“Do you have rooms? I mean, does anyone know if he stayed in the village?”
“No, we don’t let rooms, and besides, what with them big cars everyone’s got, he could have come down from London.”
“Jess!” shouted the landlord from behind the bar. “Customers!”
Jess moved away. Agatha ate her fish and chips and wondered what to do. The police would have conducted a door-to-door search. She decided to take a break and go home and see her cats and call on Mrs. Bloxby.
The cats looked singularly uninterested when she came in the door. Agatha sighed. Every time she left them alone for any length of time, the cats seemed to transfer their affections to her cleaner, Doris Simpson. The weather was still warm. She let the cats out into the garden. Then she closed the house up again and made her way along the dusty cobbled streets to the vicarage.
Agatha’s hand hovered over the bell. The vicar always looked at her as if she were an unwelcome visitor. She walked round to the gate that led to the vicarage garden and saw Mrs. Bloxby deadheading roses. Agatha noticed with a pang that her friend looked tired. Her gentle face had lines Agatha had not noticed before and her slim figure drooped.
She unlatched the gate and walked in. “Oh, Mrs. Raisin. How nice. Let me bring some tea out into the garden.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve just had lunch. You look tired.”
“It’s the heat. Come and sit down. The parish duties are heavier than usual. Quite a number of our old people are suffering from the heat. I was going to fund-raise to buy them all electric fans, but wouldn’t you know it, the shops are all sold out. Really, one would think some entrepreneur would bring truckloads of them over from Taiwan or somewhere. I keep telling them to drink lots of water, but then, some of them have arthritis and it is so painful to go to the loo that they cut down on fluids.”
“Don’t they have carers?”
“Yes, they do, and district nurses and Meals on Wheels, but a lot of them are frightened of death and Alf is overworked as it is. So I have to help. You do see that.”
“Yes,” said Agatha, although she privately thought she might well have left them all to the care of the state if their roles had been reversed.
“Tell me about the latest case, Mrs. Raisin.”
Agatha settled back in her chair and began to talk. As she talked, Mrs. Bloxby’s eyelids fluttered and then closed. Agatha lowered her voice. Soon Mrs. Bloxby was fast asleep. Agatha sat enjoying the peace of the old garden and the next thing she knew Mrs. Bloxby was shaking her arm. “Do wake up, Mrs. Raisin. We both fell asleep and I was frightened you might be missing appointments.”
Agatha looked at her watch. “Good heavens. I’d better go. I’ve got a retired detective to see!”
Patrick Mullen was a tall, cadaverous man who rarely smiled. Agatha discussed wages with him and then told Miss Simms to show him the files on the various unsolved cases.
“What about that shooting business?” he asked.
“I’ll put you on it if we get some of this backlog cleared up,” said Agatha. “Now I’ve got to run. There’s someone arriving at Moreton-in-Marsh I’ve got to see.”
The train, as usual, was late. Agatha waited beside the flowerbeds on Moreton station and wished she had asked for a description of Mr. Laggat-Brown. This detective business was difficult. So many questions one forgot to ask.
At last she could see the train down at the end of the long, long stretch of line. He would probably be travelling first-class.
That would mean the carriages at the back if it was a Great Western train or the one cramped little bit of carriage for first-class passengers if it should turn out to be a Thames train.
What would he look like? She conjured up a picture of a small fussy man with thinning hair in a business suit.
The train drew in and the passengers poured off. A lot of people were now commuting between London and the country. A man who looked like her mental image came bustling up. “Mr. Laggat-Brown?” asked Agatha.
He stared at her and then walked past. “Were you looking for me?” asked a voice.
Agatha found herself staring up at an extremely handsome man. “Mr. Laggat-Brown?”
“That’s me. Who are you?”
“Agatha Raisin.”
“Oh, that detective female.”
“Can we talk?”
“If you must. But I told my wife that to go to the expense of paying a detective agency when the police are doing all they can is ridiculous. Still, it’s her business. Let’s sit on that bench over there.”
Agatha was suddenly conscious of her crumpled linen suit and flat heels. Jeremy Laggat-Brown was tall with a square-cut tanned face and bright blue eyes. His thick hair was slightly curled and pure white. His suit was a miracle of good tailoring.
“Now, what can I do for you?” he asked. He lit a cigarette and Agatha opened her handbag and took out her own cigarette case. Cigarette cases had come back into fashion because of all the nasty government warnings on the packets.
“I wondered, of course, if you had any idea of why anyone would want to shoot your daughter?”
“None in the slightest. Must be some maniac.”
“Do you think it could be Jason’s father?”
“I don’t. I mean, what would he gain by it? He was in prison for fraud, not psychopathic killing.” He suddenly smiled at her. “I must say, you’re not what I expected from my wife’s description.”
“And what was that?”
“Never mind. 1 didn’t expect an attractive woman.”
Somewhere deep in Agatha’s treacherous stomach rumbled that old sexual buzz.
“Jason would inherit if Cassandra were killed.”
“And you mean the father would hope to get money from the son? Far-fetched, One does not think of a young daughter as dying. The whole thing’s weird. You know what I really think? I think there’s some mad sharpshooter in the neighbourhood who decided to use us for target practice.”
“And what about the threatening letter?”
“Same nutter, I suppose. Lots of class jealousy around.”
“You haven’t always lived at the manor, have you?”
“The manor-house belonged to the Felliet family for centuries, but they went broke and we bought it. The villagers went on as if the queen had been dethroned.”
“When did you buy the manor?”
“Only about eight years ago.”
“And where are the Felliets now?”
“That’ll be Sir George and his lady. Don’t really know.”
“And you are reconciled with your wife?”
“Well, in a way. We won’t be remarrying or anything like that. We rub along all right. Doing it to please Cassandra.”
“And you were in Paris at the time of the shooting?”
He grinned. “And plenty of witnesses to that fact. Tell you what, time’s getting on and I promised Catherine I’d be home for dinner. Why don’t you and I have a meal later in the week and then I really will have time to answer all your questions?”
“I would like that.” Agatha tried not to sound too eager. “I’ll give you my card.”
When he left, Agatha decided to go home and spend a quiet evening repairing her face and tinting the roots of her hair. She had thick brown hair but grey was beginning to show through.
Would he really phone? It wasn’t as if he was married. What should she wear?
She could hear faintly the warning voice of Mrs. Bloxby. “You are addicted to falling in love.” But Agatha’s mind blotted it out. It was so wonderful to have a man to dream about, the colourful dreams filling up that empty hole that had been in her head for so long. Without dreams, Agatha was left with Agatha, a person she did not like very much, although that was something she would never admit to herself.
