curate wasn’t really a very nice person, and so people think it was someone outside the village.”
A customer at the bar shouted that he wanted a drink and John left.
Agatha took a sip of her beer and made a face. She preferred gin and tonic but often ordered beer, knowing she wouldn’t finish her half pint or want another. Alcohol was just about the most ageing thing a middle-aged woman could take.
There was the brisk tap of high heels on the stone-flagged floor to herald the arrival of Miss Simms, secretary of the ladies’ society.
She was clutching a glass of rum and vodka. “Mind if I join you?”
“Please do,” said John Armitage.
Miss Simms sat down on a chair next to Agatha. “Terrible about Miss Jellop, innit? But she had it coming to her.”
“How’s that?” asked Agatha.
“Always complaining and poking her nose into things. Terrible gossip, she was. You should have heard the things she said about you, Mrs. Raisin.”
“I don’t want to know,” snapped Agatha. “Do you still think Tristan was a saint?”
“No, he did a nasty thing.”
“What?”
“I met him in the village on the day before he was murdered. He asked me out. Said he was tired of all those old women in the village. Now, that wasn’t a nice thing to say, but at the time, like, I was so flattered that he wanted my company because he asked me out for dinner.”
“But that was for the evening I had dinner with him!” exclaimed Agatha.
“I know. I’m coming to that. I was to meet him in that new restaurant, Stavros, in Chipping Norton, at eight o’clock. By ten past eight, I’d ordered a drink. He still didn’t show. By eight-thirty, I decided to leave. Well, I’d had a look at the menu and I knew I couldn’t afford their prices, so I just paid for the drink, picked myself up some fish and chips in Sheep Street and went home. I phoned and Mrs. Feathers said he was entertaining you and couldn’t be disturbed. When did he invite you?”
“The day before he was murdered.”
“But he asked me out for dinner in the afternoon of that day,” wailed Miss Simms. “I just don’t understand it.”
“Maybe he did it deliberately,” said John. “He’d already made a dinner date with Agatha here. Maybe he enjoyed the thought of you sitting, waiting.”
“But he seemed so nice, ever so nice, but now there’s some murmurs that he could be a bit, well, cruel, like.”
“Got any examples?” asked Agatha.
“Well, Mrs. Brown, her what comes with the mobile library, she said he was charming to her one week and then, the next, he announced in front of the other customers that the selection of books was for morons and some moron must have chosen them. Mrs. Brown chooses most of the books herself, everyone knows that. There was a bit of a shocked silence, but he stood there, looking so gorgeous and smiling so sweetly, that everyone sort of decided they must have misheard. Then old Mr. Crinsted near me at the council houses, Tristan used to call round and play chess with him. Mr. Crinsted said he was so glad of the company that he let Tristan win the first couple of times, but on the third, he beat him and he said Tristan got very angry and accused him of cheating.”
“There’s one good thing about stories like that going round the village,” said Agatha: “people can’t be thinking Alf Bloxby murdered Tristan in a fit of jealousy.”
“No, not anymore. But then, people do say things like – but who else could have done it?”
“What about Miss Jellop?” asked John. “What’s being said about her?”
“She wasn’t very popular. Always complaining. I mean, she irritated people. But I can’t see anyone wanting to murder her. Of course, people are saying she was being spiteful about the vicar, saying he murdered Tristan, things like that.”
And what that amounts to, thought Agatha wearily, is that people will still be thinking of Alf Bloxby as a murderer. I must do something. But what? Just keep on ferreting around and hope I find something out.
Miss Simms finished her drink and left. “What should we do now?” asked Agatha.
“I don’t know. We’ll try that church in London tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s go down to the library and look up the name ‘Jellop’ in the Stoke-on-Trent directory. We might get the sister’s number and we could call her. Tristan obviously told Miss Jellop something that made her dangerous.”
“Nothing here,” said Agatha, half an hour later. “Not in the residential addresses.”
“Jellop’s Jams and Jellies. Try under the business addresses,” said John.
Agatha searched the book. “Got it,” she said.
“Write it down and we’ll go back and phone in comfort.”
Back at Agatha’s cottage, she said, “Who’s going to phone? You or me?”
“I’ll do it.”
Agatha went into the kitchen and petted her cats and let them out in the garden. She stood for a moment surveying the scene in front of her, and thinking the garden looked rather dull. Not having green fingers herself, she had hired a gardener, but he turned out to be expensive and lazy, so she had fired him and replaced the flowers with shrubs. Next year, she thought, she would start all over again and have a colourful display of flowers.
John came out to join her. “Miss Jellop’s sister is a Mrs. Essex. A nice woman in personnel even gave me her home address. You want to try it?”
“No, you do it.”
John gave her a surprised look, but went back indoors.
Agatha was suddenly tired of the whole business. She should leave it to the police. She wanted something else to occupy her mind. Anything else. She could not, somehow, relax in John’s company. Agatha could not understand that it was John’s regular good looks which fazed her. Such men were usually interested in prettier and younger women. Such men were not for the likes of Agatha Raisin. And Agatha was old–fashioned in that she could only relate to men when there was a sexual undercurrent.
When John returned again, he said, “I spoke to the husband. Mrs. Essex is down here, at Mircester police headquarters. Let’s go. We might catch her as she comes out.”
“We might not recognize her,” said Agatha, reluctant to move.
“With luck, there’ll be some sort of family resemblance.”
“She might have left Mircester and be up at the cottage.”
“I doubt it. I took a walk up there early this morning. It’s still taped off and the forensic people are still working on it. Come on, Agatha!”
They waited in the car-park outside Mircester police headquarters, studying all the people coming out. After an hour, Agatha yawned and then shifted restlessly. “No one who even looks like her. I say we should go home. She probably left ages ago.”
“That might be her,” said John. A middle-aged woman had just emerged accompanied by a policewoman. She had protruding eyes and a ferrety appearance. A police car drove up and both women got in the back.
“Now what?” said Agatha.
“We follow them. She might be staying somewhere locally.”
John, who was driving, followed the police car at a safe distance. “They’re going in the Carsely direction,” said John after a few miles. “Maybe the police have finished with the cottage and she’s going to stay there.”
“Must be tough if she is,” retorted Agatha. “I don’t know that I’d want to stay in a house where my sister had been murdered.”
“Maybe keeping an eye on her assets. She’ll probably inherit.”
Sure enough, the police car drove on down into Carsely.
“We’d best go home,” said John, “and wait, and then walk up later when we’re sure the police have gone. We’ll go to my place.”
Agatha always experienced a pang of loss when she entered John’s cottage. There was no feel, no trace of her missing ex-husband’s personality. James Lacey’s books had spilled from the shelves. John’s books were all in neat order, according to subject. He worked at a metal computer desk placed in front of the window. There were two armchairs covered in bright chintz and an oak coffee-table, shining and bare.
