“About work?”
Hesitation. Then he said, “Yes, something like that.”
Uneasy silence while Agatha sipped her coffee and tried to think of something to say.
The phone rang. “Do you mind…?” said Paul.
Agatha stood up. “See you soon,” she said.
She left, feeling empty. Mrs. Bloxby was right. That kiss had meant nothing. Still, there was nothing in that cottage living-room to show he was married.
For the next two days, Agatha mooched around, feeling time lie heavy on her hands. She had seen nothing of Paul. She had tried to phone him, but there had been no reply. On Saturday evening she set out for the vicarage to attend a meeting of the ladies’ society, glad of something to do.
Mrs. Bloxby opened the proceedings, Miss Simms read the minutes, and Agatha went off into a dream where Paul Chatterton was telling her he loved her and only jerked out of it when she realized she was being addressed. “The catering?” Mrs. Bloxby was saying, looking directly at her. “Fund-raising for the Alzheimer’s Society?”
“What? asked Agatha.
“You should be interested,” sniggered Mrs. Davenport, implying that Agatha showed signs of having the disease.
“I’m sorry,” said Agatha. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”
“We’re joining forces with the Ancombe Ladies’ Society on June tenth to raise money. It’s to be a sale of work. We need someone to do the catering.”
“Okay, I’ll do it,” said Agatha, thanking her stars that she had enough money to hire a good catering firm.
“Excellent!” The meeting moved on and Agatha relapsed back into her dreams.
During the tea and cakes afterwards, Agatha found herself accosted by Mrs. Davenport. “A word of warning,” said Mrs. Davenport. “About Mr. Chatterton. He is married, you know.”
“That’s what he says. But it’s only to keep the old frumps of the village from bothering him,” said Agatha.
“Like you?” said Mrs. Davenport sweetly and moved away.
Agatha eyed her narrowly. Mrs. Davenport had gone back to wolfing the delicate little ham sandwiches supplied by Mrs. Bloxby. Agatha slid off into the kitchen, where more sandwiches and cakes were laid out on the kitchen table, ready to be brought into the drawing-room. Agatha opened the fridge and searched around until she found a bunch of hot chilli peppers. She quickly sliced them up and put them on as many of the little sandwiches as she could and then picked up the plate and carried it back into the drawing-room.
“You shouldn’t have bothered,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I made too many. They’ve all started on the cakes.”
“A pity to waste such good food,” said Mrs. Davenport, sailing up, her massive bust making her look like the figurehead on a ship. “I’ll take a few.” She took about six onto her plate.
Agatha slid to the back of the crowd. There were two remaining chilli pepper sandwiches. She popped them in her handbag.
Mrs. Bloxby swung round in alarm as Mrs. Davenport, red in the face, gasping and spluttering, staggered about the room. The plate with most of the sandwiches still uneaten had fallen to the floor. One of them had broken open, revealing the chilli peppers. While the other women rushed to get Mrs. Davenport a glass of water, Mrs. Bloxby looked around the room for Agatha Raisin.
But there was no sign of her.
Agatha decided on Sunday that it was time she attended church again. The fact that Paul might be there, she told herself, was nothing to do with it. She owed it to Mrs. Bloxby to put in the occasional appearance.
The day was cloudy and overcast, threatening rain. She put on a soft wool suit and her Burberry over it, collected her umbrella and made her way to the church where the bells were pealing out under the lowering sky.
The church was full. Although the government kept saying the foot-and-mouth plague was under control, pyres of dead animals still smoked and smouldered across Britain, and, as usual in times of adversity, people went to church.
Agatha managed to squeeze into a pew near the front and then regretted it. If she had sat at the back of the church, she would have been able to see if Paul was at the service.
She kept twisting her head around until she had to give up because Mrs. Davenport was in the pew directly behind her and looking daggers.
So while most of the congregation sang the hymns, said the prayers and listened to the sermon, Agatha Raisin wrapped herself in a dream of announcing her engagement to Paul Chatteron in the Times, where with luck James Lacey would read it.
Finally it was over. Agatha got to her feet. “I want a word with you,” boomed Mrs. Davenport.
“Not now,” hissed Agatha, pushing her way down the aisle. She could see Paul’s white head of hair ahead of her.
Outside the church, she stood suddenly stock-still. For Paul was standing talking to the vicar, his arm around the waist of a small pretty woman with long dark hair.
Realizing that people were pushing to get past her, Agatha moved reluctantly forwards. It couldn’t be. Could it?
She suddenly didn’t want to know. A crowd had gathered around Paul and the woman with him. Agatha tried to edge past but Paul, taller than the people surrounding him, saw her and shouted, “Agatha!”
The crowd parted. Agatha walked slowly forward. “Agatha, my wife, Juanita. Darling, this is my neighbour, Agatha Raisin.”
“How nice to meet you,” said Agatha with a crocodile smile. Juanita was young, possibly in her early thirties, and that was young to the likes of Agatha Raisin. Her golden skin glowed with health and her wide brown eyes were fringed with thick lashes. The only consolation-and it wasn’t much-that Agatha could notice was that her long black hair was thick and coarse. She was wearing a neat little black suit which emphasized her generous bust and her trim waist.
“Are you staying long?” asked Agatha.
Juanita laughed and said with a pretty accent, “I think it is time I spent as long as possible with my husband.”
“I’m just next door,” Agatha forced herself to say. “Call on me if I can be of any help in any way.”
Juanita thanked her and Agatha made her way home, legs as heavy as lead, mind snapping, “You old fool.”
She was blindly fumbling in her handbag for her house keys when a voice behind her said, “You look awful. Been to a funeral?”
Agatha swung round. Roy Silver, Agatha’s ex-employee who now worked for a big public relations firm in the City, stood there.
“ Roy!” exclaimed Agatha, more delighted to see him than she had ever been before. “Come on a visit?”
“Just for the day.” He gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Well, come in and make yourself at home.”
Roy followed her into the kitchen. “I should use the living-room more often,” said Agatha. “I’ll just feed the cats and we’ll go through and have a drink. You’re looking well.”
Roy did indeed look marginally better than his usual weedy self. He was wearing a sweater, checked shirt and jeans and his limp hair had recently had a conventional cut. “In fact,” said Agatha, bending down and filling two feed bowls, “you look quite respectable. No studs, no earrings. Is this the new image?”
“I’m handling a baby food account and they’re very square.”
“And no raincoat. Did you drive down?”
“Yes, the roads aren’t too bad on Sundays. How’s foot-and-mouth?”
“Hanging on.” Agatha straightened up. “Come through. What’ll you have?”
“A G and T, thanks. Small, I’m driving.”
“Okay, sit down and I’ll get some ice.
“So,” said Agatha after she had fixed their drinks, “what brings you?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Roy.
