a hundred pounds now, then we will bill you for any expenses.”

He brought out a battered wallet. “Credit card?”

“No,” said Emma with a smile. “Cheque and bank card, please. Oh, and we’ll need a photograph.”

He took a photograph from his inside pocket and was about to hand it to Emma, but Emma, conscious of Agatha’s eyes boring into her, said, “Please hand it to Mrs. Raisin.”

Agatha looked down at the photograph in surprise. “This is your car. Haven’t you got a photograph of your son?”

“Oh, him. Yeah, got one here.” He ferreted back in his inside pocket and produced a small passport photo.

Wayne had black hair gelled up into a crest on top of his head. He had a nose stud and five little earrings in one ear. His face was thin and his lips were curled in a sneer.

“Do I get my money back if you don’t find my car. .. I mean, him?” asked Mr. Johnson.

Agatha looked at Emma. “No, but you will not be charged expenses,” said Emma.

“Right, I’ll be on me way. Keep me posted.”

There was a silence after he had left, and then Agatha said, “We didn’t charge enough. The rent of this place is awful, not to mention the business tax.”

“I thought it might be an idea to keep prices low until we have built up a reputation.”

“In future, consult me. Right? Now, Ed better get started.”

“Do you want me to go and look for the boy?” asked Emma.

“Remember this. You’re a secretary. So stay here and man the phones.”

Agatha went straight to Mircester Police Headquarters and asked to speak to her friend. Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. She was in luck; Bill was not out on a case.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been round to see you,” said Bill. “I read in the paper that you’d opened up your detective agency. How’s it going? Who is this Emma Comfrey who found the cat?”

“She’s only my secretary. She’s my new neighbour and wanted the job. Actually, she got lucky, that’s all. I’m thinking of replacing her with someone young. I mean, she’s sixty-seven, for God’s sake.” Like a lot of people in their fifties, Agatha considered sixty-something ancient, as if it were an age she would never reach.

“Fit and well?”

“Yes.”

“I’d think that’d be an asset, Agatha. I mean, if you’re out and about and someone calls, it would be reassuring to have a mature woman there instead of some little girl.”

“I think she’s too pushy.”

Bill roared with laughter. Then he said, “Coming from you, that’s rich. Don’t glare at me. You want something. What?”

Agatha told him about the missing Wayne.

“Oh, that one,” said Bill. “I’ve picked him up a couple of times for drunk and disorderly. He wasn’t driving at the time. Has he got a licence?”

“I didn’t check,” mumbled Agatha, and then in a stronger voice. “That’s Emma’s fault. She was the one asking all the questions. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.”

“Talking about licences, Agatha. Do you have one for the agency?”

“Don’t need one yet in the UK. You should know that. How do I start looking for Wayne?”

“Every pub and club in Mircester. Last time I arrested him was outside Poppy’s Disco.”

“He’s taken his father’s Rover and Pa wants that back more than his son. Could you be an angel and run the registration through your computer and see if it’s turned up smashed anywhere?”

“Just this once,” said Bill severely. “You can’t expect me to do all your detecting for you. Wait here.”

“As if I hadn’t helped you before,” grumbled Agatha to his retreating back.

Bill Wong was Agatha’s oldest and first friend. When she had sold her public relations business and taken early retirement and moved to the Cotswolds, Bill, son of a Chinese father and Gloucestershire mother, had investigated what Agatha remembered as her first case. Before that, grumpy and prickly Agatha had not had any friends.

While Bill was away, Agatha wondered what to do about Emma Comfrey. Mrs. Bloxby was so pleased she had employed Emma and Agatha did not want to disappoint Mrs. Bloxby, but she regarded Emma as a rival.

While she was waiting, her mobile phone rang. It was Emma.

“Mr. Johnson has just called,” she said in those clear upper-class accents which made Agatha feel so diminished. “He says the car has been returned and is outside his house. He says it’s all right—no scratches and a full tank of petrol. He tried to cancel the investigation and get his money back, but I told him that it would look extremely bad for him if anything had happened to his son and he had done nothing to find him. So he agreed.”

“I’d better get round there,” said Agatha.

She rang off just as Bill returned. She told him about the reappearance of the car.

“You’re a waste of time, Agatha,” said Bill. “But there’s one thing I do remember. Wayne had a girl-friend. She hit me with her handbag last time I arrested him.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sophy Grigson. You’ll find her at the check-out at Bran-ford’s supermarket in the square.”

