the name of detection!
She drove to the Four Pools Estate. How quickly Evesham was spreading out. A new McDonald’s had been built in about two weeks earlier in the year and a large new pub in about two months. Soon the countryside would be swallowed up. Agatha realized that she was in danger of becoming one of those people she had hitherto despised- the I-know-they’ve-got-to-live-somewhere, but-why-can’t-it-be-some-where-else? type of person.
Before she got out of the car, she took a comb out of her handbag and wrenched it down through her lacquered hair until she felt she had flattened it a bit.
As she braced herself to walk up a neat garden path, she was engulfed in a sudden wave of depression. Charles’s cavalier treatment of her brought back all her fierce longing for James and her mind began to credit him with warmth and affections that he did not have.
She rang the doorbell.
The door was opened. She recognised Mavis immediately, but Mavis did not recognise her.
“I would like you to know, we go to mass every Sunday,” said Mavis crossly, “and we don’t want anything to do with the likes of you!”
The door began to close.
“I’m not a Jehovah,” said Agatha quickly. “I was a client of Mr. John’s.”
The door opened again. “The one that died?”
“Was murdered, yes. May we talk?”
“Yes, come in.” Mavis had an ordinary sort of face without any particular distinguishing features, pale blue eyes and a surprisingly smooth and shining stylish head of hair.
Mavis, as she led the way into a cosy living-room, did not evince any signs of fear or nervousness. “Sit down, Mrs…?”
“Raisin. Call me Agatha.”
“Right Agatha. I’ll get us some tea. I’d just put the kettle on and I’m dying for a cuppa.”
When Mavis left the room, Agatha looked about her. She had somehow expected the mother of a drug addict and pusher would live in squalor. But the living-room was furnished with a three-piece suite in shades of gold and brown. An electric fire with mock coals glowed cheerfully. There were framed family photographs on the walls and a crucifix over the fireplace. Women’s magazines and television guides lay on the coffee-table.
After a short time Mavis entered carrying a tray on which was a fat teapot and china mugs decorated with roses and a plate of cakes, bright with pink and white icing.
“Terrible business, that,” said Mavis, pouring tea. “And to think I knew him!”
“As a client?”‘ Agatha accepted a mug of very dark strong tea.
“Oh, no, he even took me out for dinner once. What’s your interest?”
“I suppose I am by way of being an amateur detective,” said Agatha modestly, for she privately thought there was nothing amateur about her efforts at all.
“Oh, I know. You was in the papers once. Your hubby got bumped off. This is exciting. Just like on telly. Wait till I tell my Jim.”
Jim, the monster! Agatha was beginning to feel bewildered.
“Why did he ask you out and you a married woman?”
“Well, look, it all started with a sort of bet I’d had with Selma Figgs next door. She was saying how Mr. John was like a film star. ‘We couldn’t get off with one of those, now could we, Mavis,’ she says to me. So I said, ‘I bet you a tenner I can.’ I knew our Mr. John was a bit of a ladies’ man and he always seemed to be chatting up right frumps, if you ask me.”
Agatha winced.
“So I spun him a line about an unhappy home-life and all that. I’d pinched it out of one of the soaps, the story, like. So he asks me out for dinner. I told Jim and we had ever such a laugh. ‘Go on,’ says Jim, ‘enjoy yourself. Let the silly sod pay for it.’ ”
“And did he come on to you?” asked Agatha.
“Naw. He was ever so polite and I had a rare good meal. Course it was a bit of a strain, what with me having to keep the story going.”
“Did he ask you about money?”
“Wait a bit. I s’pose he did. Asked what Jim did. I said he was in bathroom sales over at Cheltenham and had a fair enough wage, but what with Betty’s university education and our Jack’s needing new bits for his computer every week, I said it was a miracle we made ends meet.”
She took a sip of tea and wrinkled her brow. “What else? Oh, I know, he said women like me were very clever and I’d no doubt got a bit put by, and well, I laughed at that one and said every penny I got came from Jim. He never asked me out again. Probably guessed I was a liar.”
Knew you hadn’t any money, thought Agatha. She said, “But when you were telling him those stories-I mean, I heard you telling him your Betty was on drugs. Weren’t you afraid someone might inform the police?”
Mavis stared at Agatha round-eyed. Then she said slowly, “I never thought of that. I mean, everyone chatters on about everything at a hairdresser’s don’t they? I mean, when you’re talking, what with the noise from the driers and all, you never think anyone is listening. I don’t think what I’ve told you can be of much help. Who would want to bump him off in that cruel way? And why?”
Agatha put down her cup and stood up. “Well, here’s my card. If you hear of anything that might be interesting, let me know.”
“Thanks a lot. You haven’t had a cake.”
“Not hungry,” said Agatha with a smile.
Mavis walked her to the door. “Bye, bye,” she said cheerfully. “Call round again if you’re ever this way.”
Now what do I do? thought Agatha. That was a waste of time.
Inside the trim house she had left, Mavis sat down, her hands to her mouth. Then she gave herself a little shake and smiled up at the photograph of herself on the wall, a photograph Agatha had failed to notice. It showed a much younger Mavis, a blonde and leggy Mavis performing as principal boy in a pantomime production of Puss and Boots.
“I could have been a real actress,” said Mavis aloud.
Agatha went home and fed her cats and played with them for a little. Then she checked her phone to see if there were any messages. None. This was silly. Why not just phone Charles? He could be ill.
She was just about to pick up the phone when it rang. Charles, at last. She picked up the receiver. “Roy here.” Roy Silver.
“What d’you want?” demanded Agatha sharply.
“I’ve got a few days off. Thought I might pop down and see you.”
“I’m afraid I’m busy.”
“Oh.”
That “oh” sounded disappointed, but Agatha calculated sourly that this sudden desire to see her meant that Roy’s boss had some public relations scheme he wanted to involve her in.
“And I’ve got something on the stove,” lied Agatha. “Look, I’ll call you back. Are you at home?”
“Yes, but don’t trouble, sweetie,” said Roy huffily.
“I’ll ring you.” Agatha put the phone down and dialled Charles’s number. The phone was answered by his aunt.
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin,” she fluted when Agatha had identified herself. “Charles is busy with our guests. Is it terribly important?”
“I have found out something that might interest him.”
“Wait a moment and I’ll see if he can come to the phone.”
The phone was in the draughty, cavernous wood-panelled hall of Charles’s home. Agatha could hear the aunt’s heels clopping across the parquet, then the door of the drawing-room opened, a burst of noise and laughter, door closed, silence again.
Charles took so long to answer the phone that Agatha almost hung up. But then she hear the door of the drawing-room open again, that burst of noise and laughter, and then Charles’s voiced: “Hullo, Aggie.”
“I thought you might have phoned,” said Agatha crossly.
