sex without conscience. But perhaps Amy was in love with her Cecil.
Her thoughts turned to Lucy. Lucy had suspected her husband was having an affair with Rosie Wilden. Only it wasn't Rosie Wilden, it was Lizzie. But then Lucy had almost seemed to want to forget she had ever mentioned the subject. And why had Lucy asked her, Agatha, to investigate her husband in the first place-a woman, a stranger who only claimed to have had some success as a detective? A blind? Why?
What if, just what if, Lucy was having an affair? Let's turn it on its head. Lucy is having an affair. She wants the money and she wants to get away with her lover. She gets this lover to bump off her husband. First she hears about the will from Mrs. Jackson and steals the Stubbs. Okay, so far, so good. What prompts her to get rid of it when the insurance money would add to what she's going to get? And what about Paul Redfem? He was murdered after the will was found. Maybe he knew something. Maybe he'd decided to try a spot of blackmail himself.
Agatha groaned and got out of bed. She went into Charles's room and shook him awake.
'Agatha,' he said, smiling up at her. 'I thought you would never ask.'
'It's not that, Charles. Look, I'm nearly on to something.'
He sighed and got out of bed. 'Let's go downstairs and see what we can work out.'
In the sitting-room, he piled logs on the red glow of ash in the hearth. 'So let's hear it,' he said.
Agatha went over her muddled thoughts, ending up with 'So you see, if Lucy had a lover, it would all fall into place.'
'I never liked that Jackson woman,' said Charles. 'Now if Lucy had a lover, the trouble is it could be a member of the hunt that we haven't even thought about.'
Agatha sat forward in the armchair. 'Wait a bit. Hunt members would mostly have money. So Lucy could just divorce Tolly and marry her lover.'
'Maybe he's married already.'
'Then there would be no point in murdering Tolly.'
'True. So is it some village swain?'
They looked at each other.
'What about the gardener, Barry Jones?' exclaimed Agatha. 'And he's Mrs. Jackson's son. Mrs. Jackson goes on about how loving Lucy and Tolly were and yet by all accounts Lucy hated her. But if Lucy was having an affair with Barry Jones, her son, she would cover up for her. Barry married to the wealthy Lucy would mean money for Mrs. Jackson. So let's suppose that Paul Redfern knows something and tries to blackmail Lucy and she tells Mrs. Jackson and Barry shoots him to keep him quiet. Should we phone the police?'
'Come on, Aggie. They'd think we were mad. What proof have we that Barry was having an affair with Lucy?'
'Someone must know in this village,' said Agatha. 'It's such a little world. Barry worked as gardener up at the manor. They could have carried on an affair easily, what with Tolly being away a lot romancing Lizzie. Tolly spent a whole month with Lizzie. What excuse did he give Lucy, or did he just have a fling with Lizzie during the day and return at night?'
Charles sighed. 'There's not much more we can do tonight. I tell you what. Let's try to have a word with Rosie Wilden in the morning, before the pub opens. I bet she knows all the gossip.'
Agatha awoke to a white morning. There had been a heavy frost the night before. Everything glittered in weak sunlight. Even the cobwebs on a bush outside the kitchen door were perfectly rimed in frost.
The cottage felt like an icebox. Agatha lit the Calor gas heaters and put on a pot of coffee before waking Charles. She saw no reason why Charles should lie in bed long enough to wake up to a warm house. Agatha Raisin did not like to suffer alone.
'It all seemed so logical last night,' mourned Agatha. 'Now it seems like a load of old rubbish.'
'Never mind. We'll check out Rosie, and we'll eat a proper breakfast before we go.'
They set out an hour later. The sun was now a small red eye of a disc high above, behind a thin layer of hazy cloud. 'I don't care how many more murders there are,' said Charles. 'I'm going to be home for Christmas.'
'Christmas,' echoed Agatha. 'It looks like a Christmas card here already.'
'I suppose if we knock at the front door of the pub, no one will answer,' said Charles. 'Rosie might think it's some drunk. We'll try the back.'