“Thanks, Bill. I owe you.”

Agatha made her way to the supermarket. She asked the manager if she could speak to Sophy Grigson about a missing person. “She’ll be on her break in ten minutes,” he said.

“I’ll wait.”

Agatha sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs at the supermarket entrance, placed there for elderly customers.

In ten minutes’ time, the manager led a surly, plump girl up to Agatha and said, “Sophy Grigson,” and walked off.

“Please sit down, Miss Grigson,” said Agatha.

“What’s this about then?” Sophy asked, moving a wad of chewing gum from one cheek to the other.

She had blonded hair scraped up on top of her head. Although young, her face was prematurely set in an expression of discontent. “It’s about Wayne Johnson.”

“Oh, ‘im. Bastard.”

“He’s missing.”

“ ‘E’s missing his marbles, that’s what.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

“Naw. Heard ‘e’d gone peculiar.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“ ‘Is pal. Jimmy Swithe, ‘e comes in this mornink, and he says, ‘You’ll never guess what’s ‘appened to our Wayne.’ I asks him what ‘e means and ‘e starts to talk but the Nazi ower there says, ‘You ‘ave customers waiting.’ Cow!”

“Where can I find Jimmy?”

“At Stonebridge services.”

“The petrol station.”

“That’s it.”

Agatha was just leaving the supermarket when her phone rang. Emma again. “Mrs. Raisin,” said Emma formally, “I think you should return to the office. We have a client.”

Agatha hurried back to the office. An expensively dressed woman was sitting in one of the visitors’ chairs, being served coffee by Emma.

“Mrs. Benington,” said Emma, “this is our private investigator, Mrs. Raisin.”

Everything about Mrs. Benington looked hard, from her lacquered hair to her glittering red nails. She had slightly prominent eyes with heavy lids and a small thin mouth, bright red with the sort of lipstick one paints on with a brush. She was tanned with that sun shower treatment that is supposed to look natural but never does. Her figure under a tailored jacket, blouse and short skirt was very good. Her legs were the thin kind that used to be so admired, ending in shoes that looked as if they had been made from crocodile skin. Surely not in these politically correct days, thought Agatha, although Mrs. Benington, radiating pent-up energy, looked perfectly capable of killing a crocodile herself.

“How can I help you?” asked Agatha.

”I think my husband’s cheating on me. I want proof.”

“Yes, we can do that for you. As to charges … ?”

“Mrs. Comfrey has already discussed the charges with me and I have agreed.”

Agatha’s eyes narrowed into slits. Emma rushed forward and put a signed agreement in front of Agatha. Agatha was all prepared to blast Emma until she saw that Emma had charged an extraordinarily high amount along with generous expenses.

“Excellent,” Agatha forced herself to say.

“I have given Mrs. Comfrey a cheque,” said Mrs. Benington, getting to her feet. “I must say, I was reassured. In this nasty business, it is so nice to be dealing with a lady.” And she smiled at Emma.

When she had left, Agatha said, “In future, Emma, do not charge any amount of money without consulting me first.”

Emma could feel her old crushed self about to whimper out an apology. But she felt she had got this far by pretending to be self-confident and she knew that any sign of weakness and the formidable Agatha would have her by the throat.

“In this case,” she said mildly, “what would you have charged?”

Agatha opened her mouth to blast her and then suddenly shut it again. For the first time in her life, she heard a voice in her brain telling her that she was jealous.

She stared for a long moment at Emma and then shrugged. “I really don’t know, Emma, but I certainly would not have dreamt of charging so much. Well done. Now, I’d better phone our photographer, Sammy, and also Douglas for surveillance and get them on the job. Would you like to try your hand at some more detective work?”

“You mean the Johnson boy?”

“Yes, him. The father’s got his car back as good as new, but there’s no sign of Wayne. Wayne has a friend, Jimmy Swithe, who works at Stonebridge petrol station. You could try there first.”

Emma’s face lit up in a smile. “I’ll get on to it right away.”

When the door closed behind her tall, thin figure, Agatha Raisin said ruefully, “I am a bitch, that’s what I am,” and picked up the receiver to start investigating Mrs. Benington’s husband.

Emma Comfrey arrived at the petrol station and asked for Jimmy Swithe. She was told he was working on a car in the garage at the side.

