was assailed again by the old longing to just let herself go, stop chasing after men, give up the battle against age. John Armitage, whom she had almost come to think of as asexual, had fled off to London, apparently smitten by Charlotte Bellinge. There was a faint hope that he might be trying to find out something relevant to the case, but Agatha doubted it. And how could a stocky, middle-aged woman compete with a porcelain blonde? Not that I want to, thought Agatha. I mean, I’m not at all interested in John. I wonder if I should go blonde. Do blondes really have more fun? Why not try? She tugged her mobile phone out of her handbag and called her hairdresser. Yes, they had a cancellation and could fit her in at three that afternoon.
Mrs. Tremp was at home and not at all pleased to see Agatha. “If you’ve called to ask me about the murders, I don’t know anything,” she said.
“I actually called to see if you could help with the duck races,” lied Angela.
Mrs. Tremp looked diverted. “Duck races? What on earth are they?”
Agatha explained.
“That does sound a good idea and I do like to help in charity work. Come in. What is it you would like me to do?”
“Last time I was here you said you were making jam,” said Agatha. “I wondered if you would consider setting up a table at the races and selling some of your home-made jam? You need not contribute what you make for any sales to the charity if you do not want to. It’s just that stands with homemade jams and cakes lend a country air to the proceedings.”
“Oh, no, I’ll be glad to contribute. Who is making the cakes?”
“I thought I might ask the members of the ladies’ society.”
“No need for that. Do sit down, Mrs. Raisin. I will bake cakes as well. To be honest, time does lie heavily on my hands. The colonel when he was alive kept me so busy. As a matter of fact, I’ve just made some carrot cake. Would you like some?”
“That would be very nice.”
“Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
When Mrs. Tremp retreated to the kitchen, Agatha wondered how to broach the subject of Tristan. Perhaps just talk about the races and village matters and see if Mrs. Tremp herself volunteered anything.
The carrot cake proved to be delicious. Agatha ate two large slices, comforting herself with the thought that the walk home might counteract the calories. She talked further about the plans for the races and then volunteered the information that Mrs. Essex was contributing a cellar-full of home-made wine.
“Who is this Mrs. Essex?” asked Mrs. Tremp.
“Miss Jellop’s sister.”
“How odd! She is staying at her sister’s home?”
“Only, I think, to clear up. I believe she and her husband plan to use it for weekends and holidays.”
“Sad, that. I mean, the life is draining out of the villages. I mean, the community life. Soon the whole of the Cotswolds will be some sort of theme park full of tourists, incomers and weekenders. There are few like you, Mrs. Raisin, who are prepared to do their bit. I am sorry I was so cross with you, but the murder of poor Tristan upset me. He had a way of making me feel good about myself. I suppose the secret is to feel good about oneself without relying on other people, but that is a very hard thing to do. Of course, I have wondered and wondered what could have brought about his death. He was extremely attractive. Perhaps it was a crime of passion.”
“Could be. Somehow I think it was to do with money and somehow I get a feeling that after I left him on his last night something happened to make him want to run for it. Has anyone said anything about anyone strange being seen in the village?”
“I only usually speak to people in church or people in the general stores. They are all mystified.”
“If you can think of anything, let me know.” Agatha tactfully turned the conversation back to village matters and then took her leave.
When she returned home, she checked her supply of drinks to see if she had a good-enough selection, ate a hurried lunch of microwaved lasagne and got into her car and drove to the hairdresser’s in Evesham, all the while telling herself that she did not really need to go blonde, she could always change her mind at the last minute.
Early that evening, she rushed up to the fright magnifying mirror in the bathroom for yet another look. Her thick hair was a warm honey-blonde…and yet…and yet…she did not feel like Agatha Raisin. Agatha went into the bedroom for a look in the wardrobe mirror. A stranger looked back at her. She was wearing a plain black georgette dress, cleverly cut to make her look slimmer than she was. Perhaps some eye-shadow? She went back to the bathroom. She carefully applied beige eyeshadow, then liner and mascara, and had just finished when the doorbell rang.
“You’ve gone blonde!” said Bill, goggling at her. “This is Alice.”
“Come along in,” said Agatha.
As she led the way to the sitting-room, she heard Alice mutter, “You said she was
And then Bill’s quiet rejoinder, “I said older than me.”
Agatha crossed to the drinks trolley. “What will you have, Alice?”
“Rum and Coke.”
“Oh dear,” said Agatha. “I don’t know if I’ve got any Coke.”
“Sherry will do, if you’ve got that,” said Alice.
“I’ll have a soft drink,” said Bill.
“Tonic water?”
“That’ll be fine.”
Agatha busied herself with the drinks, handed them round, and sat down opposite Alice and Bill, who were seated side by side on the sofa. It was the first occasion since their arrival that Agatha was able to get a good look at Alice. She had curly brown hair, wide eyes and a pugnacious jaw. She had a generous bosom, a thick waist and chubby legs.
“Have you known Bill long?” asked Alice. She took Bill’s hand in hers and held it firmly.
“Ever since I came down here. Bill was my first friend.”
“Seems odd.” Alice took a sip of her drink and wrinkled her nose. “I like sweet sherry,” she said.
“I don’t have any of that. May I offer you something else?”
“Don’t bother. Just put this in a bigger glass and add some tonic water.”
Oh dear, thought Agatha, but did as requested. “What’s odd?” she asked.
“Well, I mean, Bill being young and you old.”
“We were not having an affair,” said Agatha acidly.
“Found out anything more about the case?” asked Bill hurriedly. Why, oh why, he wondered, did Agatha Raisin have to go blonde and put on a slinky dress?
Agatha shook her head. She told them about the duck races. Alice laughed, a harsh and brittle sound. “Kids’ stuff.”
I will not be nasty to this girl for Bill’s sake, no matter what she says, vowed Agatha. “Oh, it will be amusing, I assure you,” she said lightly. “How do you enjoy working in the bank, Alice?”
“’Sawright.”
“Interesting customers?”
“Some of them. Some of them think the bank’s a bottomless pit of money. They come in saying the machine outside won’t give them anything. I just tell them, ‘You’re wasting my time and your own. If that machine says you can’t have any money, then you can’t.’ ” She laughed. “You should see their faces.”
How can Bill like such a creature? marveled Agatha. But Bill was smiling at Alice fondly.
Alice stood up. “Can I use the little girls’ room?”
“It’s at the top of the stairs.”
When Alice had left, Bill grinned. “I’m rather enjoying this.”
“Why?” demanded Agatha.
“I’ve never seen Alice jealous before. You would choose this night to turn yourself into a blonde bombshell.”
“I should find it flattering, but I’m finding this visit awkward, Bill. Are you really keen on her?”
