Agatha Raisin and The Walkers of Dembley

'I dunno. Oh, yeah, it was before that murder, a few days before. Round about midnight. My old man was passed out, and I was thinking, what a life, listening to the bed creaking upstairs. I mean, you can hear everything in these flats. Then I heard them shouting. Then I heard someone thumping about. Then going towards the door. Curiosity was killing me, so I went to our front door and opened it a crack. I heard her outside, shouting, 'You can't even make it and you know why? You're probably a closet faggot.''

'Did you get a look at her?'

'Naw'

'Pity'

'Why?'

'It would be interesting to know if she was that woman that got murdered.'

She looked at him round-eyed and then, to his horror, she darted over to where he was sitting and sank down on his lap, 'Oh, I'm so frightened,' she murmured into his hair.

Oh, Agatha, Agatha, thought James. I wish you were here. And then a key grated in the lock. She was off his lap and back on the sofa with her skirt demurely pulled down about her knees as a huge burly man lurched into the room. 'Who's this?' he roared.

'One of those men doing market research,' she said.

He jerked his thumb at the door. 'Out!' he shouted. And James was up and out the door and down the stairs as fast as he could.

Agatha was beginning to feel a bit sulky. She and James were seated that evening in the Copper Kettle being served by Terry Brice. The initial excitement of sharing their discoveries was over. James kept talking about the case when Terry was out of earshot, and Agatha, who had been writing romantic scripts for him all day, could not understand why he wasn't speaking any of the lines. She wrenched herself into reality with an effort when he said, 'We should tell Bill Wong about this.'

'Couldn't we wait just a little?' said Agatha. 'I mean, he might order us to keep clear.'

'I don't know about that. We're private citizens. He can't stop us living in Dembley or going out with the ramblers. I sympathize with you, because we're certainly suffering in the cause, having to pretend to be man and wife' - Agatha winced - 'and eating this quite dreadful food. Leave it, Agatha. I'll make us an omelette when we get home. What is that you're poking your fork in?'

'It said on the menu it was old-fashioned Irish stew. How's your steak?'

'Like army boots.' He signalled to Terry. 'Take this away. We can't eat any more of it.'

'Why?' he asked plaintively.

'For a start,' said Agatha, 'this Irish stew is disgusting. The gravy's lukewarm and there doesn't seem to be much meat and there's too much salt.'

'We are fussy, aren't we, sweetie. That's Jeffrey's favourite dish.' Terry's eyes glinted maliciously. 'But then, he likes all things Irish.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' asked James.

Terry leaned one slim hip on the edge of the table. 'Haven't you heard our Jeffrey on the subject of Free Ireland? Quite fiery, he is.'

Peter Hatfield sailed up. 'What are you lot gossiping about?'

'They don't like the food,' said Terry.

'Fussy, fussy,' chided Peter. 'You going on this walk on Saturday?'

'Yes,' said James. 'How can the pair of you get the time off on Saturday? I mean, that must be your busy day.'

'We don't work Saturdays. I know it's odd, but they were so keen to have a couple of waiters who would do Sundays that they let us off.'

'So how come you were both here on the day of the murder?' asked James and then cursed himself as Terry's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

'How did you know that?' he asked.

'Someone said something about it at your meeting,' said Agatha quickly. 'That fair girl, Deborah what's-her- name.'

'Considering she's prime suspect number one, she should watch her mouth,' said Terry waspishly.

'Why is she prime suspect?'

'Because,' said Terry patiently, as if speaking to an idiot, 'she was the last one to see Jessica alive.'

'What?' Agatha stared at him. 'But she said she was window-shopping.'

'Well, one of our customers, a Mrs Hardy, she said as how she saw Deborah's car heading out of Dembley to the Barfield estate on that Saturday, and if she wasn't going to see Jessica, where was she going?'

Six

The following morning, James finally agreed to Agatha's suggestion that she should talk directly to Alice and Gemma and see what she could find out and he should talk to Jeffrey, and after that, they would tell Bill Wong what they knew. As none of the people they wanted to interview was likely to be free before early evening, they decided to spend the day in Carsely, attending to household chores.

Neither had realized what an amount of gossip their taking off together for parts unknown would cause in the village, Mrs Mason having kept discreetly quiet.

Agatha's first caller after she had fed her cats was the vicar's wife, Mrs Bloxby.

'And where have you been?' asked Mrs Bloxby.

'We just went off on a little trip,' said Agatha, rather proud of the fact that the vicar's wife obviously thought she and James were now 'a number'.

Mrs Bloxby's kind eyes surveyed Agatha's flushed and happy face. 'You like Mr Lacey, do you not?'

'Oh, yes, we're great friends.'

They were sitting in Agatha's garden. The cats rolled on the lawn in the sunlight. Great fleecy clouds ambled across the sky overhead. It was an idyllic day.

'I sometimes think,' said the vicar's wife, leaning back in her chair and addressing a cloud, 'that we are very quick to counsel young people while neglecting our contemporaries.'

'Meaning?' asked Agatha.

Mrs Bloxby's mild eyes descended again to rest on Agatha's face. 'Meaning that a lot of the old advice is still relevant in this wicked age, even for women such as ourselves. I have observed that men who get what they want outside marriage, particularly confirmed bachelors like James Lacey, are therefore content to stay unmarried.'

'I am not having an affair with James,' snapped Agatha.

'Oh, my dear, I thought...You must forgive me for jumping to the wrong conclusion.' Mrs Bloxby gave a little laugh. 'I should have realized - you are probably both investigating something. Do forgive me.'

'That's all right,' mumbled Agatha, 'but don't tell anyone in the village we're on a case. It's supposed to be a secret.'

'I should have known better. Do not think me impertinent. Mr Lacey is a very charming man. But he did have an affair with poor Mary, that woman who was murdered, and in that case I always thought it was a matter of casual sex.'

No, thought Agatha, he was briefly in love with her, and remembered sharply all the pain she had felt.

As Mrs Bloxby began to talk of village matters, Agatha suddenly wished she herself had not been so honest. She wanted every woman in the village to think that she was having an affair with James. But now Mrs Bloxby, without revealing anything about the investigation, would contrive to let everyone know the friendship was innocent.

After the vicar's wife had left, Agatha decided to take herself down to Moreton-in-Marsh for a quiet lunch. She wanted to be alone and think about James and turn over everything he had said in her mind, always searching for some hint that his feelings might be warming towards her.

Moreton-in-Marsh is a busy Cotswold market town with a wide tree-lined main street on the Fosse Way, an