feet. “All that that seems so far away now,” said Agatha. “I don’t like the winter in the country. You really never notice it in town. Afternoon, terrible weather, isn’t it?”
“Who was that woman you just spoke to?”
“I don’t know,” said Agatha. “Apart from the women who go to the ladies’ society, I don’t really know that many people in the village. In Carsely, we all say ‘Morning’ or ‘Afternoon’ to each other, whether we know each other or not.”
“What about the community spirit?”
“I think it went when everyone got cars,” said Agatha. “The children are bussed out to schools and a lot of the parents work up in Birmingham or Worcester and commute. Here we are now. I can’t help hoping she’s not at home.”
The little cottage lay dark and silent. “That’s her car,” said Agatha. “She’s probably walking the dog. Don’t peer in the window, Charles. I tell you, she’s out. Charles!”
He turned round and looked at her, his face strangely pinched and drawn.
“Aggie, there’s a pair of feet sticking out from behind the sofa.”
“She’s must be ill. Let’s try the door.”
Agatha turned the brass handle on the front door. It swung open. Agatha rushed into the living-room. Mrs. Dairy lay stretched out behind the sofa. Blood from a terrible wound on her head spread out on the carpet. Beside her lay the corpse of her little dog, and beside both lay a blood-stained brass poker.
Charles knelt down beside Mrs. Dairy, feeling for a pulse and finding none.
He shook his head dismally. Agatha dialled 999 and asked for the police and an ambulance.
She turned to Charles. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Better go outside on the road.”
Agatha fled. She was thoroughly sick. She tried to brace herself to return to Charles but found she hadn’t the courage to go back into the house of death. Somehow it was the memory of the little dog with its head smashed in as well that made the picture that was imprinted on her mind so full of horror. It had been murder done in a vicious rage. Murder done in Carsely. Murder coming closer to Agatha Raisin.
Fred Griggs, the village policeman, came hurrying up. Agatha told him in a weak, faltering voice what had happened. He went into the house.
Then two police cars arrived; Bill Wong, Detective Inspector Wilkes and various other plain-clothes detectives and police officers. Then the ambulance.
Agatha waited, shivering.
At last Bill Wong came out. “I’ll take you home, Agatha. You look awful.”
“It’s my hair,” babbled Agatha insanely. “That wretched hairdresser ruined my hair.”
“Get in the police car. You’ll feel better when you’ve had a cup of tea.”
Back at her cottage and despite her protests that she couldn’t drink anything, Bill made her a cup of milky sweet tea. “Try to get it down you. You’ll feel better.”
“If only I’d gone to see her last night,” mourned Agatha.
“Why? Why last night? What do you know?”
“I may as well tell you now she’s dead. She was being blackmailed by that hairdresser, Mr. John.”
“Drink some tea and begin at the beginning.”
Agatha did as she was bid and then in a halting voice told him about Mrs. Dairy.
When she had finished, he demanded, “Did you tell Worcester CID any of this?”
She shook her head.
“Why not? Perhaps she would still be alive if you had. I’ve warned you and warned you about the danger of playing amateur detective.”
“It was told to me in confidence.”
“Is there anything else you haven’t told the police?”
Agatha longed to unburden herself, but she could not betray Liza or Maggie. Besides, would either woman have been capable of committing such a savage and violent act of murder?
“No,” she lied. “Nothing.”
A voice in her brain screamed that any woman frightened of exposure as a murderess might kill again in a frenzy of rage, but she hung her head and stared at the floor.
“I’ll need to get back,” said Bill. “We’ll be along later to take a statement. Why did you call on her?”
“She left a message on my Call Minder.”
“Saying what?”
“Just that she wanted to see me. She sounded as bad-tempered and bitchy as usual.”
“Wait here.”
Bill left. Agatha sat hugging herself. A stiff wind had risen and moaned in the thatch.
The door opened and Charles came in. She rose and threw herself into his arms. “It’s horrible, Charles. Let’s leave it to the police. Let’s forget about the whole thing.”
“There, now. Brace up. They’ll all be along in a minute. I gather you told Bill Wong about Shawpart attempting to blackmail Mrs. Dairy. You didn’t tell him about the others?”
“No.”
“Neither did I. So we wait. We’ll not only have Gloucester police grilling us but Worcester as well because of the Shawpart connection. It’s going to be a long day, Aggie.”
And it was. They were both driven to police headquarters in Worcester and grilled again.
Agatha felt shaky and sick. Finally, they were released with a stern warning not to interfere in police business.
“Drink?” said Charles.
Agatha shivered. “I just want to go home.”
“Hey, we came here in a police car. How do the rats expect us to get back? Let’s go and ask them for a car.”
“We’ll get a taxi. I’m not going back in there.”
“Aggie, this is Worcester. It’ll cost us a lot. Let them do it.”
“I’ll pay.”
They sat silently side by side in the cab going home. Then Agatha broke the silence as they were nearing Carsely by asking, “Do you feel anything about all this, Charles? I mean, you seem very cool.”
“It was nasty, but I just put it out of my head.”
“I wish I could be like you,” mourned Agatha. “I think I’ll see poor Mrs. Dairy lying there until the day I die.”
“Come on. You didn’t even like her.”
“It doesn’t mitigate the horror.”
“Does for me,” remarked Charles with what Agatha thought was truly heartless indifference.
Indoors, he poured drinks for both of them and lit the fire, which had fortunately been cleaned out by Agatha’s help, Doris Simpson, who was once more back on the job.
Charles settled down to read the newspapers which had been delivered that morning.
“Listen to this, Aggie,” he said, rustling the paper. “It says in this report, ‘A fleck of dandruff, a licked stamp or a smudged fingerprint on a car key could soon be used by scientists to catch and convict criminals. Researchers have developed a method of DNA fingerprinting which will work with a single human cell.’ Didn’t shed any dandruff around Shawpart’s house, did you?”
“I don’t have dandruff,” said Agatha crossly, “and anyway, the police know I visited him although I didn’t tell them I was there when the fire started. So what?”
“Let’s eat.”
“I couldn’t.”
Charles threw down the paper. “I’ll make us something. Got to keep your strength up.”
After fifteen minutes, he called Agatha into the kitchen. “Cup of soup and cheese omelette. Get it down you.”
Agatha found to her surprise that she was hungry.
They tried to watch television after dinner, but Agatha finally said, “I think I’ll have an early night.” “Good
