Well, thought Agatha, you never could tell with men. Maybe one looked more available with the minimum of make-up.
“Do you really think anything will come out of this?” she asked.
“Might do. It’s worth a try.”
It was still light as they drove off, but a grey evening with flashes of sheet lightening over to the west and the occasional rumble of thunder. “Maybe we should have checked out where the church room was before we left Towdey,” said Agatha.
“The church is at the end of the main street and the church room is bound to be next to it.”
“Heard from your wife?”
“Juanita? No. No news is good news. Heard from your ex? Gossip round the village says you’re still in love with him.”
“I haven’t heard from him and I don’t want to,” said Agatha harshly.
They continued on to Towdey in silence.
Paul parked in front of the church. It had a grey Norman tower and the west door had a Norman arch over it. Old gravestones, some of them slanted at crazy angles, stood on the rough grass of the churchyard. A heavy drop of rain struck Agatha’s cheek and the thunder rumbled closer.
“Let’s find that church room,” cried Agatha. “It’s just about to pour.”
An elderly man and woman walked into the churchyard. “Are you going to the historical society?” asked Paul. “We don’t know where the church room is.”
“Follow us,” said the old man.
“They’re a bit historical themselves,” said Agatha as they slowly followed the couple round the corner of the church and up shallow steps to an open door. There were six more elderly people already seated in a small square room, and three middle-aged punters, fidgeting and yawning.
A tall slim man was arranging some papers on a lectern facing the audience. When he saw Agatha and Paul, he walked forward to meet them. “I am Peter Frampton,” he said. “Nice to see two new faces at our little gathering.”
Paul introduced them while Agatha covertly studied Peter Frampton, deciding he was quite attractive in a scholarly way. She put his age somewhere in the early forties. He had beautifully barbered grey hair, all waves and curls. His face was thin with a good straight nose and his pale grey eyes were heavy-lidded.
“There are two seats at the front,” Peter was saying. “I don’t know why it is, but nobody wants to sit at the front.”
“We’ll break the pattern, then,” said Paul, ushering Agatha forward.
“Are you interested in the Civil War?” he asked.
“Very,” said Agatha.
“Good, good. Just about to start.”
A great flash of lightning whitened the room and several members of the audience screamed.
“It’s just a storm and it will soon pass,” said Peter, taking his place behind the lectern. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Some of you have told me that you have insufficient knowledge of the Civil War. I think therefore tonight I will concentrate on the Battle of Worcester, 1651, which was the final act in the Civil War, which began in August 1642. Now the Cavaliers were so called from the Spanish caballeros, and the Roundheads because they were considered lowly Puritan artisans, not gentlemen, with cropped heads. The Cavaliers favoured flowing locks. Now to the battle.
“On August 28, part of the Parliamentary Army-”
“Who they?” quavered an old voice.
“The Roundheads.”
“Arr.”
“They crossed the river Severn at Upton. By nightfall-”
The door to the back of the hall opened with a bang. Agatha twisted round to look at the newcomer and then nudged Paul in the ribs. “Have a look,” she whispered. “It’s life, but not as we know it, Jim.”
A girl stood at the entrance. Behind her in the churchyard, rain drummed down in silver rods. Her thick brown hair was worn on top of her head and held in place with silver combs. Her face was white and her lips purple. She had painted thick black lines around her eyes. She was wearing a sleeveless leather tunic with heavy silver baroque jewellery and tight black leather trousers with knee-high boots which had silver clasps down the side and enormously high heels.
“Come in, Zena, and close the door,” said Peter, looking not in the slightest taken aback by this vision.
The thunder crashed but Peter’s voice rose above it. After half an hour, Agatha realized that he was still at the Battle of Worcester and showed no sign of moving on to the Royalist history of Towdey.
By the time he had got to the end of the battle, where the Cavaliers were routed and King Charles had escaped, the thunder was rumbling off into the distance. “Around ten thousand Scottish prisoners were stripped of their possessions. Some were placed in prisons around the country, others were transported to New England, Virginia and the West Indies to work on the plantations and iron works. Others were sent to work on the drainage schemes on the fens. Many of the English prisoners were conscripted into the army and were sent to Ireland.
“I hope this lecture has gone some way to fill in the gaps in your knowledge. Shall we break for tea, and then I will take your questions.”
A woman rose from the audience and whipped off a white cloth on a trestle-table revealing a tea urn and plates of sandwiches and cakes. Agatha stood up and looked around for Zena but she was nowhere in sight. She must have left more quietly than she had arrived.
“May as well get some tea,” said Paul. The elderly were rapidly piling up their plates with mounds of sandwiches and cakes. “Are you interested in history?” Paul asked an elderly gentleman. “Not me,” he said cheerfully. “Me, I comes for the food.”
“There’s not much left,” grumbled Agatha. “Bloody gannets.”
“Their need is greater than yours,” said Paul. “How would you like to have to manage on an old age pension?”
“I wonder why that odd-looking girl called Zena decided to show up?”
“Who knows? Maybe checking on her grandmother. She looked dressed for the disco rather than a historical society meeting.”
“Peter Frampton has gone missing as well,” said Paul, looking around. “I hope he’ll be back to take questions.”
“There’s another door behind that screen at the back of the room,” said Agatha. “Maybe he went there.”
“Oh, here he is again,” said Paul as Peter emerged from behind the screen.
“While you are enjoying your tea,” he announced, “are there any questions?” Agatha put up her hand. “Yes, Mrs. er…”
“I thought this was going to be a lecture on the Royalists in Towdey,” said Agatha.
“It was. But several members said they would like to know a bit of the background of the Civil War. Perhaps next week.”
Paul put up his hand. “Can you tell us a bit about Sir Geoffrey Lamont?”
“In a moment. Mr. Bragg had his hand up first. Mr. Bragg?”
“Why weren’t there none of them fairy cakes this time?”
“Mrs. Partlett is on holiday. She usually supplies them. She will be back next week.”
A ferocious discussion on the merits of fairy cakes erupted. Paul put his hand up again.
“Mrs. Harper,” said Peter.
Paul glared his annoyance.
“I would like to read out the minutes of the last meeting,” quavered Mrs. Harper in a nervous voice.
“My apologies. I forgot. Do proceed.”
Paul sank back in his chair. “This is getting interesting,” whispered Agatha. “He’s deliberately avoiding answering your question.”
And so it seemed. For the minute Mrs. Harper had finished, Peter said, “Well, that wraps it up. See you all next week.”
Paul rose to his feet but Peter scurried off behind the screen and they heard a door slam.