Feeling waves of her usual timidity about to engulf her, Emma took a deep breath. I will act as if I am brave, she told herself. A burly man in stained overalls was bent over a car. “Mr. Swithe?”

He jerked his hand towards the back of the garage. Emma walked forwards into the gloom. A young man was sitting on an upturned oil drum under a “No Smoking” sign lighting a cigarette. He had lank brown hair and an unhealthy white face stained with smears of oil.

“Mr. Swithe?”

“Yes.” He looked at her with contempt. But then, Emma, reminded herself sternly, he probably looked with contempt at anyone over twenty-five.

“I am a detective,” said Emma.

“What? You? Is this a joke?”

Emma coloured. “I have been employed by Mr. Johnson to find his son, Wayne.”

“Don’t have nothing to do with him.”

“Why?”

“He’s gone funny.”

“You mean he’s become a comedian?”

“Naw. He found religion.”

“Which religion?”

“Youth for Jesus Christ.”

“And where might I find them?”

“Out the Stow Road on the industrial estate. One o’ them old Nissen huts. Can’t miss it. They’ve put a cross on the roof. Wankers!”

Emma thanked him and retreated, already beginning to feel a warm glow of achievement. The first little seed of dislike for Agatha was sown. Previously, Emma had not thought herself worthy of disliking anyone.

She got back in her car and drovè off in the direction of the industrial estate. At first she thought she had been misdirected as she circled round and round, but then she suddenly saw a golden cross glittering through a stand of trees on a side road she had not noticed before.

Emma drove up to the Nissen hut, one of those corrugated roofed buildings left over from World War II. She could hear the sound of singing. She got out of the car, went up to the hut and opened the door. It was full of mostly young people singing “All Thing Bright and Beautiful.” They were waving their arms in the air and swaying, emulating American Southern Baptist choirs, which was unfortunate, thought Emma, because they lacked the joyful fluidity of movement of the Baptists, their sticklike white arms moving jerkily.

Fortunately, it turned out to be the final hymn. A reedy man with thick glasses who seemed to be the preacher blessed them all.

Emma waited at the door as the congregation shuffled out, slipping the photograph of Wayne out of her handbag.

She nearly missed him because the nose stud and earrings had gone and his hair was newly washed and flopping over his brow, but she took a chance and asked, “Wayne?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Your father. I am a private detective. He has engaged me to find you.”

“He doesn’t want to find me. The silly old bugger only wanted his car back. He’s got it, so that’s it.”

“Are you going home?”

“No, we got a camp here out the back. It’s fun. Tell him I’m okay but J ain’t going home. These people look after me like he never did.”

Emma fished a camera out of her bag. “May I just take a photograph of you to show him you are well?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Religion had not obviously removed vanity. Wayne lounged against a tree with his hands on his hips and his face turned slightly to one side. “My best side,” he said. “If it’s any good, let me have a copy.”

“This is not one of these strange cults?” said Emma. “I mean, you are free to leave if you want?”

“Any time. No one tells me what to do except God.”

Emma decided to call on Mr. Johnson herself. She did not want Agatha to take the credit. Agatha might expect her to hold on to the information a little longer so as to charge for expenses, but then Agatha had not found Wayne—she had.

Mr. Johnson, when told the good news, seemed remarkably underwhelmed. “As long as Eve got the car back,” he said. “Stupid berk, that boy is. I could have saved myself the money.”

Emma felt diminished. Like all bullied people, she often retreated into a fantasy world, and she had built up a picture where Mr. Johnson would fall on her neck, crying with relief, and somehow the local paper would be there to photograph the happy moment.

Agatha was regretting having sent Emma out detecting. She had briefed Sammy Allen and Douglas Ballantine, but fche wanted to be out there herself. Emma had taken extensive notes about where Mr. Benington worked, his hobbies, and the make of his car.

She looked up in relief as the door opened and Emma walked in. “Forget about the Johnson boy for the moment,” said Agatha. “Eve got to go out.”

“I found the Johnson boy,” said Emma. “Eve told the father. Ell bill him for expenses. All he really wanted was his car back.”

Agatha experienced a pang of unease. Was she really going to be outclassed by this odd female? Recognizing her own jealousy had upset her. Agatha had always maintained that she hadn’t a jealous bone in her body. She glanced at the clock. “Tell you what, it’s lunch-time. I think you deserve lunch. It’ll do no harm to close up for an hour.”

