Agatha reflected it was a bit early in the day for alcohol. On the other hand, it was probably pretty mild.
She led the way upstairs and Mrs. Essex followed her carrying the bottle. The living-room smelt damp and musty. “Ruby was too mean to get central heating in,” said Mrs. Essex, as if reading her thoughts. “Have a seat and I’ll get a glass.”
At least she’s being friendly, thought Agatha. I might just find out something.
Mrs. Essex returned with a corkscrew and a glass. She drew the cork and poured Agatha a glass of golden liquid. Agatha sniffed it cautiously. Then she took a sip. It was sweet and she normally didn’t like sweet wine, but it slid pleasantly down her throat and sent a warm glow coursing through her veins.
“So have you found out anything relevant to my sister’s murder?” asked Mrs. Essex.
“No, nothing. All I can think of is that Tristan told her something about somebody and that somebody found out she knew and decided to silence her. Would she keep such information to herself without telling the police?”
Agatha took another large gulp of the wine.
“If she did know something, she might not realize how important it was. She liked secrets and she liked power. Ruby wasn’t a nice person. I know she’s dead. But the fact is that she tormented the life out of me when we were growing up. I remember once…”
Her voice went on, describing the iniquities of Ruby while Agatha refilled her glass, enjoying the effect of the wine. It was as if all the golden warmth of summer were surging through her body.
She realized Mrs. Essex was asking her a question. “I beg your pardon,” said Agatha dreamily.
“I was asking how you pass your time in this village. It seems so cut off.”
“Oh, there’s the ladies’ society. We’re always arranging events to raise money for charity.”
“Forgive me, but you don’t look the type to enjoy that sort of thing. Are you married?”
“I was.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know,” said Agatha. A dark tide of misery flooded her. She told Mrs. Essex all about James, all about how he had pretended to be taking holy orders while fat tears coursed down her cheeks. She went on to tell the bemused lady about her past, about her struggles, about her life, until she realized that somewhere in this sad tale, Mrs. Essex had gone into the kitchen, taking the remains of the bottle of wine and had replaced it with a steaming mug of coffee.
“Drink that,” said Mrs. Essex. “You must forgive me for saying so, but you are drunk.”
Shock sobered Agatha somewhat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Alcohol’s what came over you. It looks as if that stuff’s pretty lethal. Do you still want it?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll get John at the pub to collect it and we can stack it somewhere in the church hall. I’ll ask Mrs. Bloxby where it should be stored.” Agatha rose unsteadily to her feet. “I’ll just be on my way.”
Mrs. Essex scribbled something on a piece of paper and held it out. “That’s my phone number. Give me a ring when they’re coming to collect the wine.”
Agatha looked at her helplessly. “Shorry.”
“It’s all right. I think you should go home and sleep it off.”
Agatha was sure the fresh air would restore her, but she had to walk home very slowly and carefully as her legs were showing an alarming tendency to give way.
With a sigh of relief she opened her front door and went into the sitting-room. She would just lie down on the sofa until her head cleared.
When she awoke, the room was in darkness. Her cats were sitting on her stomach looking down at her, their eyes gleaming.
Agatha straightened up and they jumped down on the floor and headed for the kitchen, mewing crossly.
What time is it? wondered Agatha. She stumbled to the door and switched on the light and stared in amazement at her watch. Eight o’clock in the evening. She hurried into the kitchen and opened cans of cat food. Once the cats were fed, she made herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. With the first puff, memory came flooding back. With dreadful clarity she remembered telling Mrs. Essex everything about her life. Her face flooded with colour and she let out a groan. She wondered what proof that wine was. It had seemed such a good idea for the duck races. She picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialled the vicarage number. When Mrs. Bloxby answered, Agatha told her all about the wine. “It’s heady stuff. Do you know I gave Mrs. Essex my life story after only a couple of glasses? Do you think it would be safe to serve it?”
“It’s in a good cause,” said the vicar’s wife. “And she is giving it away. We’ll sell it by the small glass and warn everyone it’s very strong.”
“I feel such a fool,” wailed Agatha.
There was a long silence.
“Are you still there?” asked Agatha anxiously.
“Yes. I’m thinking. Something just struck me. If it loosened your tongue so effectively, it might have done the same to Tristan Delon’s.”
“So it might,” said Agatha slowly. “I’ve never behaved like that before. He might have been blackmailing someone we don’t know about. John was going to see Peggy Slither again, but he’s gone off to London. I might try her myself. I’m going to phone John Fletcher and ask him if he can pick up the wine tomorrow. Where do you want it stored?”
“In the church hall. I’ll leave it open tomorrow morning. We could really do with a proper church hall. That one is too small for events and we always have to use the school hall.”
“Maybe the duck races could be used to raise money for a new one.”
“Tempting. But Save the Children comes first.”
“Okay. Can you think of any excuse I could use to talk to Peggy Slither again?”
Mrs. Bloxby sat in thought. Then she said, “We could involve the Ancombe lot in the duck races. Old Mrs. Green is the chairwoman of the Ancombe Ladies’ Society, but she is poorly at the moment. Peggy is the secretary. You could call on her as my emissary and propose to her that we join forces.”
“Excellent. I’ll do that.”
“I’ll phone John Fletcher at the pub and ask him if he’ll send the truck round to pick up the wine,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “If the wine is as powerful as you say, perhaps we should mix it with fruit juice and serve a punch.”
“Might be safer,” conceded Agatha. “Tell John to call Mrs. Essex and tell her what time the truck will be there. I’ll try Peggy Slither tomorrow. I’m still feeling shaky.”
After Mrs. Bloxby rang off, Agatha put a frozen shepherd’s pie in the microwave. It never struck her as odd that she should be prepared to spend time cooking for her cats and yet be content with microwave meals for herself.
Agatha had tried to get interested in cooking. The Sunday supplements for the newspapers were full of recipes and coloured photos of delicious meals. Everyone who was anyone knew how to cook exotic dishes these days.
But it was very hard to plan exotic meals for one. She poked at the microwaved mess on her plate, forcing herself to eat some of it so that she would not wake up hungry during the night.
It’s just as well I’m not in love with John, she thought, as she finally settled down for the night. I wish him well with that tart, Charlotte Bellinge. But as if to give the lie to this thought, her cats sidled into the bedroom and leaped onto the bed, something they only did when they sensed she was upset.
Agatha drove reluctantly to Ancombe the next morning to face Peggy Slither. She now wished she had waited for John’s return and sent him instead. After all, he was the one who had promised to go. She found herself hoping that Peggy was not at home. But as she parked, got out, and approached the garden gate of the bungalow, she saw Peggy stooped over a flower-bed. “Hi!” said Agatha.
Peggy straightened up from her task of planting winter pansies and surveyed Agatha with disfavour. “Why do British people keep saying hi, as if they were Americans? I blame television.”
“Oh, really. Well, a good day to you and how
“So what do you want?” demanded Peggy.
Agatha outlined the idea for the duck races and Peggy visibly thawed. “I’ll make the decision to join forces with Carsely,” she said. “Mrs. Green should never have been made chairwoman. Come inside and let’s discuss dates
