They got out of the car. “We have to walk through the village to get to her place,” said Paul. “But I don’t think anyone will be awake.”
That did seem to be the case as they walked past silent dark cottages. Even the pub showed no signs of life. “There’s a field opposite with a pretty high hedge,” said Paul. “We’ll settle down there and watch.”
They squeezed through a gap in the hedge. “Ground should be dry,” said Paul. “Look, if we settle down here, there’s a big hole in the branches right opposite. We’ll get a good view.”
Mrs. Witherspoon’s cottage was all dark. Somewhere an owl hooted. Paul opened up his bag and took out a bottle of malt whisky and two glasses. “Drink?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” said Agatha. “I’m driving.”
“The effects will have worn off before morning. Go on.”
“All right, just a small one. Have you ever noticed,” said Agatha, “how many people urge one to drink? I mean, it’s always drink. Say you don’t like fish. No one says, ‘Oh, go on, have one. Why not half a fish? Go on, why not a fish finger?’ No, it’s always drink, like drug pushers.”
“You only had to say no,” said Paul mildly. “Cigarette?” He pulled out a packet.
“You smoke!” exclaimed Agatha with all the delight of one member of an endangered species meeting another.
“From time to time.”
They sipped their whisky and smoked and stared across at the cottage. Nothing moved, nothing happened.
“What happened to your marriage?” asked Paul, filling up her glass again.
“It just fell apart. James was a genuine copper-bottomed bachelor. We didn’t get on. What about your marriage to the supposed Juanita?”
“Well, she’s in Spain a lot and I’m here, but we get on pretty well when we meet up.”
“Children?”
“No. You?”
“No, none.”
“So what brought you to the Cotswolds?”
“It’s pretty,” said Agatha. “It’s pretty everywhere you look. London ’s not the same. It’s getting violent and dirty. Of course, I notice all the faults when I go up on business but maybe if I still lived there, I wouldn’t pay all that much attention to what’s wrong. Sometimes Carsely seems a bit boring and I get restless, but something always happens. There’s murder and mayhem here, just like in the cities.”
“And what about men?”
“What about them?”
“I mean, do you have a lover?”
“No,” said Agatha curtly.
“And yet your reputation in the village seems to be that of a sort of Cotswolds femme fatale.”
“There are women in Carsely who’ve got nothing else to do but invent stories about me. I’m just a stuffy middle-aged woman.”
He filled her glass again. Agatha felt dimly that she ought to protest but the whisky was soothing and warming and she had always maintained she had a strong head for drink.
“I wouldn’t call you stuffy.” He had put on a black woollen cap to eclipse his white hair. His black eyes glinted in the darkness. He leaned forward and surprised her by planting a warm kiss on her lips. Agatha gazed up at him, mesmerized. He bent his head towards her again. A twig snapped.
He straightened up and whispered, “That came from across the road.”
Agatha tried to get up and stumbled and fell. Her head swam. “Shhh!” He deftly put bottle, glasses and binoculars back in his bag. He pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get over there.”
He nimbly eased through the gap in the hedge. Agatha weaved after him. There was a metal dustbin outside the cottage gate, ready for collection. Agatha stumbled into it and the whole thing rolled over with a crash.
“Now that’s torn it.” Paul seized hold of her as a light went on in an upstairs window. “Run!”
With his arm around her waist, supporting her, he hustled her through the village and out to where her car was parked. He took the keys from her and unlocked the doors. Despite her drunkenness, Agatha noticed he had had the forethought to bring his bag along with him. “I’ll drive,” he said.
He drove off, not accelerating until he was well away from the village. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much,” mourned Agatha.
“My fault,” he said. “I’m sure there was someone there.”
“Could have been a fox or a sheep.”
“Maybe. Get some sleep and we’ll try again another time.”
“So you think he’s lying about being married?” asked Mrs. Bloxby the next day. “Why should you think that?”
Agatha shuffled her feet like a schoolgirl. “Well, he kissed me.”
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin. Really. You said you had both been drinking. The fact that he is married does not necessarily stop him from making a pass at you. Haven’t married men ever made a pass at you before? You must have attended a lot of boozy functions during your PR work.”
“But that was London and this is a village!”
“And when did village life ever bestow sainthood on a married man? Wishful thinking can be very dangerous. I mean, before you left him, did he kiss you again or say any endearments?”
“No-o. But we’d both had a fright, what with me knocking the dustbin over. Anyway, where is this mysterious wife?”
“Probably in Spain, just like he said.”
“You do spoil things,” remarked Agatha crossly.
“I care for you. I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”
Agatha sighed. “You can’t fall in love without getting hurt.”
“Now, listen to me, falling in love is an addiction for you. Your trouble is you do not really like yourself half enough. So the minute you find your brain empty of some obsession or other, you race around trying to fill the gap.”
“Thank you for sharing that with me, Oprah Winfrey.”
“I mean it. Oh, never mind. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll say a prayer for you.”
Agatha shifted awkwardly in her chair, suddenly embarrassed. Mrs. Blockley hardly ever pulled what Agatha privately thought of as “the God bit” on her.
I mean, saying that she was trying to fall in love. Ridiculous!
But when Agatha left the vicar’s wife, she could feel the first chill wind of reality creeping into her brain. Better to forget about that kiss.
As the day dragged on, she began to wonder about his marriage. She hadn’t been inside his cottage. Maybe he had photographs of the two of them. Maybe there were some Spanish things lying around. She could call on him. Why not? He had said they would try again another time.
She fed her cats and made herself a couple of sandwiches for lunch and then headed for the cottage next door.
Paul looked surprised to see her, but said, “Come in. Have you any more news?”
“Nothing. I wondered when you wanted to try again.”
“I don’t know,” he said uneasily. “Want a coffee?”
“Please.”
He went through to the kitchen. Agatha’s eyes roamed around the room. No photographs. Crowded bookshelves, nice leather winged armchair, chintzy sofa and easy chair, a computer desk with computer and printer, a pleasant oil painting depicting a rural scene over the fireplace and a faint smell of tobacco smoke. James would have hated that, thought Agatha. He never liked her smoking in the house. Agatha felt herself relax. It was a bachelor’s house, of that she was sure.
Paul came back with a tray with mugs of coffee. “I know you like yours black,” he said. “I can’t talk very long. I’m waiting for a phone call.”
