side, she'd better phone her solicitor and get that codicil taken out.
Mrs. Bloxby had endured an exhausting day. Angry villagers kept calling at the vicarage, wanting Agatha Raisin expelled from the village. Somehow it had got out about the would-be killer having had a gun and a Balaclava. By setting up as a detective agency, Agatha Raisin had brought terror to Carsely, they said.
The vicar's wife answered each as patiently as she could, pointing out that several murderers would still be roaming free if it hadn't been for the work of Mrs. Raisin. At last she told her husband that she was not going to answer the door that evening. She poured herself a rare glass of sherry and took it out to the garden. She was just sitting down at the garden table with her drink when the doorbell went again. Ignoring its shrill summons, she sipped her sherry and watched the light fading over the churchyard at the end of the garden.
And then a plaintive voice from the churchyard hailed her. “Mrs. Bloxby!”
“Who's there?” she demanded sharply.
“It's me, Emma Comfrey. I must talk to you.”
Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “Come round to the door.”
When she let Emma in, she thought the woman looked on the edge of a breakdown. Her eyes were red with weeping and her hands trembled.
“Come into the garden,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Would you like a sherry?”
“No, thank you. I've just got to talk to someone.” No sooner were they seated than Emma burst out with “They think I tried to poison Agatha!”
“Did you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby quietly.
“Of course not. I wouldn't dream … Oh, it's worse than
that.”
“I can't think of anything worse. Go on.” “Charles told the police I had been stalking him.” “And had you?”
“No, I hadn't!” shouted Emma. And then, quietly, “It's all adreadful mistake. I went to the fete at Barfleid House, that's all.”
“Why did you go there when you should have been working?”
“I was working in the area. Charles is … was … a friend of mine.”
“What did he say when you saw him?”
“I didn't approach him because he was so busy.”
“If there is nothing in it,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “then you have nothing to worry about. All you need to do is to keep well clear of Sir Charles Fraith in future.”
“But don't you see, I have to talk to him. I have to ask him why he said such a dreadful thing. I was interrogated for hours.”
The doorbell shrilled again. “I'd better answer that.” Mrs. Bloxby was suddenly anxious not to be alone with Emma.
She opened the door.
“Police,” said a plainclothes officer. “The forensic team have finished with Mrs. Raisin's cottage for the moment and would like to go into Mrs. Comfrey's cottage. Is she here?”
“Yes, I'll fetch her.”
Mrs. Bloxby went back into the garden. “Mrs. Comfrey, a forensic team wishes to examine your cottage.”
Emma turned pale. “Can't I just give them the keys and stay here?”
“I'm afraid not. But just let's hope nothing happens to Mrs. Raisin, because if it does, Mrs. Comfrey, I'm afraid you might find yourself the first suspect.”
Emma clutched her arm. “You think I did it!”
Mrs. Bloxby pulled her arm away. “Please go, Mrs. Comfrey. I must get my husband's supper and the police are waiting for you.”
“I always wondered what a safe house would look like,” said Agatha. “Not much, is it? It's not a house anyway. It's a flat.”
The flat was situated in a block on the outskirts of Mircester. The flats had been newly built and several were still vacant. Theirs was sparsely furnished with the bare essentials. There were three bedrooms: one for herself, one for Charles, and one for their minder, a burly individual in plainclothes who answered to the name of Terry.
Agatha went into the kitchen. There was milk in the fridge and teabags and ajar of instant coffee were on the counter.
“What about food?” asked Agatha.
“I've got list of food deliveries,” said Terry. “Tell me what you want and I'll phone for it. There's Indian, Chinese, pizza— you name it.”
“What about drink?” asked Charles. “I could do with a stiff
one.”
“I can get the local supermarket to deliver. They're open twenty-four hours.”
“I'll give you a shopping list,” said Agatha, “because we'll need stuff for breakfast as well.”
When Terry was on the phone, Charles drew Agatha aside and whispered, “Say we're going to share a bedroom.”
“Honestly, Charles, at such a time!”
“Pillow talk. We need to talk and we can't do it with him listening.”
“Okay.”
After they had eaten and watched several programmes on television, Charles said he and Agatha were going to bed.
Terry said he thought it would be better if he slept on the sofa, “just to be on the safe side.” He added the caution, “Don't go using your mobiles and telling anyone at all where you are.”
Once Agatha and Charles were in bed, he snuggled up to her. “Get off!” whispered Agatha fiercely.
“We've got to talk,” he whispered. “Let's start with Emma. Let's just suppose she tried to poison you. She'd be clever enough to get rid of the stuff. Where would she put it? Where would you put it?”
“Same idea as you … in the woods somewhere.”
“She'd be frightened of anyone seeing her, maybe meeting a gamekeeper. The woods around are criss- crossed with paths for ramblers and people walking their dogs. Think again.”
“There's something at the back of my mind,” said Agatha slowly. “I know. It was one day in the office. Emma said there was some rubbish in the shed at the bottom of the garden she wanted rid of. A broken chair, a table with one leg missing, that sort of thing. Miss Simms said, 'Why don't you take the lot out to the council tip on the old Worcester Road,' and gave her directions. As soon as we get out of here, let's go and have a look.”
“I wonder how long they mean to keep us here?” said Charles.
“God knows. It's going to be like being in prison. There must be some connection between the hit man and the killing of Peterson.”
“Wait a bit,” said Charles. “Wasn't there something you said about Laggat-Brown changing his name from Ryan? Ryan's an Irish name.”
“It can't be him,” said Agatha impatiently. “He's a charming and civilized man. Besides, he can't have had anything to do with the attempted shooting. His own daughter, too! And we've double-checked his alibi.”
“You've got a soft spot for him, Aggie.”
“Well, he took me out for dinner and he paid the bill, which is more than you ever do.”
They grumbled and discussed the case and grumbled again until they both fell asleep.
Terry, who had pressed his ear against their bedroom door, quietly retreated and picked up the phone. He suggested the forensic team should check the council tip on the old Worcester Road.
Emma had moved into a hotel in Moreton-in-Marsh for the night. She tossed and turned, wondering whether she was safe or not.
She felt that she should check the council tip in the morning and try to find out when the containers were taken away. Until she knew that, she felt she could not rest.
The morning dawned cold and misty. The only colour in the bleached countryside was the red of the autumn leaves. She drove steadily and carefully, although her hands on the steering wheel were damp with nerves.
She turned off the old Worcester Road and headed for the tip. She was just about to turn in at the entrance
