scratched one of her generous bosoms. A smell of sour sweat came to Agatha's nostrils and she thought inconse- quently how rare it was to meet a really dirty woman in these hygienic days. 'Couldn't stand Vera, Reg couldn't. She held the purse-strings and he said she made him jump through hoops or sit up and beg just to get some drinking money. The only money he had of his own was his pension and that didn't go very far. He used to say to me, 'Ella,' he'd say, 'one day I'm going to wring that woman's neck and be rid of her for once and for all.'
Agatha looked bewildered. 'But he died, not her!'
'Maybe she got there first. She hated him.'
'But I had dinner with the pair of them and they seemed a devoted couple; in fact, quite alike.'
'Naw, you could have a laugh with Reg, but Mrs. Snobby was always turning her nose up at me. That was no accident. That was murder.'
'But how could she do it? I mean, it was my quiche.'
'Dunno, but I feel it here.' Mrs. Cartwright struck her bosom and another waft of sweat floated across to Agatha's nostrils.
'Mrs. Cummings-Browne called on me this morning,' said Agatha firmly, 'and forgave me. But she was broken up about her husband's death, quite genuinely so.'
'She acts in the Carsely Dramatic Society,' said Mrs. Cartwright cynically, ' bloody good she is, too. Right little actress.' 'No,' said Agatha stubbornly. 'I know when people are being straight with me, and you are not one of those people, Mrs. Cartwright.'
'Told you what I know.' Mrs. Cartwright stared at the twenty-pound note, which Agatha still held in her hand.
The broken gate outside creaked and Agatha started nervously. She did not want another confrontation with John Cartwright. She thrust the note at Mrs. Cartwright. 'Look,' she said urgently, ' know where to find me. If there's anything at all you can tell me, let me know.'
'I certainly will,' said Mrs. Cartwright, looking happy now that she had the money in her possession.
Agatha was just leaving by stepping round the broken garden gate when she saw John Cartwright lumbering down the road. She hurried on, but he had seen her. He caught up with her and roughly seized her arm and swung her round. 'You've been snooping around about Cummings-Browne!' he snarled. 'Ella told me. I'm telling you for the last time, you go near her again and I'll break your neck. That fart Cummings-Browne got what was coming to him and so will you.'
Agatha wrenched her arm free and hurried on, her face flaming. She went straight home and put the threatening note in an envelope along with a letter and addressed it to Detective Constable Wong at Mircester Police Station. She felt sure now that John Cartwright had written that note.
As she returned from posting it, she saw a couple arriving at New Delhi, Mrs. Barr's house. They turned and stared at her. They looked vaguely familiar. With a wrench of memory, Agatha realized they had been among the other diners in the Red Huntsman that evening when she had been discussing the '' with Roy and Steve.
She went into her own cottage and stood in her sitting-room, looking about her. She had never furnished anything in her life before, living as she had in a succession of furnished rooms until she made her first real money, and then renting a furnished flat and finally buying one, but that too had been furnished, for she had bought the contents as well.
She screwed up her eyes and tried to visualize what she would like but no ideas came except that the three- piece suite annoyed her. She wanted something more in the lines of the vicarage living-room. Well, antiques could be bought, and that was as good a reason as any to get out of Carsely for the remainder of the day.
She drove to Cheltenham Spa and after cruising about that town's irritating and baffling one-way system until she got her bearings, she stopped a passer-by and asked where she could buy antique furniture.
She was directed to a network of streets behind Montpelier Terrace. She drove there and managed to find a parking space in a private parking lot outside someone's house. Her first good find was in an old cinema now used as a furniture warehouse. She bought an old high-backed wing armchair in soft green leather and a chesterfield sofa with basketwork and soft dull-green cushions. Then, to the increasing delight of the salesman, who had feared it was going to be a slow day, she also bought a wide Victorian fruit wood chair, running her fingers appreciatively over the carving. She paid for the lot without a blink and said she would pick them up after the tenth of June. Agatha now planned to amaze the village by adding her living-room furniture to the sale. Two elegant lamps caught her eye as she was leaving and she purchased them as well. Agatha remembered when she was at school, she had vowed that when she had her first pay cheque, she would walk into a sweetshop and buy all the chocolate she wanted. But by the time that happened, her desires had focused on a pair of purple high-heeled shoes with bows. She enjoyed having enough money to enable her to buy what she wanted.
