He looked amused. “On the contrary, I thought I was blessed. No more cancer, no more nagging French wife. Goodbye to both.”
Agatha surveyed him curiously. “People who recover from cancer are usually very spiritual. I mean, they feel they have been given a second chance at life, sort of born again.”
Charles looked amused. “Do they? How odd.”
Selfish and self-centred and self-contained as ever, thought Agatha.
“So what brings you?”
“A mixture of curiosity and boredom. My aunt has turned the whole house over to some fund-raising gala for the Red Cross. I’ve got to get out of this, I thought. There’s murder and mayhem been going on over in Aggie’s direction, and I bet myself you were in the thick of it.”
“I wish I weren’t,” said Agatha. “I’ll tell you about it. But first, do you mind if I go upstairs and put on something more comfortable?”
“Not at all.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “I thought you would never ask.”
Agatha went upstairs and put on a black-and-gold caftan she had bought years ago in Turkey and changed out of her high heels and put on slippers. It was nice to see Charles, she reflected. She wouldn’t have to bother about her appearance.
She went back downstairs and called to her cats, filled up their food bowls with some fish she had poached before she left and then opened the garden door so that they could get out after they had finished eating.
Outside, at the end of Lilac Lane, Mrs. Davenport walked away. Agatha had re-entered the living room and drawn back the curtains. Earlier, Mrs. Davenport had seen a man let himself in. In her handbag, she had Juanita’s address. She had got it by being in the general stores at just the right time. It had transpired that Juanita was extremely fond of the local fudge and had written to order a box of it. “I’ll send her one as well,” Mrs. Davenport had said. “I had her address but I’ve lost it.” Having secured the address, she had written a letter to Juanita to inform her that her husband was having an affair with Agatha Raisin. She did not sign it. No reason to let the formidable Mrs. Raisin know that she was the one who had informed on her.
Agatha sat down. “That’s better,” she said. “I like the curtains open when I’m at home. I only close them when I go to bed.”
“So tell me all about it,” said Charles.
Agatha began at the beginning and went on to the end, soothed by Charles’s capacity for listening.
“What a mess,” he commented when she had finished. “Before I give you my views, what about Paul? Am I interfering in your love life?”
“He’s married. Anyway, how could you interfere?”
“I took the liberty of unpacking my things in the spare room.”
“You do assume a lot, you cheeky sod. All right, you can stay. So what do you think of the murders? I cannot believe for a moment this Harry Witherspoon is the murderer.”
“Why? He’s the only one who stood to gain from her death.”
“I know, I know. I can imagine him doing the first one but not the second. He and his sister asked Paul and me to find the murderer of their mother.”
“You left that bit out.”
“Sorry.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“I’m sure he’s been with the police for a long time. We could try tomorrow. It would be only polite to tell Paul and see if he wants to go with us.”
There was a sharp ring at the doorbell.
“It’s a bit late for anyone to be calling,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “Hope it’s not that awful Runcorn. I don’t feel up to him tonight.”
She opened the door. Paul stood there. “I saw your car,” he said.
“Come in,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a friend here.”
She led the way into the living-room and introduced Charles. “Charles helped me on a lot of previous cases,” said Agatha.
“We thought we’d go and see Harry Witherspoon tomorrow,” said Charles. He yawned and stretched. “You tell him about it, Aggie. I’m off to bed.” He walked towards the door and then turned and smiled at Agatha. “Don’t be long, dear,” he said.
There was an awkward silence.
Then Agatha said, “It’s not what you think. Charles is just a friend.”
“A pretty intimate one, it seems to me,” said Paul. “I’d better go.”
“Don’t you want to come with us to see Harry tomorrow?”
“No, I’ll be off. Three’s a crowd.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly. I’ll send Charles away.”
“No need for that. I’ve got work to do anyway.” Paul left, looking decidedly huffy.
He returned to his own cottage. Two of the ladies of the village who had tried to court his company when he had first arrived had warned him about Agatha Raisin. They had hinted she’d had affairs. This had intrigued him and it was what had prompted him to approach Agatha in the first place. He had been quite disappointed at first to find himself faced with, not a femme fatale, but a prickly middle-aged woman. After he had got to know Agatha, he had admitted to himself that there was something very sexy about her, but the fact that he sensed the vulnerability under the hard shell had kept him from making any serious advances to her. He suddenly missed his volatile wife. He reached out for the phone and then decided against it. She would say the usual thing-if he loved her he would live in Spain -and they would end up having a row.
He did not feel sleepy. He switched on his computer. He would type out everything they had found out about the case and see if he could find a lead. It would be nice if he could solve the murders himself.
Agatha marched into the spare bedroom where Charles was lying, reading. “Did you have to go and imply we were having an affair?” she demanded.
“Bit of fun, Aggie. Anyway, he shouldn’t be sniffing around. You said your Watson was married.”
“He’s not all that married,” said Agatha sulkily.
“Married is married. Anyway, he’s a geek. A handsome one, I grant you, but a geek all the same. Not much personality.”
“Jealous, Charles?”
“Me! Never. Come and join me.”
“Don’t you ever give up?”
“Worth a try,” said Charles, stretching lazily.
Agatha went out and banged the door.
She awoke early next morning to the sound of frying bacon. She rose and washed and dressed and went down to the kitchen. “I was just about to call you,” said Charles, standing at the stove. “Breakfast’s nearly ready.”
“Do make yourself free with my groceries,” said Agatha.
“I have done. One egg or two?”
“One.
“I don’t usually have breakfast, as you know,” said Agatha, sitting down at the table. “I usually just have a cup of coffee.”
“This’ll do you good.” He slid a plate of sausage, bacon and egg in front of her.
“I feel guilty about Paul,” said Agatha, poking at her food. When Charles turned back to the stove, she lifted a rasher of bacon and dropped it down on the floor for her cats to eat.
Charles helped himself to a plate of food and sat down opposite her. He was wearing casual dress-casual for him-a checked blue-and-white shirt with dark blue chinos.
“What I cannot understand,” he said between bites of food, “is why the unfortunate Robin was killed and not you. You’ve been poking around asking questions about the murder and so far you haven’t been threatened.”
“All it means was she was close to something I missed.”
“I wonder what that could be? I’d like to meet this rector at Wormstone. Ask him a few more questions. There
