the shoulder pads to come swaying in—or something like that.
She quickly found out by surfing the net that detective agencies were supposed to offer a wide range of services, including all sorts of modern technology such as bugging and de-bugging, photographic or video evidence and covert and electronic surveillance.
Then someone would be needed to man the phones while she was out of the office. Agatha was shrewd enough to know now that one-woman operations were for novels. She would need to invest heavily in employing experts if she expected to get any return.
Once she had found an office in the centre of Mircester, she put advertisements in the local newspapers. For the photographic and video evidence, she hired a retired provincial newspaper photographer, Sammy Allen, arranging to pay him on a free-lancebasis; and she secured the services of a retired police technician, Douglas Ballantine, under the same terms to cope with the electronic stuff.
But for a secretary, Agatha wanted someone intelligent who would be able to detect as well.
She began to despair. The applicants were very young and all seemed to be decorated with various piercings and tattoos.
Agatha was just wondering whether she should try to do any secretarial work herself when there came a knock at the door of the office. The door did not have a pane of frosted glass, which Agatha would have found more in keeping with the old-fashioned idea she had of detective agencies.
“Come in,” she shouted, wondering if this could be her first client.
A very tall, thin woman entered. She had thick grey hair, cut short, a long thin face and sharp brown eyes. Her teeth were very large and strong. Her hands and feet were very large, the feet encased in sturdy walking shoes, and the hands were ringless. She was wearing a tweed suit which looked as if she had had it for years.
“Please sit down,” said Agatha. “May I offer you some tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee, please. Two sugars, no milk.”
Agatha went over to the new coffee machine and poured a mug, added two spoonfuls of sugar and placed it on the desk in front of what she hopefully thought was her first client.
Agatha was a well-preserved woman in her early fifties with short, shining brown hair, a good mouth and small bearlike eyes which looked suspiciously out at the world. Her figure was stocky, but her legs were her finest feature.
“I am Mrs. Emma Comfrey.”
Agatha wondered for a moment why the name was familiar and then she remembered that Mrs. Comfrey was her new neighbour.
Agatha found it hard to smile spontaneously but she bared her teeth in what she hoped was a friendly welcome. “And what is your problem?”
“I saw your advertisement in the newspapers. For a secretary. I am applying for the job.”
Mrs. Comfrey’s voice was clear, well-enunciated, upper-class. Agatha’s working-class soul gave a brief twinge and she said harshly, “I would expect any secretary to help with the detective side if necessary. For that I would need someone young and active.”
Her eyes bored into Mrs. Comfrey’s thin face and flicked down her long figure.
“I am obviously not young,” said Mrs. Comfrey, “but I am active, computer-literate, and have a pleasant phone manner which you might find helps.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixty-seven.”
“Dear God.”
“But very intelligent,” said Mrs. Comfrey.
Agatha sighed, and was about to tell her to get lost when there came a timid knock at the door.
“Come in,” called Agatha.
A harassed-looking woman entered. “I need a detective,” she said.
Mrs. Comfrey took her coffee and moved over to a sofa at the side of the office.
Vowing to get nd of Emma as soon as they were alone again, Agatha asked, “What can I do for you?”
“My Bertie has been missing for a whole day now.”
“How old is Bertie?”
“Seven.”
“Have you been to the police? Silly question. Of course you must have been to the police.”
“They weren’t interested,” she wailed. She was wearing black leggings and a faded black T-shirt. Her hair was blonde but showing dark at the roots. “My name is Mrs. Evans.”
“I fail to see …” Agatha was beginning when Emma said, “Bertie is your cat, isn’t he?”
Mrs. Evans swung round.
“Oh, yes. And he’s never run away before.”
“Do you have a photograph?” asked Emma.
Mrs. Evans fumbled in a battered handbag and took out a little stack of photographs. “That’s the best one,” she said, standing up and handing a photograph of a black-and-white cat to Emma. “It was taken in our garden.”
She sat down beside Emma, who put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’ll find your cat.”
“How much will it cost?” asked Mrs. Evans.
Agatha had a list of charges but that list did not include finding stray cats.
“Fifty pounds plus expenses if we find him,” said Emma. “I am Mrs. Raisin’s secretary. If you will just give me your full name and address and telephone number.”
Numbly Agatha handed Emma a notebook. Emma wrote down the particulars.
“Now, you go on home,” said Emma, helping her to her feet, “and don’t worry about a thing. If Bertie can be found, we’ll find him.”
When the door closed behind a grateful Mrs. Evans, Agatha said, “You’re rather high-handed, but here’s what I’ll do. Find that cat and you’ve got a job.”
“Very well,” said Emma calmly, tucking the notebook into her capacious handbag. “Thank you for the coffee.”
And that’ll be the last I’ll hear from her, thought Agatha.
Emma Comfrey checked the address in the notebook. She went into a pet shop nearby and bought a cat carrier and asked for a receipt. Mrs. Evans lived on a housing estate on the outskirts of Mircester. Emma tucked herself into her small Ford Escort and drove out to the housing estate. She noticed that Mrs. Evans lived in a row of houses whose back gardens bordered farmland. The farmers had been getting the harvest in and Emma knew that meant lots of field mice for a cat to chase.
She parked the car and made her way to a path that led to the fields. She walked into the first field, her sensible shoes treading through the stubble. The day was warm and pleasant, with little feathery wisps of cloud on a pale blue sky. Emma studied the field and then looked back to where the Evanses’ back garden was located. There were a bordering of gorse bushes and tall grass at the edge of the field. She made her way there and suddenly sat down on the ground, feeling rather shaky. She could not believe now that she’d had the temerity to ask for the job, and felt sure there was no hope of finding the cat.
Emma had been married in her early twenties to a barrister,Joseph Comfrey. He had a good income, but barely three weeks after the honeymoon, he said that it was bad for Emma to sit around the house and she should get work. Emma, an only child, had been bullied by her parents, and so she had meekly taken the Civil Service exams and settled into boring secretarial work for the Ministry of Defence. Joseph was mean. Although he spent quite a lot on himself—the latest Jaguar, shirts from Jermyn Street and suits from Savile Row—he took control of Emma’s wages and only gave her a small allowance. When she retired, he grumbled day in and day out about the paucity of her pension. Two years ago he had died of a heart attack, leaving Emma a very wealthy woman. She did not have any children; Joseph did not approve of children. At first she had spent long days and nights alone in their large villa in Barnes. The habits of strict economy forced on her by her husband were hard to break. She could still hear his nagging, hectoring voice haunting the rooms.
At last she found courage to sell the house. She packed up her husband’s clothes and gave them to charity. She presented his law books to an aspiring barrister and bought the cottage in Lilac Lane next to Agatha’s. Although
