“Does one need a spark at my age?”
“At any age.”
“I’ll think about it. I’ll go home and phone around some builders.”
Agatha went to feed her cats because their bowls were empty and she couldn’t remember feeding them. I’m turning into a compulsive cat feeder, she thought as she poached fish for them and then set it aside to cool. She saw John’s keys lying on the kitchen counter and decided to go next door and pick up his mail from the doormat and put it on his desk.
In his cottage, she scooped up the pile of post. She looked thoughtfully at his answering machine. Why all these trips to London? Feeling guilty, she laid down the post on his desk and crossed to the answering machine. There were several messages, and all from Charlotte Bellinge. He must have saved them, thought Agatha dismally. The first one was Charlotte apologizing for bringing some man called Giles to dinner. “Do forgive me, dear John,” she cooed. “Do let me take you out for dinner and make it up to you.” The second said, “What a wonderful time we had. Pippa is giving a party tomorrow night. Do say you’ll come.” And the third, “I’m running a bit late. Can you pick me up at nine instead of eight? Dying to see you.”
So that’s that, thought Agatha. No heading into the sunset of middle age with John Armitage.
She went home and arranged the cooled fish in bowls for the cats. The loneliness of the cottage seemed to press down on her.
Agatha picked up the phone and dialled old Mr. Crinsted’s number. “Feel like coming out for dinner?” she asked.
“Delighted,” said the old man.
“I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” said Agatha.
Agatha found she was enjoying herself in Mr. Crinsted’s company. They discussed plans for the old folks’ club and Mr. Crinsted promised to teach Agatha chess.
“I am so glad you called, Mrs. Raisin,” he said. “I wanted to hear all about the murders.”
“I would have called earlier,” lied Agatha, who had practically until that evening forgotten Mr. Crinsted’s existence, “but I’ve been settling down after the shock of it all.”
“Tell me about it, Mrs. Raisin.”
“Agatha.”
“Right, my name is Ralph.”
So Agatha did while Ralph Crinsted listened intently. When she had finished, he said, “It’s odd, all the same.”
“What’s odd?”
“This Miss Partle must have been so used to discussing everything with him, I’m surprised she decided to take matters into her own hands.”
“I’ve met Binser. He’s a straightforward man. He probably never noticed much about her. Thought of her as a bit of office machinery.”
“I think any man who had a secretary so much in love with him would have noticed something.”
“Maybe he did and took it as his due. Men do, you know.”
“Some men.”
“I’m just glad it’s all over and Alf Bloxby is in the clear. Not that there was ever any evidence against him, but there was gossip, and gossip in a small village can be very dangerous.”
“True. Have you ever played chess before?”
“No, never.”
“Like to learn?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Then I’ll give you lessons.”
After she had dropped Mr. Crinsted off at his home, Agatha reflected that it was a long time since she had enjoyed such a carefree evening.
She had promised to call on Ralph Crinsted in a couple of days’ time and start her chess lessons. Then tomorrow, she would see what estimate the builders came up with for the roof. The ring on her finger sparkled. “Masquerade over,” said Agatha ruefully to her cats. She took off the ring and put it in the kitchen drawer. She wondered how John was getting on with Charlotte and realized with relief that his relationship didn’t bother her in the slightest. Or that was what she believed. Almost impossible to imagine John getting passionate about anyone. Like Miss Partle. Poor Miss Partle. Now why think that?
This was a woman who was a stone-cold murderess and who was probably faking insanity.
John Armitage was at another hot and noisy party in Chelsea with Charlotte flirting with a group of men across the room. But he could bear it. Tonight was going to be the night. Hadn’t she said they would just drop in for an hour and then go home together? He remembered fondly the seductive look in her eyes when she had said those words and the caress in her voice.
He had been disappointed that she had still shown no interest in the murders except to laugh and say that Agatha Raisin was a formidable woman.
John looked at his watch, only half listening to the woman next to him, who was telling him that she was sure she could sit down and write a book if she only had the time. They had been there two hours and Charlotte showed no signs of leaving. Time to take charge. He crossed the room and took her arm in a possessive grip. “Time we were leaving.”
“Oh, darling.” Charlotte pouted prettily. “We’re all going on to Jilly’s party.”
John did not know who this Jilly was and he did not care.
He said stiffly, “Either we leave now or I’m going home.”
“Then you’d better go. But why not come with us? It’ll be fun.”
“Good night,” snapped John.
As he strode to the door, he heard one of the men with Charlotte laugh and say, “There goes another of Charlotte’s walkers.”
His face flamed. That had been all she had really wanted from him, an escort to walk her to the endless social functions she loved.
His thoughts turned to Agatha on the road home. He had been neglecting her along with his work. He would get going on the book for a couple of days and then take her out for dinner. But, damn Charlotte Bellinge. She had really led him a fine dance.
Agatha was busy with the builders next day and with looking around the church hall. Old people like comfort and dignity. The floor would need a carpet and she would need to supply comfortable chairs and tables. Bookshelves along one wall for books, games and jigsaws. What else? The walls painted, of course, but not in those dreadful pink and pale-blue pastel colours do-gooders liked to inflict on the old as if catering for a second childhood. Plain white would do, with pictures. It should really be called the Agatha Raisin Club, considering all the work and money she was putting into it. But Mrs. Bloxby would think she was being grandiose. Of course, she had promised to think up some fund-raising venture so that she would not have to bear all the cost herself. Agatha’s mind worked busily. An auction would be a good idea. She had raised a lot of money for one of those before by going around the country houses and getting them to contribute. Or what about getting some well-known pop group to put on a concert? No, scrub that. It would bring in too much mess and probably drugs as well. She must think of something.
She walked back to her cottage in the pouring rain, trying to avoid the puddles gathering amongst the fallen leaves.
In her cottage, there was a note lying on the kitchen table from Doris Simpson, one of the few women in Carsely to use Agatha’s first name. “Dear Agatha,” she read, “Have taken poor Scrabble home to feed. Cat looks half-starved. Be round to clean as usual next week. Doris.”
“Bloody cat ate like a horse,” muttered Agatha.
The doorbell rang. Agatha answered it. John stood there. He had suddenly decided he wanted to see Agatha.
“Yes?” asked Agatha coldly.
“Can I come in? It’s bucketing with rain.”
He followed her into the kitchen.