They went along a passage at the side of the pub, through a gate, and into a back garden dotted with chairs and tables. 'She must use the garden in the summer,' said Agatha.
There was a clattering of dishes from the kitchen. Charles knocked at the door. Agatha had a brief hope that a messy Rosie would answer with her hair in curlers, but the Rosie who answered the door looked like any man's dream of femininity. Her thick blond hair was in a knot on the top of her head. She wore a frilly apron over a crisp cotton blouse and tailored skirt and held a mixing bowl under one arm.
'Come in,' she said. 'I was just about to take a break from my baking.' The large kitchen was comforting and warm and smelt of baking and spices. An elderly woman rose as they entered. 'My mother,' said Rosie.
'I'll just go upstairs,' she said, gathering up a bundle of knitting.
'Sit down,' urged Rosie. 'I've got some coffee ready.'
'We came to see if you knew any gossip,' began Agatha, plunging right in. Charles thought, as he often did, that Agatha Raisin had all the subtlety of a charging rhino.
'Well, I don't know about that, Mrs. Raisin, dear,' said Rosie, pouring two cups of coffee into French-type coffee bowls and then lifting a tray of hot scones out of the Aga. 'I hear a lot of gossip but I find it safer to forget about it, if you take my meaning.'
She put a pat of golden butter on the table, and tilted the scones onto a plate. 'Help yourselves,' she said. 'Let me see, I think a pot of my black-currant jam would go nicely with those.'
She sat down with them and smiled slowly and warmly at Charles. Somehow that smile irritated Agatha, so she crashed tactlessly on. 'Was Lucy Trumpington-James having an affair with anyone in the village?'
There was a veil over Rosie's blue eyes now, like the cloud veiling the sun. After a little hesitation, she said, 'If she was, then it was her business, if you take my meaning.'
'Come on, you can tell us,' urged Agatha.
'Don't reckon as how I can. I'd have no customers if I talked about folks' private lives.'
'But surely Lucy didn't drink in the pub?'
'No, but there's others who do.'
'Meaning she had a lover and he drank in the pub,' exclaimed Agatha. 'That narrows the field. It's really only the ordinary villagers who drink in your pub, not the members of the hunt.'
'Now you're going on as if only rich aristocrats hunt,' chided Rosie. 'Mr. Freemantle, Mr. Dart and Mr. Worth all hunt. So does Mrs. Carrie Smiley. Real attractive she looks in her hunting costume, too.'
Agatha leaned forward. 'But you know.'
'I don't know anything,' said Rosie sharply. 'You're letting your coffee get cold.'
Charles spoke. 'I think you left the cats out in the garden, Agatha, and the frost will hurt their paws. You'd better go and let them in.' He looked blandly at Agatha and Agatha took it that he meant that as she was getting nowhere, she'd best leave it to him.
She affected a look of dismay and said, 'I'm sorry, Rosie. I forgot about the cats. Got to go.'
Outside, she wondered what to do. She could not lurk around outside the pub waiting for Charles. Yet, on the other hand, she was reluctant to return to the cottage. She decided to walk out of that village to the lake, to see if she could clear her thoughts and put them in some sort of order.
As she entered the road leading out of the village, she marvelled how quiet the day was and how very still.
The pine trees on either side looked ready for Christmas with their frosting of white. On she went until she crested the hill again and looked out across the great vast flat silence of Norfolk.
When she got to the lake, she sat down on a flat rock again. Ice had formed on the edges of the lake. She wondered if people skated on it when it was completely frozen over. What if they had skating parties, with Rosie handing out glasses of mulled wine and mince pies? And what if a visitor like herself should come across such a scene? She would envy them, thinking they all led a safe, typically English sort of life, unaware of all the passions that lurked beneath the surface. A little breeze rippled across the glassy waters of the lake and she shivered and rose to her feet again. She could not go any further in her thoughts without some proof. It was as she approached the gates to the manor that Agatha suddenly remembered the maintenance man. What was his name? Joe
