you raised for charity last year' Agatha preened.
'We both knew the vet, Paul Bladen' said James. 'We're having a sort of a bet. Mrs Raisin here said he was worth a lot of money, but I got the impression he didn't have that much. Do you know how much he left?'
'I can't tell you exactly how much because I can't quite remember' said Mr Heyford. 'About eighty-five thousand, I think. Would have been a fortune once, but that sort of money won't even buy you a decent house now. He left a house, of course, but he had taken a double mortgage out on that, and with house prices being what they are, Mr Rice, who inherited, will barely get enough to cover the mortgages. I never thought the day would come in this country when we would consider eighty-five thousand not very much money, so it looks as if you've won the bet, Mr Lacey'
'So he couldn't have been killed for his money' said Agatha mournfully when they had said goodbye to the editor. 'And yet . . '
'And yet what?'
'If he did have eighty-five thousand pounds, why the two mortgages? I mean, the interest must have been crippling. Why not pay off some of the money owing?'
'The trouble' said James, 'is that we are making ourselves believe an accident to be murder'
Agatha thought quickly. If he gave up the idea of investigating anything at all, then she would have little excuse to spend any time in his company. 'We could try the wife' she suggested. 'I mean, as we're here and we've still got time to kill before we go to Bill's'
'Oh, very well. Where do we find her?'
'We'll try the phone book and hope she is still using her married name' said Agatha.
They found a name, G. Bladen, listed. The address was given as Rose Cottage, Little Blom-ham. 'Where's Little Blomham?' asked Agatha.
'I saw a sign to it once. It's off the Stroud road'
A pale mist was shrouding the landscape, turning the countryside into a Chinese painting, as they drove down into Little Blomham. It was more of a hamlet than a village, a few ancient houses of golden Cotswold stone hunched beside a stream.
No one moved about, no smoke rose from the chimneys, no dog barked.
Agatha switched off the engine and both listened as the eerie silence settled about them.
James suddenly quoted:
'Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone'
Agatha looked at him crossly. She did not like people who suddenly quoted things at you, leaving you feeling unread and inadequate. In fact, she thought they only did it to show off.
She got out of the car and slammed the door shut with unnecessary force.
James got out of the passenger seat and wandered to a stone wall and looked down at the slowly moving stream. He seemed to have gone into some sort of dream, to have forgotten Agatha's presence. 'So very quiet' he said, half to himself. 'So very English, the England they fought for in the First World War. So little of it left'
'Would you like to stand here and meditate while I find out which one of these picturesque hovels is Rose Cottage?' asked Agatha.
He gave her a sudden smile. 'No, I'll come with you.' They walked together down the road by the stream. 'Let me see, this one has no name and the next one is called End Cottage, although it's not at the end. Perhaps one of the ones further on'
They nearly missed Rose Cottage. It was set well back from the road at the end of a thin, narrow, tangled and unkempt garden. It was small and thatched, with the walls covered in thick creeper. 'Looks more like an animal's burrow than a house,' commented James. 'Well, here we go. We can't say we think he was murdered. We'll offer our sympathy and see where that gets us.'
He knocked on the door. And waited. They stood wrapped in the silence of the dream countryside. Then, as if a spell had been broken, a bird suddenly flew up from a bush near the door, a dog barked somewhere, high and shrill in the road outside, and Mrs Bladen opened the door.
Why, I believe she's older than I, thought Agatha, looking again at that grey hair and at the tell-tale lines on the thin neck.
Mrs Bladen looked past James to Agatha and her face settled in lines of dislike. 'Oh, it's you again'
'Mr Lacey wished to offer you his sympathy' said Agatha quickly.
'Why?' she demanded harshly. 'Why should someone come all this way to offer sympathy for the death of a man I've been divorced from?'
'We're very neighbourly people in Carsely' said James, 'and wondered if we could do anything to help.'
'You can help by going away'
James looked helplessly at Agatha. Agatha decided to take the bull by the horns. 'Are you sure your husband died a natural death?' she asked.
Mrs Bladen looked amused. 'Meaning someone killed him? It's more than likely. He was a thoroughly nasty man and I'm glad he's dead. I hope that satisfies you'
She slammed the door in their faces.
'That's that' said James, as they walked down the weedy path.
'We got something' said Agatha eagerly. 'She didn't laugh in our faces when I suggested murder to her. Now did she?'
'You know what I think?' he said, holding the gate open for her. 'I think we're two retired people with not enough to do with our time'
'Just because you can't get started writing' said Agatha shrewdly, 'don't take it out on me'
'This is a lovely little place' he said to change the subject. 'So quiet and peaceful. I wonder if there's anything for sale here.'
'Oh, you wouldn't want to live here' said Agatha, alarmed. 'I mean, Carsely's bad enough, but there's
'What's wrong with that, in this age of the motor car? Oh, look. That sign there. The Manor House. I didn't notice it before. Let's go and have a look'
Agatha followed him silently up a winding drive. She did not want to look at any manor house because manor houses belonged to James Lacey's world and not to hers. The drive, edged with rhododendron bushes, opened up and there stood the manor house. The mist had thinned and pale sunlight washed the golden walls. It was low and rambling and settled and charming, exuding centuries of peace. Even Agatha sensed that wars and conflicts, plague and pestilence had passed this old building by.
A small square woman in a twin set and tweed skirt came out with a black retriever at her heels. 'Can I help you?' she called.
'Just admiring your beautiful home' said James, approaching her.
'Yes, it is beautiful' she said. 'Come inside and have some tea. I don't often get visitors until the summer, when all my relatives decide they would like a free holiday'
James introduced them. The woman said she was Bunty Vere-Dedsworth. She led the way into a dark hall and then through into a large old kitchen gleaming with copper pans and white-and-blue china on an old dresser which ran the length of one wall.
'Lacey' she said, as she plugged in an electric kettle.
'That's where my family comes from' said James.
'Really'' She had cornflower-blue eyes in a reddish face. 'Old Harry Lacey?'
'My father'
'Gosh, small world. Do you ever see the . . '
Agatha, excluded from that intimidating conversation of the upper classes which consisted of names and exclamations of recognition thrown back and forth, moodily sipped her tea and felt James moving out of her sphere. She could picture him living in a place like this with an elegant wife, not with some retired public relations woman such as herself who would only be able to swap names with someone from the rather nasty Birmingham slum in which she had grown up.
'What brings you here?' said Bunty at last.
