a cigarette, mindful of her husband’s complaint, “Keep that bloody woman and her cigarettes out of the house.”
“I hear a forensic team are back at your cottage. What happened?”
So Agatha told her, and when she had finished, Mrs. Bloxby said, “I would have thought Bill Wong might have noticed the burglar alarm wasn’t on.”
“No reason to,” sighed Agatha. “I never think about other people’s alarm systems, so why should he?”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. 1 can’t think. But I’ve a feeling that whoever is behind this won’t stop now. I keep going over and over it. Maybe I do know something that’s frightened whoever. If only I could think what. My neck’s rigid with tension and I feel like shit. Sorry. I know you don’t like bad language.”
“Because I’m a vicar’s wife? Nonsense. I hear much worse every day. Besides, have you noticed it’s a must in every American action film—two men, one black, one white, leap in front of an exploding building, shouting, ’Oh, sh-i-t!’ I think you should go for a massage. There’s marvellous man in Stow called Richard Rasdall. He could give you a relaxing massage. I’ll phone him if you like.”
“Might be a good idea. I’m not doing anything else and I’ve a pain in the neck, which is exactly what the police think I am. Oh, Lord, they’re probably phoning the hotel asking me to go to police headquarters and make a statement.”
“Go to Richard first and then you’ll feel more up to it.”
Mrs. Bloxby went into the vicarage to phone. Agatha suddenly wished she could stay in this pleasant garden among the late roses forever. The world outside was an ugly, threatening place.
The vicar’s wife returned and said, “He can take you in half an hour. If you leave now, you’ll make it easily provided you can find a parking place.”
“Where do I go?”
“If you get a place in the parking spot at the market cross,you walk up past Lloyd’s bank as if you’re going to the church. There’s sweetie shop called The Honey Pot. It’s in there.”
“In a sweetie shop!”
“He works upstairs. You’ll meet his wife, Lyn. Such a nice pretty woman. Lovely family.”
As Agatha drove to Stow-on-the Wold, she noticed the sun had gone in and the day was becoming as dark as her mood. At the back car-park by the market cross, cars were circling around like so many prowling metal animals searching for places. Agatha saw that a woman was about to reverse into a place and quickly drove straight into it.
She sat there with the windows up and switched on the radio for a few moments to drown out the yells of frustration from the woman driver. Then she got out, feeling suddenly stiff and old and beaten.
Agatha trudged up to The Honey Pot and went inside.
ELEVEN
AGATHA stood just inside the door and looked around. The little shop was bathed in a golden light. There were glass shelves of delicious-looking chocolates, other shelves with little bags of Cotswold fudge, boxes of biscuits, and toys. But there were also little “fairy” dresses for small girls: magical creations which looked as if they had been made out of gossamer. And the shoes! Tiny sparkling sequinned shoes, shoes such as Dorothy wore in
What would it be like, wondered Agatha, to be a little girl whose parents were so loving, so indulgent, so proud of their child’s looks that they would buy her one of those beautiful dresses?
“Are you Mrs. Raisin?”
Agatha focused on the woman standing behind the small counter. “I’m Lyn Rasdall,” she said. “You’ve come to see Richard, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Agatha. “This place looks like something out of Harry Potter.”
“Mrs. Raisin!”
A tall, handsome man with deep-set eyes had appeared at the back of the shop. “I’m Richard.”
“Hullo,” said Agatha. “Where do 1 go?”
“Up the stairs,” said Richard, “and get on board. First door on the left. Take all your clothes off except your knickers and cover yourself with the towel.”
Agatha went upstairs and found herself in a large bathroom with a massage table in the centre. Soft music was playing and scented candles were burning on a sideboard.
She took off her clothes down to her pair of plain white knickers. She climbed up onto the table and covered herself with a large bath sheet.
“On board?” called Richard from outside the door.
“Yes,” said Agatha.
The massage started with her feet. Agatha lay there and fretted while Richard told her about his work in Bosnia, treating unfortunate women who had been tortured and raped as part of his work for the Healing Hands Society.
“I’ve been so stressed out about a case I’ve been working on,” said Agatha. “I’m a private detective. Somehow it all started when I was in Paris during that heat wave.”
“So I hear. I had a Frenchwoman here after the summer. Recovering alcoholic. Said she could hardly get to her reunions or whatever they call AA meetings over there.”
Gradually Agatha began to relax. When she turned over and he began to work on her back, she could feel all her troubles melting away. Her brain felt calm and rested. Bits of the case floated in and out of her head. Paris. The visit and meeting Phyllis Hepper chattering on about some handsome drunkard who’d got sober. Reunion! Jeremy Laggat-Brown had said to the hotel reception that he was going to a reunion, not to see friends or anything like that, but to a reunion. Felicity Felliet. Jeremy had a la-di-da blonde secretary. Her mind suddenly seemed to take a great leap. Supposing, just supposing, that Jeremy had found some drunk or recovering alcoholic who looked enough like him to take his place. Perhaps even a hardened alcoholic would stay dry for the short time necessary for the impersonation if the money was enough. If not a drunk, then someone else who looked like him. And wait a bit. There was something else. Charles had spoken to Jeremy in French. Jeremy had said he didn’t understand him because Charles’s French was atrocious. But, thought Agatha, with another mental jolt, Charles’s French was surely excellent. The French police didn’t have the slightest trouble in understanding him.
“What’s up?” asked Richard. “You’ve gone all tense.”
Agatha turned over and sat up. “I’ve got to get out of here!”
“I haven’t finished.”
“No, got to go. Must go.”
Richard dived out of the room as a half-naked Agatha tumbled off the table and began scrabbling into her clothes.
When she ran down the stairs, he was standing with his wife in the shop. “How much?” asked Agatha.
“Fifteen pounds.”
The business woman in Agatha came to the fore. “Is that because you didn’t finish?”
“No, that’s my fee.”
“My dear man, it’s too little.” Agatha fished the exact money out of her wallet and fled out of the shop.
“What was up with her?” asked Lyn.
“Blessed if I know,” said Richard. “I think she’s a sandwich short of a picnic.”
Agatha drove to the hotel and checked out. The police had left several messages asking her to report to headquarters.
She then set off for Barfield House.
Gustav answered the door. “He’s ill,” he said, “and doesn’t want visitors.”
“Charles!” shouted Agatha at the top of her voice as the door began to close in her face.
“Who is it, Gustav?” came Charles’s voice.
Gustav cast a look of loathing at Agatha and said reluctantly, “Mrs. Raisin.”
“Show her in.”
