fact, well, heroic.
The day wore on. The television set at the end of the beds flickered through soap opera after soap opera. No one else called. Not even Mrs. Bloxby.
Well, that's that, thought Agatha bleakly. Why did they bother to send flowers? Probably thought I was dead.
Chapter Thirteen.
Agatha was told next day that an ambulance would be leaving the hospital at noon to take her home. She was rather pleased about that.
Her home-coming in an ambulance should make the village sit up and take notice.
She took the greetings cards off the bouquets of flowers around her bed to keep as a souvenir of her time in the Cotswolds. How odd that she had volunteered to help Bill with his cases, just as if she meant to stay. She asked a nurse to take the flowers to the children's ward and then got dressed and went downstairs to wait for the ambulance. There was a shop in the entrance hall selling newspapers. She bought a pile of the local ones but there was no mention of Vera Cummings-Browne's arrest. Perhaps it all leaked out too late for them to do anything about it.
To her dismay, the '' turned out to be a minibus which was taking various geriatric patients back to their local villages. Why does the sight of creaking old people make me feel so cruel and impatient? thought Agatha, watching them fumbling and stumbling on board. I'll be old myself all too soon. She forced herself to get up to help an old man who was trying to get into the bus. He leered at her. 'Keep your hands to yourself,' he said. 'I know your sort.'
The rest of the passengers were all old women who shrieked with laughter and said, 'You are a one, Arnie' and things like that, all of them evidently knowing each other very well.
It was a calm, cool day with great fluffy clouds floating across a pale-blue sky. The old woman next to Agatha caught her attention by jabbing her painfully in the toes with her stick. 'What happened to you then?' she asked, peering at Agatha's sticking-plaster-covered face. 'Beat you up, did he?' 'No,' said Agatha frostily. 'I was solving a murder case for the police.' 'It's the drink,' said the old woman. 'Mine used ter come home from the pub and lay into me something rotten. He's dead now. It's one thing you've got to say in favour of men, they die before we do.' 'Cept me,' said Arnie. 'I'm seventy-eight and still going strong.'
More cackles. Agatha's announcement about solving a murder case had bitten the dust. The minibus rolled lazily to a stop in a small hamlet and the woman next to Agatha was helped out. She looked at Agatha and said in farewell, 'Don't go making up stories to protect him. I did that. Different these days. If he's bashing you, tell the police.'
There was a murmur of approval from the other women.
The bus moved off. It turned out to be a comprehensive tour of Cotswold villages as one geriatric after another was set down.
Agatha was the last passenger. She felt dirty and weary as the bus rolled down into Carsely. 'Where to?' shouted the driver.
'Left here,' said Agatha. 'Third cottage along on the left.'
'Something going on,' called the driver. 'Big welcome. You been in the wars or something?'
The ambulance stopped outside Agatha's cottage. There was a big cheer.
The band began to play 'Hello Dolly.' They were all there, all the village, and there was a banner hanging drunkenly over her doorway which said, WELCOME HOME.
Mrs. Bloxby was the first with a hug. Then the members of the Carsely Ladies' Society. Then the landlord, Joe Fletcher, and the regulars from the Red Lion.
Local photographers were busy clicking their cameras, local reporters stood ready.
'Everyone inside,' called Agatha, ' I'll tell you all about it.'
Soon her living-room was crowded, with an overflow stretching into the dining-room and kitchen as she told a rapt audience how she had solved The Case of the Poisoned Quiche. It was highly embroidered. But she did describe in glorious Technicolor how the brave Bill Wong had dragged her from the burning house, ' clothes in flames and his hands cut to ribbons.' 'Such bravery,' said Agatha, ' an example of the fine men we have in the British police force.'
Some reporters scribbled busily; the more up-to-date used tape recorders. Agatha was about to hit the nationals, or rather, Bill Wong was. There had been two nasty stories recently about corrupt policemen, but the newspapers knew there was nothing people liked to read about more than a brave bobby.
Next door, James Lacey stood in his front garden, burning with curiosity. The visit from Agatha had been enough. He had called on the vicarage and told Mrs. Bloxby sternly that although he was grateful for the welcome to the village, he now wanted to be left strictly alone. He enjoyed his own company. He had moved to the country for peace and quiet. Mrs. Bloxby had done her work well. So although he had watched the preparations for Agatha's return, he did not know what she had done or what it had all been about. He wanted to walk along and ask someone but felt shy of doing so because he had said he wanted to be alone and he remembered he had added that he had no interest in what went on in the village or in anyone in it.
One by one Agatha's fan club was leaving. Doris Simpson was among the last to go. She handed Agatha a large brown paper parcel.
'Why, what's this, Doris?' asked Agatha.
'Me and Bert got talking about that gnome you gave us,' said Doris firmly. Those things are expensive and we don't really have much interest in our garden and we know you must have liked it because you bought it. So we decided to give it back to you.'
'I couldn't possibly accept it,' said Agatha.
'You must. We haven't felt right about it.'
Agatha, who had long begun to suspect that her cleaning lady had a will of iron, said feebly, 'Thank you.'
'Anything else?' called Joe Fletcher from the doorway.
Agatha made a sudden decision. 'Yes, there is,' she said. 'Take that 'For Sale' sign down.'
At last they had all gone. Agatha sat down, suddenly shivering. The full horror of what had happened to her at Vera's hit her. She went upstairs and took a hot bath and changed into a nightgown and an old shabby blue wool dressing-gown. She peered in the bathroom mirror.
There was a bald sore red patch at the front of her hair where Bill had pulled it out. She switched on the central heating and then threw logs on the fire, lit a match and then shuddered and blew the match out. It would be a while before she could bear the sight of a fire.
There was a tentative knock at the door. Still shivering and holding her dressing-gown tightly about her, she went to open it. James Lacey stood there, holding the kitten in its basket and the litter tray.
'Bill Wong asked me to look after the cat for you,' he said. He eyed her doubtfully. 'I could look after it for another day if you're not up to it.'
'No, no,' babbled Agatha. 'Come in. I wonder how Bill got the cat? Of course, he would have taken the keys out of my bag in the hospital. How very good of you.'
She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. How awful she looked, and not a scrap of make-up on either!
She carried the cat into the living-room and stooped and let it out of its basket and then took the litter tray into the kitchen. When she returned, James was sitting in one of her chairs staring thoughtfully at the large gnome which Doris had returned and Agatha had unwrapped.
It was standing on the coffee-table leering horribly, like old Arnie on the minibus.
'Would you like a gnome?' asked Agatha.
'No, thank you. It's an unusual living-room ornament.'
'It's not really mine. You see ... '
There was a hammering at the door. Agatha swore under her breath and went to answer it. Midlands Television and the BBC. 'Can't you come back later?' pleaded Agatha, casting a longing look towards the living- room. But then she saw the police car driving up as well.
Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes had called.
The television interviewers had a more understated version of Agatha's story than the villagers had heard.
