calm.

The vicar was kneeling in the front pew before the altar. What was he praying for? wondered Bill. For the murderer to be caught, or simply for his village to return to its usual sleepy calm?

As if aware of a presence behind him, the vicar rose and turned around.

'Mr Wong, is it not?' he said, walking down the aisle towards the detective. 'May I be of assistance?'

His scholarly face was gentle and kind.

'Perhaps we could talk outside?' suggested Bill, thinking obscurely that discussion of a nasty murder should take place outside the church.

'Very well.' They walked outside and sat down together on a mossy table gravestone, feeling perhaps that the last resting place of someone who had died no doubt respectably in his bed many centuries before was a more suitable place to get down to business. 'I suppose you want to ask me about the murder,' said the vicar.

'I learned that Mrs Fortune had asked you to take her confession.'

Bill waited nervously for a disclaimer or a demand as to how he had come by such a piece of gossip. But Alf Bloxby had lived long enough in rural villages to know that one has not much private life at all.

'Yes,' he said simply.

'You must understand that in view of the circumstances, I must ask you what she said.'

'I suppose you must. If there had been anything of the real confessional about it, I might refuse to tell you, but the matter is very simple. It amused Mrs Fortune to see if she could lay a priest.'

'Do you mean...'

'Oh, yes, what is it they say these days? She came on to me.'

'Are you sure?'

'I am not, I think, a vain man in that respect. We were in my study. She sat down on my lap and wound her arms about my neck and tried to kiss me.'

'And what did you do?' asked Bill, fascinated.

'I said, if I remember rightly, 'Mrs Fortune, your figure belies your weight. You are, in fact, a heavy woman, and your weight is giving me a cramp in my left leg.' She got up and sat opposite me. I told her I had a great deal to do about the parish and so would she get to the point of her visit. She said she had sinned. I asked her in what way. She said she had been having an affair with Mr Lacey. The only reason I tell you this is because the affair was well known in the village.

'I pointed out that as Mr Lacey was a bachelor and she a divorced woman, what they did together was no concern of mine. I even ventured to lighten the atmosphere by suggesting she had seen too many old Hollywood movies. You know, where the heroine says, 'Father, I have sinned.'

'She became a trifle incoherent in her explanations, but I gathered that I was supposed to talk to James Lacey and suggest he marry her. Perhaps her time in the States had given her a rather naive and old-fashioned view of what goes on in English villages. I said that whether he married her or not was entirely up to Mr Lacey.

'Mrs Fortune was a fascinating contradiction. On the surface, she appeared a witty and mondaine woman. After talking to her, I came to the conclusion that she was really quite stupid, a trifle common, and possibly mentally unbalanced. 'Common' is probably an old-fashioned word. I do not mean she was of low class, rather that there was a streak of coarseness in her.'

'But would you say,' asked Bill, tilting back his head to look at a flock of pigeons wheeling over the churchyard, 'she would be capable of driving anyone hitherto considered normal to commit a brutal and fantastic murder?'

'Yes, I think she could.'

'Come, Vicar, do you mean to tell me she gave you murderous thoughts?'

'No, she embarrassed me considerably. What I have told you is mere speculation. My wife has not discussed her with me and yet I know my wife did not like her, and it is a very rare person whom my wife does not like.'

'So apart from making a pass at you and then wanting you to emotionally blackmail Lacey into marriage, she had no real confession to make? No darker secrets?'

'No, had she revealed anything of importance, I would tell you. People here talk about some maniac from Birmingham who might have come to rob her, but I firmly believe that one of the villagers is responsible.'

Bill smiled. 'No doubt our Mrs Raisin will be trying to find out who did it.'

'No doubt,' said the vicar drily. 'A most abrasive female, but there must be good in her, for my wife thinks the world of her.'

'Oh, there's a lot of good in our Agatha.' Bill got to his feet. He looked down curiously at the vicar, wondering if this cleric was as mild and gentle as he appeared on the surface.

'If you hear anything you think might relate to this case, Mr Bloxby, please let me know.' The vicar rose as well.

'Certainly.' He glanced at his watch. 'Time for tea. My wife makes an excellent tea. Perhaps you would care to join us?'

This last was said with such a reluctant politeness that Bill refused.

The vicar nodded and strode off in the direction of the vicarage. A man of iron, thought Bill, just like his wife, armoured in goodness against the likes of Mary Fortune.

Agatha sat down in the vicarage that evening and wished she had not come. The discussion was about gardens open to the public. Some of the villagers evidently made extra money for charity by serving teas. Agatha toyed with that idea and then rejected it. The fee for entry to each garden was twenty pence a head. Agatha had not thought before how much to ask and was depressed that her Great Deception was going to bring so little reward. She quite forgot that she was supposed to be putting out feelers to find out what they all thought of Mary Fortune, and became sunk in gloom. A stupid, childish trick was going to cost her six months of slavery for Pedmans in London.

By the time she went along to the Red Lion, she began to feel that it was just as well that she had been forced into going to London. There was no elation any more at the thought of seeing James. The more one learned about Mary, the more James became diminished in a way, because he had chosen to have an affair with her. The village in the quiet summer's evening felt alien and almost threatening. Agatha had that old feeling of being on the outside of life looking in. And what did she really know of the private thoughts and lives of these villagers? If the murderer was someone they knew and respected, would they not all band together to protect that person?

She would have been surprised could she have known that James's thoughts were running along roughly the same lines. He was feeling isolated as he stood at the bar, surrounded as usual by the easy friendliness of the locals, that peculiar village friendliness which was all on the surface and never really gave anything away.

He saw Agatha entering the pub and felt relieved. There was something very reassuring and honest in Agatha's pugnaciousness. When she went to join him, he bought her a gin and tonic and suggested they take their drinks to a table at the corner of the bar. Before, Agatha would have been highly gratified that he preferred her company away from that of the locals, but she could not get rid of the flat, depressed feeling that was assailing her.

'So how did you get on with Beth?' she asked.

'She was very charming. And very helpful with those historical diaries. She is a highly intelligent girl.'

'Where's the boyfriend?'

'He's gone off for a few days to see friends in Oxford.'

'Did she talk about her mother?'

'Only to say that they never got on very well and that she blames Mary for the break-up of the marriage. I invited her out for lunch tomorrow because I thought it might be a good idea to get to know her better and that way find out more about her mother. Care to come along?'

Suddenly Agatha, who had been so sure that she was free at last from any involvement with him, found her temper snapping. She got to her feet. 'Don't be so bloody naive, James,' she said and turned and walked out of the pub. He sat and watched her go, wondering what on earth he had said to annoy her.

Agatha found the following day dragging slowly along. She could not think of anyone else to call on to ask questions about Mary Fortune. She had caught a glimpse of Bill Wong in the village the day before and she hoped he might call and give her some fresh ideas.

She made herself a microwaved lunch out of a packet of frozen curry, reverting to her old cooking habits, washed it down with a glass of beer, and had two cigarettes and a strong cup of black coffee for dessert. She could

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