think peaceful about it, know what I mean? Of course, I s'pose it's diff'rent for you, Mrs. Raisin. You've probably travelled and seen all sorts of beautiful places.' Yes, Carsely was beautiful, thought Agatha reluctantly. The village was blessed with many underground springs, and so, in the middle of all the drought around, it glowed like a green emerald.
'She doesn't like it,' crowed Roy, ' people keep trying to murder her.'
Tracy begged to be told all about it and so Agatha began at the beginning, talking at first to Tracy and then to herself, for there was something nagging at the back of her mind.
That evening, Roy took them out for dinner to a pretentious restaurant in Mircester. Tracy only drank mineral water, for she was to drive Roy home. She seemed intimidated by the restaurant but admiring of Roy, who was snapping his fingers at the waiters and, as far as Agatha was concerned, behaving like a first-class creep. Yes, thought Agatha, Roy will marry Tracy and she will probably think she is happy and Roy will turn out to be someone I can't stand. I wish I had never got him that publicity.
When she waved goodbye to them, it was with a feeling of relief. The time was rapidly approaching when Roy would phone expecting an invitation and she would make some excuse.
But of course she wouldn't need to bother. For she would be back in London.
Chapter Eleven.
On Monday morning, Agatha rose late, wondering why she had slept so long and wishing she had risen earlier to catch any coolness of the day. She put on a loose cotton dress over the minimum of underwear, went downstairs and took a mug of coffee out into the garden.
She had been plagued with dreams of Maria Borrow, Barbara James, and Ella Cartwright, who had appeared as the three witches in Macbeth. 'I have summoned the evil spirits to kill you,' Maria Borrow had croaked.
Agatha sighed and finished her coffee and went for a walk to the butcher's which was near the vicarage. The sign saying
'New Delhi' had been taken down. There was no evidence of the new owner, but Mrs. Mason and two other women were standing on the step, carrying cakes to welcome the new comer. Agatha walked on, reflecting that nobody had called on her when she had first arrived.
She was about to go into the butcher's when she stiffened. A little way away, Vera Cummings-Browne was standing talking to Barbara James, who had a Scottie on a leash. Agatha dived for cover into the butcher's shop and almost collided with Mrs. Bloxby.
'Seen your new neighbour yet?' asked Mrs. Bloxby.
'No, not yet,' said Agatha, keeping a wary eye on the door in case Barbara should leap in and savage her. 'Who is he?'
'A retired colonel. Mr. James Lacey. He doesn't use his title. Very charming.'
'I'm not interested!' snapped Agatha. Mrs. Bloxby looked at her in pained surprise and Agatha coloured.
'Sorry,' she mumbled. 'I just saw Vera Cummings-Browne with Barbara James. Barbara James tried to attack me.' 'She always had a dreadful temper,' said Mrs. Bloxby placidly. 'Mrs. Cummings-Browne is just back from Tuscany She is very brown and looks fit.'
'I didn't even know she was away,' commented Agatha. 'I'm wondering what to buy. My cooking skills are still very limited.'
'Get some of those lamb chops,' advised the vicar's wife, ' put them under the grill with a little mint. I have fresh mint in the garden.
Come back with me for a coffee and I'll give you some. You just cook the chops slowly on either side until they are brown. Very simple. And I shall give you some of my mint sauce, too.'
Agatha obediently bought the chops but hesitated in the doorway. 'Do you mind seeing if the coast is clear?'
Mrs. Bloxby looked out. They've both gone.'
Over the coffee cups in the vicarage garden, under the shade of a cypress tree, Mrs. Bloxby asked, 'Are you still determined to move?' 'Yes,' said Agatha bleakly, wishing some of her old ambition and drive would come back to her. 'The estate agents should be putting a
'For Sale' board up this morning.'
Mrs. Bloxby looked at her over the rim of her coffee cup. 'Strange how things work out, Mrs. Raisin. I thought your being here had something to do with Divine Providence.'
Agatha gave a startled grunt.
'First I felt you had been brought here for your own benefit. You struck me as a lady who had never known any real love or affection. You seemed to carry a weight of loneliness about with you.'
Agatha stared at her in deep embarrassment.
Then of course there is the death of Mr. Cummings-Browne. My husband, like the police, maintains it was an accident. I felt that God had sent you here to find out the culprit.'
'Meaning you think it's murder!'
'I've tried not to. So much more comfortable to believe it an accident and settle back into our ways. But there is something, some atmosphere, something wrong. I sense evil in this village. Now you are going, no one will ask questions, no one will care, and the evil will remain. Call me silly and superstitious if you like, but I believe the taking of a human life is a grievous sin which should be punished by law.' She gave a little laugh. 'So I shall pray that if murder has been done, then the culprit will be revealed.' 'But you've got nothing concrete to go on?' asked Agatha.
She shook her head. 'Just a feeling. But you are going, so that is that. I feel that Bill Wong shares my doubts.'
'He's the one that has been urging me to leave the whole thing alone!'
'That is because he is fond of you and does not want to see you get hurt.'
Agatha turned the conversation over in her mind. The 'For Sale' notice was up when she got back, giving her a temporary feeling, as if she had already left the village.
She got out a large notebook and pen and sat down at the kitchen table and began to write down everything that had happened since she came to the village. The long hot day wore on and she wrote busily, going back and back over her notes, looking for some clue. Then she tapped the pen on the paper. For a start, there was one little thing. The body had been found on Sunday. On Tuesday it must have been Tuesday, for on the Wednesday the police had told her that Mrs. Cummings-Browne did not mean to sue The Quicherie the bereaved widow had gone to Chelsea in person. Agatha sat back and chewed the end of her pen. Now wasn't that odd behaviour? If your husband has just been murdered and you are collapsing about the place with grief and everyone is talking about how stricken you are, how do you summon up the energy to go all the way to London? She could just as easily have phoned. Why? Agatha glanced at the kitchen clock. What exactly had Vera Cummings-Browne said to Mr. Economides? She went to the phone, lifted the receiver and put it back down again. Despite his confession about his relative without the work permit, the Greek had still looked guarded. The shop didn't close till eight. Agatha decided to motor up to London and catch him before he shut the shop for the evening.
She had just locked the door behind her when she found on turning round that a family consisting of ferrety husband, plump wife, and two spotty teenagers were surveying her.
'We've come to look round the house,' said the man.
'You can't.' Agatha pushed past the family.
'It says 'For Sale,' he complained.
'It's already sold,' lied Agatha. She heaved the board out of the ground and dropped it on the grass. Then she got into her car and drove off, leaving the family staring after her.
The hell with it, thought Agatha, I wouldn't want to inflict that lot on the village anyway.
She made London in good time, for most of the traffic was going the other way.
She parked on a double yellow line outside The Quicherie.
She went into the shop. Mr. Economides was clearing his cold shelf of quiches for the night. He looked at Agatha and again that wariness was in his eyes.
T want to talk to you,' said Agatha bluntly. 'Don't worry,' she lied.
'I've got friends in the Home Office. You won't come to any harm.'
He took off his apron and walked around the counter.
They both sat down at one of his little tables. There was no offer of coffee. His dark eyes surveyed her
