Agatha glanced down at her biscuit-coloured trouser-suit. “Lord, I was wearing this last time I saw her.”
“Can’t be helped. She probably thought there was something familiar about you, but couldn’t quite think what.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Agatha. Charles had left and she was preparing for bed when the phone rang. It was Bill Wong. “The most peculiar thing has happened, Agatha,” he said. “We’ve just arrested two young fellows high on drugs, who frightened the life out of a woman in Mircester by driving straight at her. She said she jumped clear and was able to give us a description of the car and the licence number. Tough old bird with nerves of steel. So we picked them up. The car was stolen. They’re being charged with that, plus possession of drugs. Now Worcester police are going to have to be brought into this because they’ll want to know if they were the ones who killed Mrs. Anstruther-Jones. They could be the ones that went for you.”
“Don’t tell Brudge about me,” pleaded Agatha.
“I can’t very well tell him now,” said Bill, “and more’s the pity. They’re trying to say they only did it to give her a fright, just a joke, they would have slammed on the brakes at the last minute. There’s been a few more instances of this kind of thing. We’ll need to sweat it out of them, find the other cars they’ve stolen and try to get forensics to come up with something. It could be that the attack on you was just these silly buggers playing games.”
“What about Mrs. Anstruther-Jones?”
“Could be them as well and it was a joke that went wrong. I’ll let you know.”
Agatha, after she had rung off, found herself hoping that it had been they. But before she fell asleep, Marilyn Josh’s face rose before her eyes. She could only hope she hadn’t recognized her.
¦
The following day was sultry and warm. The sun was veiled in thin cloud. The leaves on the trees hung motionless. What a day for standing behind a counter with a hot tea urn and a hot coffee urn, Agatha thought crossly.
She put on a loose summer gown and made her way along to the hall. At the back of the hall, tables and chairs had been laid out to make a temporary tea-room. There was a long trestle-table filled with home-made cakes and sandwiches and the urns of tea and coffee.
Three o’clock arrived. Agatha shifted restlessly in the heat. Very few people were coming in. The school hall smelled of dust and chalk. Dust motes drifted in shafts of sunlight.
Mrs. Bloxby, who had been selling tickets at the school hall door, surrendered her post to Miss Simms and joined Agatha. “It’s quite sad,” she said. “Poor Mr. Parry. That’s him over there.”
Agatha looked to where a stooped, elderly gentleman was standing in front of one of his photographs.
“Who’s he?”
“Mr. Parry is the man whose collection of old photographs it is. So sad. I would have thought more people would have been interested.”
“Take over from me,” said Agatha. “I’ll have this place full in an hour.”
She went to a cupboard where she knew materials were kept for finger-painting, having once been drafted by Mrs. Bloxby to supervise a kindergarten class while the teacher went to the doctor. She pulled out a large square of cardboard and painted FREE TEAS, HOME-BAKING, CHURCH HALL, ALL WELCOME on the card. She went to her car and drove up to the main road and tacked the card onto a tree. Then she went back to the hall.
“We’re giving away the teas and stuff,” she told Mrs. Bloxby. “Don’t panic. I’ll pay you for them.”
“That’s awfully generous of you. Are you sure?”
“Real little Lady Bountiful, me,” said Agatha with a shrug. “Anything to liven this dump up.”
Cars started to arrive and then a whole coach-load of people. Mrs. Bloxby was once more at the door, saying sweetly, “It’s two pounds for admission, but that covers your afternoon teas.” Agatha grinned. The vicar’s wife had jacked up the price from twenty pee. Then she was kept so busy serving that the rest of the afternoon flew past until every cake and sandwich had gone. Old Mr. Parry had spent a happy time taking people round his exhibition of pictures.
“I think you’ve done enough, Mrs. Raisin,” beamed Mrs. Bloxby. “The ladies and I will clean up.”
“Thanks,” said Agatha with relief. “I’m so hot and sticky, I need a bath.”
“Oh, before you go, Mr. Parry would really like to show you his photographs. He says you’ve been working so hard you haven’t had enough time to see them.”
“Must I?”
“I said you would.”
“Rats!”
Agatha slouched off to join Mr. Parry. “Ah, Mrs. Raisin,” he cried. “Shall we start with this one? This is a view of Blockley High Street circa 1910, and this…”
Agatha’s mind drifted off in the heat. At last the tour was over. “Thank you very much,” said Agatha.
“I didn’t display them all,” he said. “Some I have in a folder were watermarked or cracked, but very interesting for all that.”
To Agatha’s horror he picked up a folder from a chair, opened it and spread the contents on a table. “I have an appointment,” she gabbled. “Must go.”
He looked at her in disappointment. “I’m sure they’re all as fascinating as the ones in the exhibition,” she said, “but…”
On the top of the open folder was a sepia photograph of a street which seemed familiar to her. In the next second, she realized it was the back lane where the disco was situated. But where the disco was now stood a butchers shop, with the butcher grinning outside and game hanging from hooks.
“A butchers,” said Agatha.
He gave her a peculiar look. “Yes, obviously. So few of the old butchers left now that people go to the supermarket. That was Gringe’s. Bless me, that’s an old photograph, but they were there until five years ago. They sold up. The man that bought it meant to turn it into two flats but he went bankrupt and it was sold to those disco people. Such a shame.”
Agatha walked off slowly, deaf to his cry of “But you haven’t seen the others!”
A butcher, thought Agatha. How far would the chap who bought it for the flats have got with the conversion? Say he hadn’t got anywhere, then it would be as it had been when it was a butchers shop. That would mean the walk-in deep freeze would still be there.
“Mrs. Raisin!”
Agatha turned round reluctantly. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “Mr. Parry thought you’d taken a funny turn.”
“I’m all right. It was one of those photographs, Mrs. Bloxby. A butchers used to be in Evesham where the disco is now and that means there still might be a deep freeze there.”
“But the police searched the disco!”
“They were looking for a freezer chest,” said Agatha excitedly. “What if the freezer room is still there, behind a curtain or a fake wall?”
“You must tell the police.”
“Gringe was the name of the butcher. I’m going to see if I can find the man who sold the shop and get him to draw me a plan of where that freezer room was. Then I’ll go to the disco tomorrow night and see if it’s still there.”
“Mrs. Raisin, it’s too dangerous.”
“You mustn’t tell the police. This is my case,” said Agatha fiercely. “Promise?”
“I promise,” said Mrs. Bloxby reluctantly.
¦
As soon as she got home, Agatha checked the phone-book. There were two Gringes, A. Gringe and M. Gringe.
She dialled the A. Gringe. No reply. She tried the M.
Gringe. A woman answered. Agatha said she wanted to speak to whoever had owned the butchers-shop which was now a disco. “Oh, that’s my husband’s father,” she said.
“Do you know when he’ll be at home?” asked Agatha. “I phoned him but there was no reply.”
“He doesn’t go out much. He’s probably out in his garden.”