They went to a Chinese restaurant near the agency. Agatha avoided the crispy seaweed, knowing that it had an unfortunate way of sticking to her teeth or finding its way down her clothes.

“Tell me about yourself,” said Agatha, determined to be polite, although she wasn’t very interested in anything Emma might have to say.

Emma described her work at the Ministry of Defence, making it sound much more glamorous that it had actually been. When Emma had finished, Agatha said, “You’ve been doing a great job so far. I think we’ll make a good team.”

After lunch, Emma went back to the office, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction.

Agatha began to feel rather superfluous. Posing as an office phone cleaner, Douglas had bugged Mr. Benington’s phone, and Sammy was waiting outside the offices in his car, armed with camera, ready to follow Benington when he left work.

She returned to the office. “I think, as you’ve proved so useful at detecting,” said Agatha, “I may as well hire a girl just to do the phones.”

“What about Miss Simms?” asked Emma, referring to Carsely’s unmarried mother who was secretary of the ladies’ society.

“Hasn’t she got a gentleman friend?” asked Agatha.

“I think she’s between fellows at the moment. What is her first name? I find it very odd that none of the ladies in the village ever use anyone’s first name.”

“I think it’s Kylie,” said Agatha. “It’s a tradition. Mrs. Bloxby is a great friend, but I always call her Mrs. Bloxby. Tell you what, you go now and see her. Tell her I’ll pay her off the books. No need to get into insurance stamps or social security.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“So what?” said Agatha. “Money is melting away, day in and day out.”

Miss Simms, reflected Emma half an hour later, as she sat in the neat living room of Miss Simms’s council house, favoured a tarty style of old-fashioned dress. No crop tops or studs. Spiky high heels, long hair dyed blonde, short straight skirt rucked up to show a frilly scarlet petticoat, little white blouse with a black shoelace tie at the neck.

“That’s ever so kind of you,” said Miss Simms.

“You can type and take shorthand and ail that?” asked Emma.

“Oh, yes; computers, too.”

“When did you last work?”

Miss Simms creased her smooth brow in thought. “Reckon it was last year. Boss of a soft furnishing business.”

“And how long did you work for him?”

Miss Simms giggled. “Just the one day. He said I was too pretty to work and I’d be better off at home so that he could … er… see me when he wanted.”

“And what happened?”

“Just broke up. He was married, see. I don’t like to keep the married ones away from their wives for too long. How are you getting along with our Mrs. Raisin?”

“Very well”

“Got a heart of gold,” said Miss Simms. “What brought you to Carsely?”

Emma told again her highly embroidered tale, but somehow, although Miss Simms uttered the occasional “dear me,” she did not seem overly impressed. A silly little girl, thought Emma, disappointed. Wish I hadn’t recommended her.

When Emma had finished talking, Miss Simms said, “I’ll just get a jacket and come into the office with you. May as well find out where everything is.”

Agatha fiddled with a paper clip and looked round her new office. There was her own desk, a large pseudo-Georgian affair with two seats in front of it for clients. Against one wall was a sofa facing a low coffee table with neatly arranged magazines. Against the other wall was the desk she had ordered for Emma and two filing cabinets. She had been considering ordering another desk and computer if Miss Simms took the job, but decided it would be better if Miss Simms used Emma’s desk and Emma could wait on the sofa.

It was an old building with thick beams on the ceiling and a mullioned window overlooking the narrow street below.

She had placed advertisements for The Raisin Detective Agency—”all calls discreetly dealt with—video and electronic surveillance”—but hardly anyone seemed to be rushing to employ her services.

Agatha heard footsteps on the stairs. That was quick, she thought. It was not Emma or Miss Simms who tapped at the door and walked in, however, but a tall woman who, despite the heat of the day, was wearing a waxed coat over a blouse and tweed skirt, woollen stockings and thick brogues. She had curly brown hair which looked as if she had set it herself in pin-curls. She had very large eyes in a thin face. No make-up.

“I am Mrs. Laggat-Brown,” she said, sitting down and facing Agatha across the desk. “I met your friend, Sir Charles Fraith, at a fund-raising event and he told me it would be sensible to apply to you for help.”

Agatha had sent Charles a brochure about the new agency. He had not phoned and she had assumed that he was out of the country. She was used to him dropping in and out of her life. They had been lovers—briefly—in the past, but their relationship never seemed to affect him. They had met years ago when Charles had been in danger of being arrested for murder. After that, he had worked with her on some of her cases. He was ten years younger than Agatha and she was very aware of the age difference.

