charity, but something in Mrs. Bloxby's gentle gaze silenced him.
Upper Cockburn was six miles away and they pedalled off together under the hot sun. 'Going to be a scorcher of a summer,' said Roy. 'London seems thousands of miles away from all this.' He took one hand off the handlebars and waved around at the green fields and trees stretched out on either side.
Agatha suddenly wished they were not going to Upper Cockburn. She wanted to forget about the whole thing now. There had been no further attacks on her, no nasty notes.
The tall steeple of Upper Cockburn church came into view, rising over the fields. They cycled into the sun- washed peace of the main street.
There's a pub,' said Roy, pointing to the Farmers Arms. 'Let's have a bite to eat and ask a few questions. Did this Miss. Borrow go in for village competitions?'
'Yes, jam-making,' said Agatha curtly. 'Look, Roy, let's just have lunch and go home.'
Think about it.'
The pub was low and dark, smelling of beer, with a flagged floor and wooden settles dark with age. They sat in the lounge bar. From the public bar Tina Turner was belting something out on the juke-box and there came the click of billiard balls. A waitress, in a very short skirt and with long, long legs and a deep bosom revealed by the low neck of her skimpy dress, bent over them to take their orders. Roy surveyed her with a frankly lecherous look. Agatha gazed at him in dawning surprise.
'What's made your friend, Steve, moody?' she asked.
'What? Oh, woman trouble. Got involved with a married woman who's decided that hubby is better after all.'
Well, thought Agatha, these days, with women looking more like men and men looking more like women, you never can tell. Perhaps in thousands of years' time there would be a unisex face and people would have to go around with badges to proclaim their gender. Or maybe the women could wear pink and the men blue. Or maybe.
'What are you thinking about?' demanded Roy.
Agatha gave a guilty start. 'Oh, about the Borrow woman,' she said mendaciously.
Roy took her now empty gin glass and went to the bar to get her a refill. Agatha saw him talking to the landlord.
He came back, looking triumphant. 'Miss. Maria Borrow lives in Pear Trees, which is the cottage to the left of this pub. There!'
'I don't know, Roy. It's such a lovely day. Couldn't we just take a look around the village and then go back?'
'I'm doing this for your own good,' said Roy severely. 'Gosh, this steak and kidney pudding is great. You know, there's nothing like these English dishes when they're done well.'
'I should have had a salad,' mourned Agatha. 'I can feel every calorie.'
I'm weak-willed, she thought when she had eaten every scrap of the steak and kidney pudding and she realized she had let Roy talk her into a helping of hot apple pie with cream, real cream, and not that stuff like shaving soap.
The waitress came up when they had finished the pie, her high heels clacking on the stone flags of the floor. 'Anything else?' she asked.
'Just coffee,' said Roy. That was an excellent meal.'
'Yes, I reckon the part-timer on Sundays does a better job than our Mrs. Moulson during the week,' she said.
'Who's your part-timer?'
That's John Cartwright from over Carsely way.'
She clacked off. 'What's the matter?' asked Roy, seeing Agatha's startled face.
'John Cartwright's the husband of Ella Cartwright, who was having an affair with Cummings-Browne. Who ever would have thought he could cook? He's a great dirty ape of a man. You see, it could have been done. Someone could have replaced my quiche with one of their own.'
'Again, I have to point out that you would be intended as the victim,' said Roy patiently.
'Wait a bit. Maybe it was intended for Cummings-Browne. Why not?
Everyone knew he was to be the judge. Perhaps there wasn't enough cow bane in that little piece he nibbled at the show.'
'I'm sure any murderer would have thought of that.'
'But John Cartwright struck me as having the IQ of a plant.'
The waitress brought coffee. When she had gone again, Roy said, 'Have you ever wondered about Economides?'
'What? Why should the owner of The Quicherie, who didn't even know Cummings-Browne or where I was taking the quiche, decide to put cow bane in it?'
'But from what I've gathered,' said Roy, 'Economides didn't shriek and complain. Did he demand to see the quiche?'
T don't think so. But he would want to let the matter drop. Perhaps the John Cartwright in the kitchen is another John Cartwright?'
'Finish your coffee,' urged Roy, ' let's stroll round the back of the pub and take a look in the kitchen door.'
Agatha paid the bill and they walked together into the sunlight. 'How do you know the kitchen's at the back?' she asked.
'Just a guess. We'll try to the right because the car-park's to the left.'
They walked round the building. Agatha was about to enter a small area of dustbins and outhouses when she drew back with a yelp and collided into Roy. 'It is John Cartwright,' she said. 'He's standing outside the kitchen door smoking a cigarette.'
'Let me see.' Roy pushed her aside and peered cautiously round the corner of the building. John Cartwright was leaning against the doorway, holding a home-made cigarette in one large dirty hand. His apron was stained with grease and gravy. The sun shone on the tattoos on his black hairy arms.
'I feel sick,' said Roy, retreating. 'He looks filthy. Food poisoning oozing out of every dirty pore.' T think we've done enough for one day said Agatha. 'Let's leave this Borrow woman alone.' 'No/ said Roy stubbornly. 'We're so close.'
Maria Borrow's cottage was low and thatched and very old. The small diamond-paned windows winked in the sunlight and the little garden was a riot of roses, honeysuckle, snapdragons, delphiniums and busy Lizzies. Roy nudged Agatha and pointed to the brass door-knocker, which was in the shape of a grinning devil.
'What are we going to say?' asked Agatha desperately.
'Nothing like the truth retorted Roy, seizing the door knocker The low door creaked open, and Miss. Maria Borrow stood there. Her greyish hair was scraped up into a knot on the top of her head. Her eyes were pale. They looked past Roy to where Agatha stood cringing behind him.
'I knew you would come she said and she stood aside to let them enter.
They found themselves in a low-beamed living-room crowded with furniture and photographs in silver frames. From the beams hung bunches of dried herbs and flowers. On a low table in front of a chair on which Maria Borrow placed herself was a crystal ball.
Roy giggled nervously. 'See us coming in that?' he asked.
Maria nodded her head several times. 'Oh, yes.' She was wearing a long purple woollen gown despite the heat of the day. 'You have come to make amends she said, turning to Agatha. 'You and your fancy man.' 'Mr. Silver is a young friend said Agatha. Tn fact, Mr. Silver is considerably younger than I.'
'A lady is as young as the gentleman she feels said Roy and cackled happily. 'Look/ he said, becoming serious, ' were visiting Warwick Castle and took a video on one of the towers. When we ran it, there you were, glaring at Aggie here like poison. We want to know why.'
'You poisoned my future husband said Maria.
There was a silence. A trapped fly buzzed against one of the windows and from the village green outside came muted shouts and the thud of cricket ball on bat.
Agatha cleared her throat. 'You mean Mr. Cummings-Browne.'
