and aspirin. “We will give you a receipt for them.”
When they had all left, she said to Charles, “What a mess.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not very.”
“Let’s go along to the Red Lion and get a sandwich.”
“All right. Give me a moment while I change. I feel all sweaty.”
She went up to her bathroom and stripped and had a quick shower and put on a clean blouse and skirt.
She looked out of the window. Charles was playing with her cats in the garden. He had made a ball out of kitchen foil and was throwing it in the air while the cats leaped up to catch it.
Did he ever worry about anything? Probably just as well if he did not. She herself was worrying enough for the whole of the Cotswolds.
The lounge bar of the Red Lion was smoky and dim. A fire had been lit and little puffs of grey smoke escaped from it and lay in bands across the low-beamed room.
They collected gin and tonics and ham sandwiches and retreated to a far corner.
“So what do we do now?” asked Agatha.
“We go on. For a start we’ve got to try to get the Friendly woman on her own.”
“How do we do that?”
“You’re all kerfuffled and discombobulated these days, Aggie. You put me up for the night and then we watch her house and see if Mr. Friendly leaves.”
“How can we do that without being too obvious?”
“The cottage is opposite the churchyard. You take me on a tour of the graves. I’m a historian. I make notes. Even if he doesn’t leave, surely she goes out shopping. Then we should get to a library and read up on ricin. Are there any castor-oil plants outside Kew Gardens in this country, for example? If not, which of our suspects has been abroad lately?”
“I don’t think we’ve really got any suspects.”
“Wake up! Of course we have. We have the hairy Mr. Friendly. We have the woman Maggie. We’ll start with them.”
“We can’t haunt the Friendlys tomorrow morning. We’ve got to go to Mircester.”
“So we have. After, then.”
“I’m still hurt by Bill’s behaviour,” fretted Agatha. “Badly hurt. First, he’s on holiday and doesn’t phone, then he’s on duty and treats me like Suspect Number One.”
“Why don’t you just phone him? You’ve got his phone number.”
“I don’t want to,” mumbled Agatha.
“You’re frightened he’s gone off you because of some deep unlikeable flaw in your character, so you prefer to be miserable. Tell you what, I’ll go home and pack a bag. I’ll be staying with you.”
Agatha raised a smile. “No funny stuff.”
“Did I ever? See you back at the ranch, Aggie.”
He went off. She finished her drink, but instead of going home, walked to the vicarage and rang the bell.
“Christ!” came the unholy voice of the vicar. “It’s that woman again.”
“Don’t blaspheme, Alf, and get on with your sermon,” came Mrs. Bloxby’s calm voice.
“I always call at the wrong time,” said Agatha ruefully as Mrs. Bloxby opened the door.
“Pay no attention to Alf. He’s the same with everyone. I keep telling him he’s too antisocial for a vicar. Come in.”
“If you’re sure… ”
“Quite sure. Tea? Coffee?”
“A cup of coffee would be nice.”
“Come into the kitchen.”
The kitchen was warm and welcoming. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling and shining copper pans gleamed against the old stone walls. “I’ve got some ready,” said Mrs. Bloxby, pouring two mugs.
Agatha said, “Can we take this into the garden? Then I can smoke with a free conscience.”
“Certainly, although I hope you don’t find it too chilly. It’s got quite cold since the weather broke.”
“Now,” said Mrs. Bloxby when they were both seated, “I know the police were at your cottage and all because of that hairdresser. I wish I had never recommended him. Is it murder?”
Agatha described all the things she had done and left undone. A large bam owl, ghostly in the dark, swooped over their heads, and sleepy birds chirped lazily in the surrounding trees.
“I’ve been so very stupid,” commented Agatha when she had finished her tale.
“I think all the effort you went to on Mrs. Friendly’s behalf,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “shows a noble spirit. Perhaps you should tell her. She must be dreadfully frightened that the police may have found something.”
“So you do think she could have been a victim of blackmail!”
“Just an idea.”
“Does Mr. Friendly go out? I mean, is she ever on her own?”
“He plays golf practically ever afternoon between two and five.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha. “I don’t feel so silly now.”
“In the meantime, I shall ask around about a woman called Maggie and give your description. The joy about being a vicar’s wife is that I can ask questions about people and no one thinks it suspicious.”
“I’d better go. Charles will be back any minute. He’s staying the night. I mean, you know, I don’t mean… ”
Mrs. Bloxby laughed. “Off you go. And phone Bill Wong. There’s bound to be a simple explanation.”
“So what’s happened to you?” demanded Charles as she let him in. “All calm and smiling now. Been at the Prozac?”
“Been seeing Mrs. Bloxby.”
“Ah, confession is good for the soul.”
Agatha led him up to the spare bedroom.
“While you’re putting your things away, I’ll make a phone call.”
She went down to the kitchen extension and dialled Bill Wong’s home number.
She prayed his formidable mother would not answer the phone and it was with relief that she recognized Bill’s voice. “Bill, it’s Agatha.”
“Oh.”
“Bill, what happened? You were on holiday and you didn’t phone.”
His voice to her relief sounded amused. “The phone works both ways, Agatha.”
“I thought you’d gone away on holiday until Charles said he saw you in Mircester.”
“A heavy romance, Agatha.”
“And what was all the formality today about? You treated me like a criminal.”
“Just as well, too. I was accompanied by Snoopy Christine and you’ve got me in deep shit already, Agatha.”
“Why?”
“I did not put in my report that you had lied about driving past the villa with Charles. I don’t know why you did that.”
“I was confused.”
“Anyway, Snoopy Christine somehow got hold of my report and felt duty-bound to point out the omission to Detective Inspector Wilkes, who gave me a lecture on the dangers of favouritism. Then you tried to pretend you hadn’t Charles’s number and threw that phone book over the hedge. I’d left that bit out as well. Christine pointed out that omission as well.”
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, but I felt guilty because of your coldness and about us playing amateur detectives.”
“I know you well, Agatha, and when you said you knew nothing about the fire, I could swear you were lying.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” said Agatha hotly. She knew that if she confessed to Bill that she had actually been inside when the house went on fire, then he would have to report her and she would probably be arrested for arson, along with impeding the police in their inquiries and anything else they could throw at her.
“Keep in touch with me and let me know if you think of anything you might have missed out,” said Bill. “But it’s
