Agatha slowly replaced the receiver and a fat tear rolled down one cheek. She felt old, stupid and very much alone. She decided to call on Mrs. Bloxby. Not that she would tell her anything, but the vicar’s wife was soothing company and her friendship unwavering.
Mrs. Bloxby opened the door of the vicarage to her. “Agatha?” she said. “My dear, do come in and tell me what has upset you so much.”
Agatha burst into floods of tears. Mrs. Bloxby piloted her into the living-room, pressed her down on the comfortable feather cushions of the old sofa, handed her a large box of Kleenex and then took her hand. Agatha dried her eyes and blew her nose. “I feel such a fool,” she gulped. “I shouldn’t really be telling you anything.”
“You don’t need to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” said Mrs. Bloxby in her kind voice. “But do remember that I never repeat anything you say without your permission.”
In a halting voice, Agatha told her about the finding of the tunnel, the diary, and of how they had gone back and wiped everything so clean that any evidence had been destroyed. Then she told her about putting the anonymous note through the door of the police station and being attacked by the drunk man. “I’ll give you back the costume,” ended Agatha mournfully. “I was disguised, you see. I was wearing a red wig and that tea-dress from The Importance of Being Earnest.”
Mrs. Bloxby sat with her head bowed and her shoulders shaking. She let out a snort of laughter and then gave up and leaned back against the cushions and laughed and laughed.
“Mrs. Bloxby!” Agatha half-rose to her feet, her face red with mortification.
“No, no.” Mrs. Bloxby pulled Agatha back down. “Don’t you see how funny it is?”
Agatha gave a reluctant grin. “Not funny, just stupid.”
Mrs. Bloxby composed herself. “I’ll make some tea. We’ll have tea and toasted teacakes in the garden because the sun has come out. Go into the garden and have a cigarette.”
Agatha, feeling calmer, went into the garden. A purple clematis tumbled down the mellow walls of the old vicarage behind her and in front of her the garden was a blaze of old-fashioned flowers: marigolds and stocks, delphiniums, and lupins, gladioli and lilies.
She took out a packet of cigarettes and glared at it. How irritating to have one’s life ruled by the compulsion to smoke. She put the packet away again.
Mrs. Bloxby came out carrying a laden tray. “Here we are. I made the teacakes myself. I always think the shop ones don’t have enough substance. Help yourself to milk and sugar.”
“There’s something else,” said Agatha. “There’s Paul. I tried to phone him and he said he was busy and hung up on me.”
“He’s probably feeling as frightened and silly as you are. But of course you must remember he’s a man.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Men when they feel stupid and silly always look around for someone to blame.”
“That’s very unfair!”
“Oh, he’ll get over it. Let’s look at the problem. The damage is done. But whoever frightened and murdered Mrs. Witherspoon, assuming that one person did both, would be very careful to wear gloves. The police had no idea there was a secret passage and never would have done if you hadn’t found it. So you have added to the investigation, rather than taken away from it.”
“I suppose,” mumbled Agatha, her mouth full of teacake.
“So tell me what else you have found out?”
Agatha described how Harry and Carol had asked them to investigate but had seemed reluctant to let them search the house and how Harry was going to share his inheritance with Carol.
“Why the change of heart?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.
“Harry said that he and Carol had got together and found out how their mother had set one against the other. Seems believable.”
“Or it could be the action of a man guilty of murder and desperate to put a good face on things.”
“If Paul hadn’t gone off me, I was going to suggest going over to Mircester this evening to see if that amateur theatrical company are rehearsing anything and ask a few questions. There might have been an opportunity for Harry to disappear for a bit of the evening.”
“But in that case, wouldn’t Harry himself be at the rehearsals?”
“You’re right.”
“Wait a minute. I think I can find something out for you. I have a friend over in Mircester. I am sure she is part of the company.”
Mrs. Bloxby went indoors. Agatha drank more tea and waited.
The vicar’s wife came back and handed Agatha a slip of paper. “Her name is Mrs. Barley. That’s her address. She’s at home. If you go over now, you can have a chat with her.”
“Thanks a lot. Should I tell Paul?”
“No, leave him for a bit. He’ll come round.”
Agatha went back to her cottage. Paul was working in his front garden. She hesitated as she passed, but although he was well aware of her, he didn’t look up from his weeding. She shrugged and walked on.
Mrs. Davenport avidly watched from the end of the lane. So it was over! She felt disappointed. She had still been trying to find out Juanita’s address and had been looking forward to witnessing Agatha Raisin getting her come-uppance.
Agatha felt a burden had been lifted from her as she drove towards Mircester. She was on her own again and it felt good. Sex had impaired her usually brilliant detective abilities, she told herself.
She stopped in a lay-by outside Mircester and pulled a map of the town out of the glove compartment and worked out where Mrs. Barley lived.
Barley was a nice name, reflected Agatha as she drove on into town. She would be a round, comfortable sort of countrywoman with apple cheeks and a generous bosom under a flowered apron.
The reality came as a shock. Mrs. Barley-“Do call me Robin”-was a thin woman in her sixties with expensively tinted golden hair wearing a Versace trouser suit and jangling with gold bangles.
“Come into my little sanctum,” she cooed. “Do excuse the smell of paint.”
Agatha found herself in an artist’s studio. A small white poodle with evil eyes ran barking at her ankles and Agatha resisted an urge to kick the beast away. There were canvases stacked against the walls and a half-finished painting on an easel. It showed a woman with a green-and-yellow face.
“A self-portrait,” murmured Robin Barley, spreading her long fingers in a deprecating gesture. “A poor thing but mine own.”
“Looks great to me,” lied Agatha. Agatha was always puzzled by people who sneered at the phrase: “I don’t know much about painting but I know what I like.” What on earth was up with that? Surely if one was buying a painting, one should choose what one liked. She had been told it was necessary to study art to appreciate it. Why? She wasn’t an art student. James used to laugh at her and say she was comfortable in her philistinism, but she still couldn’t see what it was all about. He had taken her to a Matisse exhibition and she had remarked loudly that she thought the painter’s choice of colours ghastly and James had actually blushed and rushed her out of the gallery.
“The sun’s over the yard-arm so we may as well have a drinkie,” said Robin. “What’s your poison?”
“Gin and tonic, please.”
“Absolutely. I’ll have the same.” Robin went over to a small kitchen off the studio and fixed two drinks and carried them back. “Bottoms up,” she said.
Agatha wondered whether Robin was capable of saying anything that wasn’t hackneyed and cliched.
“So you’re the great detective,” said Robin. “Sit down, please. I actually don’t live here. This is my studio. I have a little pied-a-terre in Wormstone village. I am actually very busy at the moment but I never could refuse dear Margaret anything.”
“Margaret?”
“Mrs. Bloxby, of course. So I thought, why not grant you some of my precious time. It never rains but it pours,” she added obscurely.
“And every cloud has a silver lining,” said Agatha.
“And every road leads to the sea,” said Robin.
I wonder if she’s mad, thought Agatha. Aloud she said, “It’s about Harry Witherspoon and The Mikado.”
