Gustav promptly rang off and Agatha gazed at the phone in a fury.
She was just about to turn away when the phone rang. Agatha answered it with a cautious “Yes.”
“It’s Mrs. Bloxby here. Someone in the village said you were back. Are you on your own or is Charles there?”
“I’m on my own. Charles has left.”
“I think I should pack a bag and spend the night with you.”
Agatha was just opening her mouth to say that would be wonderful when she heard the vicar’s voice grumbling in the background, “Honestly, Margaret, you’re running yourself ragged. That Raisin female is old enough to look after herself.”
“Wait a minute,” said Mrs. Bloxby. She covered the receiver with her hand, but Agatha could hear faint sounds of an altercation.
When Mrs. Bloxby came back on the phone, Agatha said hurriedly, “I’m really all right. Honestly. Roy’s coming tomorrow to stay.”
“If you’re sure …”
“Absolutely.”
The day before, the owner of the Sea View bed-and-breakfast—a view of the sea was only possible if one walked one hundred yards down the road—was becoming nervous about one of her guests.
This Mrs. Elder was a good customer and paid cash, but she had begun to talk to herself—not out loud, but her lips were constantly moving and her eyes glaring. The owner, Mrs. Blythe, was a widow and wished she had a man around to advise her. The holiday season was over and she had to rely on weekend visitors.
Emma, who had adopted the name of Mrs. Elder, had been in the television room. She passed Mrs. Blythe in the hall, her eyes glazed and her lips moving. Mrs. Blythe made up her mind. “Mrs. Elder!” she said sharply.
Emma started and focused on her.
“Em sorry this is such short notice, but Ell be needing your room.”
Emma stared at her for a long time. Mrs. Blythe expected her to protest, but Emma decided this was The Sign she had been waiting for. Time to go south.
“Thank you,” she said mildly. “I shall leave after breakfast.”
Mrs. Blythe watched her visitor mount the stairs. Why, Mrs. Elder had sounded quite normal.
Agatha was glad when morning dawned. She had drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep. The trouble with old thatched cottages was that beams creep and things rustle in the thatch. The first winds of autumn had risen during the night and the lilac tree in the front garden scraped its branches against the window.
She went down to the general stores as soon as they opened to buy treats for her cats. There were several other people in the shop and the atmosphere was frosty. Agatha was still being blamed by the villagers for having brought in violence from that outside world of murder and mayhem.
But Agatha was too worried and edgy to notice the atmosphere. She bought pate and cream and frozen fish for the cats, went home and fed them, and drove to her office in Mircester. The wind was sending leaves skittering across the road in front of her car. Autumn was the only time when Agatha missed London. One didn’t notice the seasons much in the city. But in autumn in the country, you could practically feel everything dying and became aware of your own mortality.
In the office, Patrick seemed to have everything in hand. Agatha decided to visit Harrison Peterson’s former wife, Joyce, again. Her new partner was obviously capable of violence.
Thoughts of Emma still at large floated uneasily through Agatha’s mind. But she wouldn’t dare try again. Would she?
The autumn mist of earlier.that morning had lifted and a small white sun shone down over the brown ploughed fields.
Agatha drove steadily along the Fosseway, her eyes flicking occasionally to the speed dial because the police with speed cameras had started using unmarked vehicles.
She turned off on the road down into Shipston-on-Stour and drove into the car-park opposite Joyce Peterson’s house. Agatha found the last parking place available with a feeling of triumph because a car which came in after her had to circle round and round, waiting for someone to leave.
She did not know that PC Betty Howse was in that car, having been ordered to tail Agatha.
Agatha walked across the road and rang the bell. There was a long silence. She rang the bell again.
At last, Joyce Peterson opened the door. She had been crying. Her beautiful face was blotched with tears.
“I wondered how you were doing,” Agatha began.
Joyce looked nervously over her shoulder. “Now is not a good time to call,” she said. “I’m busy.”
She was suddenly jerked aside and Mark loomed in the doorway. “You!” he said in accents of loathing. He towered over Agatha, who backed out onto the pavement. Mark followed her.
Agatha was wearing a loose silk blouse under her open coat. He seized her blouse by the neck and twisted it and then banged her up against the wall of the cottage.
“You leave us alone, you old bitch,” he raged. He gave Agatha’s head a nasty thump against the wall.
A cool voice behind them said, “Let her go immediately.”
Betty Howse was in plainclothes.
“Get lost.” Mark banged Agatha’s head again.
“That’s it,” said Betty. She flashed her warrant card. “Mark Goddham, I am charging you with assault.” She recited the caution while Mark stood frozen.
Agatha had read in books of people’s eyes going red with fury and thought the description poetic licence, but Mark’s eyes did look red as they blazed with anger.
He released Agatha and stared down at Betty.
“And just how are you going to take me in?”
He reached out to grab Betty, who produced one of those expanding police batons from behind her back and whacked him over the legs. As he doubled up, she twisted him round and handcuffed him.
“You wait there,” she said to Agatha. She radioed for assistance.
“You are charging him with assault, aren’t you?” Betty said to Agatha.
“Definitely.”
The change in Mark was almost ludicrous. The fury had all gone out of him and he stood there with his head hanging.
“Look, we can sort this out,” he pleaded. “It was all a mistake.”
“I’ll just see if Joyce is all right.” Agatha walked into the house.
Joyce was sitting on a sofa, rocking backwards and forwards, her face now twisted with pain.
“I think he broke my ribs,” she whispered.
Agatha left her and went out again. “Joyce Peterson needs an ambulance.”
Betty spoke into her radio. “Is she bad?” she asked Agatha.
“She thinks her ribs are broken.”
“Keep her company until the ambulance arrives,” said Betty, “and I’ll watch this bastard here.”
Agatha went back inside. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.
Joyce shook her head. “I’m charging him with assault, so you may as well do the same thing,” said Agatha.
There came the sounds of a scuffle outside, then they heard Mark crying out in pain, and Betty’s voice calmly charging him with assaulting a police officer.
“There you are,” said Agatha. “Two charges of assault. You’d better make it a third.”
“Will he go to prison?”
“Of course.”
She gave a broken little sob. “Then I will charge him as well. May I have some brandy, please? There’s a bottle over there with the other drinks.”
Agatha reflected that hot sweet tea would be a better idea, but decided that she could do with a brandy herself. She poured two stiff measures and carried them over.
Joyce took a gulp and shuddered. “You never can tell with men,” she said. “I thought he was God’s gift to women when I met him. He was so charming, so attentive. It was just after he moved in with me that the beatings