Then, before she left Cheltenham, she went to Marks and Spencer and bought giant prawns in garlic butter and a packet of lasagne, both of which she could cook in the microwave. It was still not her own cooking, but a cut above what she could get at the village shop.
Later, after a good meal, she settled down to read a detective story, wondering idly whether she should take the television set up to the bedroom. The vicarage living-room did not boast a television set.
It was only when she was preparing for bed that she remembered the Boggles with a sinking heart. With any luck, they would not expect her to drive them about all day.
In the morning, she presented herself at the Boggles' home. Why Culloden? Were they Scottish?
But Mr. Boggle was a small, spry, wrinkled man with a Gloucestershire accent and his wife, an old creaking harridan, was undoubtedly Welsh.
Agatha waited for either of the pair to say it was very kind of her, or to evince any sign of gratitude, but they both climbed into the back seat and Mr. Boggle said, 'We're going to Bath.'
Bath! Agatha had been hoping for somewhere nearer, like Evesham.
'It's quite a bit away,' she protested.
Mrs. Boggle jabbed her in the shoulder with one horny forefinger. 'You said you was takin' us out, so take us.'
Agatha fished out her road atlas. The easiest would be to get on the Fosse Way to Cirencester and then on to Bath.
She heaved a sigh. It was a glorious day. Summer was edging its way into England. Hawthorn flowers were heavy with scent, pink and white along the winding road out of Carsely. On either side of the Fosse Way, obviously a Roman road, for it runs straight as an arrow up steep hills and down the other side, lay fields of oil seed rape, bright yellow, Van Gogh yellow, looking too vulgarly bright among the gentler colours of the English countryside. Queen Anne's lace frothed along the roadside. There was no sound from the passengers in the back.
Agatha began to feel more cheerful. Perhaps her ancient passengers would be content to go off on their own in Bath.
But in Bath, Agatha's troubles started. The Boggles pointed out that they had no intention of walking from any car-park to the Pump Room where, it appeared, they meant to ' the waters'. It was Agatha's duty to drive them there and then go and park the car herself. She sweated her way round the one-way system, congested with traffic, trying to turn a deaf ear to Mr. Boggle's comments of 'Not a very good driver, are you?' 'Well?' demanded Mrs. Boggle when they had reached the colonnaded entrance to the Pump Room. 'Aren't you going to help a body out?'
Mrs. Boggle was small and round, dressed in a tweed coat and a long scarf that seemed to be inextricably wound around the seat-belt. She smelt very strongly of cheap scent. 'Stop pushin' me. You're hurtin' me,' she grumbled as Agatha tried to release her from bondage. Her husband elbowed Agatha aside, produced a pair of nail scissors and hacked through the scarf. 'Now look what you've done,' moaned Mrs. Boggle.
'Quit your frettin', woman,' said Mr. Boggle. He jerked a thumb at Agatha. 'Her'll buy you another one.'
Like hell, thought Agatha when she finally parked near the bus station.
She deliberately took a long time returning to the Pump Room, an hour, in fact. She found the Boggles in the tea-room beside an empty coffee-pot and plates covered in cake crumbs.
'So you've finally decided to show up,' said Mr. Boggle, handing her the bill. 'You're a fine one.'
The trouble is, no one don't care nothing about old folks these days.
All they want is discos and drugs,' said Mrs. Boggle. They both stared fiercely at Agatha.
'Have you taken the waters yet?' asked Agatha.
'Going to now,' said Mrs. Boggle. 'Help me up.'