“How can I help you?” asked Agatha.

“You are not quite what I expected,” said Mrs. Laggat-Brown in a high, fluting voice.

“What did you expect?”

Mrs. Laggat-Brown had expected someone of “our class,” but there was a gleam in Agatha’s eyes that stopped her from even implying such a thing.

“Never mind. The situation is this. I live in the manor-house in Herris Cum Magna. Do you know the village?”

“It’s off the Stow-Burford Road, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Now, listen carefully. I am giving a dinner dance tomorrow for my daughter’s twenty-first birthday. My daughter’s engagement is to be announced. But my daughter, Cassandra, has received a death threat. She has been told in a letter that if she marries Jason Peterson, she will die. The police have been informed and say they will send two officers to the event.”

The door opened and Emma walked in. Agatha introduced them to each other. Mrs. Laggat-Brown surveyed Emma with a flicker of relief in her eyes.

“Sit down, Emma,” said Agatha.

Emma sat down. “Miss Simms is shopping. She will be here presently.” Emma opened her large handbag and drew out a notebook and pen.

Agatha told Emma what Mrs. Laggat-Brown had just said and then asked, “Can you give us some background on your daughter and this Jason Peterson?”

“Certainly.”

It appeared that Jason was a stockbroker from a respectable family. Cassandra had led a sheltered life: Cheltenham Ladies College, followed by a finishing school in Switzerland and then a cordon bleu cookery course in Paris.

The police had the threatening letter.

“Now what I want you to do,” said Mrs. Laggat-Brown, “is to come along and mingle with the guests and look for anyone suspicious. I assume you will be dressed as guests.”

“Of course.” Agatha gave her a frosty look. “Now to our fee.”

“I have the cheque here. Sir Charles said I must pay you in advance.”

Agatha was about to protest that Sir Charles did not run the agency, but one look at the generous sum on the cheque shut her up. Charles must have quoted the first extravagant price he could think of.

She questioned Mrs. Laggat-Brown further as Emma’s pen flew across the pages of her notebook.

According to Mrs. Laggat-Brown, there seemed to be no obvious reason for anyone to want to end the engagement.

Was there a Mr. Laggat-Brown? Not now. They were divorced three years ago, an amicable divorce.

What did Mr. Laggat-Brown do? “He is a stockbroker,” said Mrs. Laggat-Brown. “Just like dear Jason.”

“Will he be at the party?” asked Agatha.

“He would be if I could find him. His firm said he went on an extended holiday but did not leave an address.”

Miss Simms arrived later, carrying shopping bags from various thrift stores. Emma spent the rest of the day instructing her in the files and a new price list she had drawn up.

Agatha was in high excitement at the prospect of what she thought of as a “real” case.

Anxious to tell Mrs. Bloxby about it, no sooner had she arrived home than she fed her cats and let them out in the garden. She reflected that she would have to pay her cleaner, Doris Simpson, something extra to come in during the day and let the cats in and out. Agatha was fond of telling people that she was not an animal lover.

The vicar opened the door to Agatha and gave a thin smile which was not reflected in his eyes. “Em afraid we are rather busy, Mrs. Raisin …” he was beginning to say when Mrs. Bloxby appeared behind him.

“Oh, Mrs. Raisin, do come in,” she said over her husband’s shoulder. “We’ll go into the garden and you can have a cigarette.” The vicar, muttered something and retreated. A moment later, Agatha heard his study door bang.

“So how is it all going?” asked Mrs. Bloxby when they were seated in the garden.

Agatha told her all that had been happening and about the party the following evening.

“And how is Mrs. Comfrey coping?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“Very well. At first I thought that she was too old and pushy.”

“Pushy! Mrs. Comfrey!”

“Well, maybe it’s a sort of bold front. Seems she had a pretty important job at the ministry.”

“Or so she says. I can’t imagine her being popular.”

“I can’t imagine her being unpopular,” said Agatha. “She’s just too nice. I’ve hired Miss Simms to be secretary since Emma is doing so well on the detective side.”

“And you say Sir Charles recommended you. That was good of him.”

“He never comes to see me any more,” mourned Agatha.

“He’s always been like that, dropping in and out of your life. He’ll turn up again. Have you phoned him to thank him?”

