door. ‘Oh, Mrs Bloxby,’ said Agatha. ‘What’s up?’
‘Just a social call. You look all hot and dusty.’
‘Just clearing out some old books. Come in. Go through to the garden and I’ll bring you a sherry.’
‘It’s turned a bit cold,’ said Mrs Bloxby.
‘Then go to the kitchen,’ snapped Agatha, wishing she hadn’t let her friend in. But her car was outside, and if Mrs Bloxby had not received any reply, she would have started to worry.
Agatha came back with a glass of sherry. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. I’ve got to wash my hands. Sorry. Should have done that before I served you sherry, but it’s just paper dust.’
Mrs Bloxby waited until Agatha had gone upstairs. She looked through the open door of the kitchen to the firmly closed door of the sitting room. Why had Mrs Raisin looked so
On impulse, she moved quietly across the hall and opened the sitting-room door. She gazed in horror at the mess, at the splintered and shattered bookshelves, before retreating quickly to the kitchen.
She remembered that George Marston had put up a notice in the local shop announcing he did carpentry as well as gardening.
Oh, Mrs Raisin, thought Mrs Bloxby sadly, the things you do for love. And where is this obsession going to lead?
