was working on, select a missing cat or dog and say it had been reported in Warwickshire. Emma switched on the engine and let in the clutch and drove slowly off, her dreams crumbling about her ears. But when she reached the bottom of the drive, she remembered with a sudden glow that he had called her glamorous. And he had felt so at ease with her that he had not bothered to dress.
By the time she had turned into Lilac Lane, her fantasies were back in full force. She must call on Agatha when Charles arrived. But first she must come up with a case as an excuse for visiting him.
Having found what she considered a good enough excuse, she sat on a chair on the landing by the side window overlooking the entrance to Agatha’s cottage. Agatha’s car was not there. Emma prayed that Charles would arrive before Agatha returned. That way she could nip out and invite him into her cottage to wait. She was just wrapped in a rosy fantasy where Charles was saying, “I feel so comfortable here with you, Emma. Makes me realize what a lonely life I’ve had,” when she heard the sound of a car.
Charles drove up and took a bag out of the boot and headed for the door. But instead of ringing, he took out a set of keys, selected one, opened the door and went in.
Emma bit her thumb. Well, she had been going to call on Agatha, hadn’t she? No harm in ringing the bell. She went to the bathroom and repaired her make-up, patted her hair and went next door. She rang the bell.
Charles was sprawled on the sofa watching a rerun of
Emma retreated, baffled.
Emma, now downstairs, saw him pass the window. She rushed towards her front door, but tripped over a footstool and went sprawling. When she had picked herself up and opened her door, there was no sign of him. She set off in pursuit, out of Lilac Lane and past the general stores. There, ahead of her, turning off from the main street down the cobbled lane which led to the church, was Charles.
There’s no service today, thought Emma, so he must be going to call on Mrs. Bloxby.
She drew back a little. Let him get inside the vicarage and then she could stroll casually up and ring the bell. Mrs. Bloxby would not think it strange. Everyone in the village called on Mrs. Bloxby. She would wait for five minutes.
“It’s good of you to let me in,” Charles was saying. “Why should I not let you in?”
“It was just when I rang your doorbell,” said Charles, “that I suddenly realized how irritating people can be when they just land up on your doorstep without telephoning and expect a welcome.”
“Were you thinking about anyone specific?’’’
“That Emma Comfrey who works for Agatha. Rolled up this
morning at my home.”
“Oh dear. You haven’t
you?”
“I took her out for lunch a couple of times. But she’s old enough, just, to be my mother.”
“Come into the garden. We’ll have coffee there.”
Charles relaxed in the pleasant vicarage garden under the shade of an old cedar. The sun blazed down. As Mrs. Bloxby prepared the coffee, there was a comforting tinkle of china from the kitchen and a smell of warm scones. Up on the hill a tractor crossed a field, looking like a toy.
The doorbell rang.
Charles stiffened as he heard the door open and Mrs. Bloxby say loudly, “Why, Mrs. Comfrey.”
Charles shot to his feet, feeling suddenly hunted. He vaulted nimbly over the garden wall into the churchyard and hid behind a sloping gravestone.
“He was here a minute ago,” he heard Mrs. Bloxby say. “He must have remembered something and just left. I’m sure you can catch him if you hurry.”
Charles stayed where he was until he heard Mrs. Bloxby calling, “You can come out now.”
Charles climbed back over the garden wall and brushed down his trousers.
“Coffee’s ready,” said Mrs. Bloxby placidly.
Charles grinned as he sat down at the garden table. “I didn’t know you were capable of lying.”
“I didn’t lie. I said you had left and so you had. Mrs. Comfrey has blonded her hair and is wearing full make- up. What have you done?”
“I was only being kind to the old bird. She’s had a rough life. Never mind her. I’m waiting for Aggie to get back to tell me all about the shooting.”
Emma waited on her chair on the landing. She saw Roy and Agatha return, and then Charles came strolling along Lilac Lane.
Once more she decided to wait five minutes and then go and join them.
She kept glancing down at her watch. How slow the second hand crawled around the dial! At last, she straightened up, went downstairs and marched next door.
Agatha opened the door. “Why, Emma. What can I do for you?”
“I thought I might join you for a coffee.”
“I’m afraid now is not a good time,” said Agatha firmly. “You’ve got the whole weekend off, Emma. Make the most of it. I’ll see you in the office on Monday.”
Emma marched back to her own cottage, back ramrod-straight, and two spots of angry colour burning in her cheeks.
She hated Agatha Raisin. Agatha must have sensed Charles’s growing interest in her and was jealously keeping him to herself.
“That was Emma,” said Agatha, joining Roy and Charles in the garden. “But I couldn’t ask her in because I want to tell you about the case and Emma mustn’t know about us finding the body before the police. So where was I? Oh, yes, the more I think about that suicide, the more worried I get.”
“Say it wasn’t suicide,” said Roy. “Who’s the murderer?
Jason is in Bermuda, although he’s probably heading back by now. Laggat-Brown has a cast-iron alibi. Who’s left?”
“Someone we don’t know about,” suggested Charles. “Might be an idea to get hold of Harrison Peterson’s wife.”
“I could phone Patrick,” said Agatha reluctantly. “But I told him to take a rest.”
“You could see if he’s dug up anything else and then he can rest while we do something about it,” said Charles.
Roy shifted uneasily in his chair. He resented the appearance of Charles, although he knew him of old. This was supposed to
“While you make your phone calls,” he said. “I’ll take a walk down the village.”
“Right,” said Agatha. “I’ll phone Patrick.”
Roy nipped upstairs and changed out of his white suit into an old pair of jeans, checked shirt and moccasins. He could see no reason to waste the glory of his best wardrobe on what he waspishly damned as “a bunch of sheep-shaggers.”
He was just strolling past the cottage next door when Emma, who had been pretending to weed her front garden, called out, “Are you visiting Agatha?”
“Yes,” said Roy, “but she’s got phone calls to make and I’m feeling bored.”
“Why don’t you come in and we’ll sit in my garden and have coffee.”
Roy brightened. “Just until she’s finished with her phone calls.”
He followed her through her cottage, looking about him as he passed through the living room. It had changed a lot since the days of James Lacey, Agatha’s ex. Where James had walls lined with books, Emma had shelves of ornaments: china cats, little pottery houses and glass animals. The wood-burning fire now had an electric fire with fake logs in front of it. A sofa and armchairs were covered in chintz. Roy thought it all charming.
“Now sit down,” said Emma brightly when they were in the garden, “and Ell fetch the coffee. Ell just move this umbrella so that you’re in the shade. It is rather hot.”
Nice old bird, thought Roy, stretching his feet out on the grass.
Agatha came back from the phone. “He’s working on the wife’s address, but I’ve got the doctor’s. It’s a Dr.