“No, I’ve tried to phone him before, but he was always out or away somewhere.”

Before Agatha phoned Charles, she phoned Sammy on his mobile and asked if there had been any progress in the Benington case. “I’ve got nothing, but Douglas heard one thing he thinks might be it. He’s bugged the office as well as the phone.”

Agatha repressed a groan, thinking of the expense. “What did he get?”

“Mr. Benington called in his secretary. After dictating letters, very boring stuff, all about clothes and things for their mail-order catalogue, he asked her—her name is Josie—if things were all right for Friday—and she giggled and said okay, that she had told her mum she was off to a business convention. So with any luck it means he’s got an assignation for Friday with his secretary.”

“Good. Keep on it,” said Agatha.

Agatha then phoned Charles. His aunt answered the phone and said Charles was in the bath. “Tell him to call me. AgathaRaisin,” ordered Agatha. The aunt replaced the phone without even saying goodbye. Charles did not phone back.

Probably the old bitch didn’t give him the message, thought Agatha, and went upstairs to find a suitable dress to wear for the party.

Mrs. Laggat-Brown was blessed by good weather. A harvest moon was rising above the trees at the manor-house when Agatha and Emma arrived. Fairy lights were strung through the trees and on the lawn was a large striped marquee. A band on the terrace was playing old-fashioned dance numbers. The manor-house itself was one of those low rambling Cotswold stone buildings which are much larger inside than they seem from the outside. Agatha looked around. She and Emma had arrived early, but already there seemed to be a great number of guests arriving. Agatha had compromised by wearing a silk trouser-suit and flat sandals in case there should prove to be any action. Emma was wearing a black satin gown with long sleeves. Agatha thought she looked like a member of the Addams Family, but Mrs. Laggat-Brown, rushing up to greet them, said, “How well you look, Mrs. Comfrey,” and to Agatha, “Would you like to go into the house and change?”

Agatha bristled. “I am changed. You cannot expect me to hunt down a potential killer in high heels and a long skirt.”

“Oh, very well. The programme is this. The guests will assemble in the marquee, where drinks will be served, followed by dinner. Then they will go outside while the marquee is cleared for dancing. More drinks will be served at the pool house.”

“And where is that?” asked Agatha.

“Over at the back of the house, by the swimming pool. I will announce my daughter’s engagement there before the dancing begins.”

“Would you like me to search the house?” asked Agatha. “Make sure no one is hiding there?”

“Oh, dear me, no. Some of the guests are there changing and we don’t want you poking around, now do we?”

“I thought that was what I was here for,” said Agatha.

“Just study the guests and look out for someone who looks as if they don’t belong.”

“She shouldn’t wear a backless dress at her age,” said Agatha sourly, watching Mrs. Laggat-Brown retreat. “You can count every single vertebra.”

“So where do we start?” asked Emma.

“I don’t know about you, but I could do with a large G and T.”

“I think it’s only champagne,” said Emma. “Here comes a girl with a tray.”

“Oh, that’ll do,” grumbled Agatha. She and Emma took a glass each.

“I think that must be Cassandra,” said Emma, waving her glass in the direction of the terrace.

Cassandra had masses of sun-streaked hair. She was plump with a round, amiable face. She was wearing a very low-cut dress to show off her best feature—two large round bosoms. Beside her stood a young man in evening dress. He had thick dark hair, a long nose, and a somehow embarrassingly large and red sensual mouth.

A little to the left of them stood a policeman and policewoman.

The guests chatted, the band played, and Agatha’s feet began to hurt. And then the guests began to move towards the marquee.“Great,” said Agatha. “Come along, Emma. Em starving.”

Mrs. Laggat-Brown, with her daughter and Jason, had moved to the entrance to the marquee to welcome the guests.

When she saw Agatha and Emma, she said, “We haven’t got places for you. If you’re very hungry, you can get something in the kitchen.”

Agatha wanted to make a scene. She wanted to shout that they were supposed to observe the guests and that she would rather do it sitting down, but reminded herself in time that Mrs. Laggat-Brown was a client and that if she behaved herself this job might lead to others.

Outside, Emma said, “We may as well go to the kitchen.”

“Damned if I will,” muttered Agatha.

“You see, whoever is working there might have some gossip about the family.”

“You’re right.” But Agatha felt she should have thought of that herself.

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