“Nothing at all. I’m sure they are splendid people. I just don’t like being preached at on my own doorstep.”
“I have no intention of going in disguise,” he said. “You can say you have drafted in a celebrity author to help you with the script. I have done television scripts before.”
“Then I’ll see you Saturday.”
After he had gone, Agatha went upstairs, undressed, washed, put on a voluminous night-gown and crawled under the duvet. The events of the evening now seemed like a dream. He was a handsome man. How old was he? Despite his looks, probably around fifty. But men who kept their looks and figures after the age of forty were usually gay. Still, she found the thought of his support comforting. And, she told herself firmly, she had no intention of starting to think romatically about him.
She fell asleep and woke two hours later, suddenly sweating with fear. The old cottage creaked and the wind sighed around outside. Agatha switched on the bedside light and then got out and switched on the overhead light as well. Her cats, who usually slept downstairs in their basket, appeared in the bedroom at that moment and climbed onto the bed. She settled down with a cat on either side of her and their purring soon soothed her back to sleep.
¦
“How old do you think John Armitage is?” Agatha asked Mrs. Bloxby when the vicar’s wife called on her the next day.
“Older than he looks. Miss Simms said she read an article about him. He’s actually fifty-three.”
“I think he’s gay,” said Agatha.
“Despite the fact that he’s been married? Why?”
“Heterosexual men let themselves go.”
“No necessarily. Look at my husband. Alf’s in good shape.”
Agatha thought of the vicar – grey-haired, glasses, scholarly, slightly stooped – and reflected that love was indeed blind.
“But to get back to the attempt on your life,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “That really worries me. Couldn’t you even tell Bill Wong about it?”
“Bill Wong is a dear friend, but he’s a policeman, first and last. He would feel obliged to put in a report.”
“Anything to do with drugs is highly dangerous,” cautioned Mrs. Bloxby.
“I can’t understand it,” said Agatha, half joking. “I thought all the drug barons had gone over to smuggling cigarettes. They keep jacking up the price so it’s getting a bit like the States during prohibition. Do you know, there was an item on the news that said that twenty-five per cent of the British population bought their cigarettes on the black market. No one’s ever approached me.”
“I think you’re in enough trouble as it is without buying contraband cigarettes,” said Mrs. Bloxby severely. “Anyway, I thought you were giving them up.”
“I will, I will.” Agatha lit a cigarette. “When this case is over.”
“If you’re still alive. Why don’t you believe Phyllis’s story that she and Zak had sex?”
“Because she’s a nasty bitch and a compulsive liar.”
“Still…Let’s think about Zak. It appears Kylie was a decent girl and her mother is a sterling woman. What sort of man orders his fiancee to get a bikini wax before the wedding? I mean, a lot of women who are going on their honeymoon get it done as a matter of course, not because of sex, but because of those thong swimsuits or even the ones that are high-cut on the leg.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’m not totally cut off from the world.”
“But Zak was genuinely upset about her death. Those weren’t fake tears.”
“Keep an open mind and do be careful, dear Mrs. Raisin.”
“I’ll have John to look after me.”
“May I give you some advice?”
“I hate it when people say that. Okay, go on.”
“I think it’s important you have some sort of protection during your inquiries,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “But men do not like
“I don’t fancy him,” said Agatha sulkily. “You seem to think I’m like some sort of teenager.”
That was what the vicar’s wife did think but she refrained from saying so.
¦
Half an hour after Mrs. Bloxby had left, the doorbell went again. Agatha gave a nervous shiver but reassured herself that the sun was shining brightly outside, and the villain or villains, whoever they were, surely did not know her real identity. Unless they followed you home, came the heart-stopping thought. She peered through the spyhole she’d had installed in the door. At first she did not recognize the man standing outside, and then, with surprise, she did. She opened the door.
“Charles?”
It was indeed Sir Charles Fraith, her old friend and sometime lover. But instead of being small, and neat and slim, he was decidedly chubby. His hair had thinned and he had a double chin.
“Come in,” said Agatha. “I’ve a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Although I shouldn’t even be speaking to you. Why didn’t you invite me to your wedding? I could have flown over to Paris.”
Charles sat down at the kitchen table. “I couldn’t. You see, I’d told my wife, Anne-Marie, that we’d once been…er…intimate. It came up, sort of, when I was telling her about some of the murder cases we’d been involved in. She ordered me not to invite you.”
“So what does she think about you being here today?”
“She doesn’t know. I don’t like to upset her. She’s expecting twins.”
Agatha put a mug of coffee down in front of him. “So what did you come for?” she demanded harshly.
“Curious to see how you were getting along.”
“Splendidly, thank you.”
“Any news of James?”
“No.”
“Any murders? What about this business in Evesham?”
“Nothing to do with me,” lied Agatha. “Look, Charles, I wish you would just finish your coffee and go. I’m sore because you didn’t invite me to the wedding. Even though you had blabbed to your bride about me, you could have insisted, or at least have had the guts to phone me up and tell me about it.”
“I told you. I let slip about us to Anne-Marie and so she wouldn’t let me invite you. I didn’t want to rock the boat. I don’t want to have a failed marriage like yours, Aggie. Marriage takes work,” he said pompously.
Agatha leaned across the table and slid his coffee mug away from him. “Get out, Charles. I’d forgotten how insensitive you can be.”
“What about a kiss for old times’ sake?”
“OUT!!!”
“No need to get sore. I’m going.”
He walked off stiffly, giving Agatha a good view of his now large bottom.
Agatha ran to the door and shouted just as Charles was getting into his car, “And don’t come back!”
Agatha then saw John Armitage, who was entering his front door with a bag of groceries, staring at her and gave him a weak smile before retreating indoors.
“I hate it when people change,” grumbled Agatha to her cats. Charles had really only changed in appearance, but to admit that to herself would have made Agatha feel worse.
¦
On Saturday, Agatha’s alarm failed to work and she awoke to find it was a quarter to nine, so instead of the long session she had planned with make-up and clothes, she washed quickly and dressed in the first clothes that came to hand, and put on a little foundation cream and lipstick before scrambling down the stairs just as the doorbell rang.
“Ready?” asked John. He was wearing a blue shirt under a soft suede jacket and casual trousers.
“Ready,” said Agatha breathlessly.
