of her brain. One of them belonged to her late husband. “You are a frump, Emma,” he was saying. “Haven’t you anything else to wear?”
She ignored the voices and walked doggedly on. She planned to stab Agatha with one of the tranquillizer syringes and then slowly cut her up. When she turned into Lilac Lane, she stopped short at the sight of the policeman, but he appeared to be asleep. She walked forwards and edged past him.
Emma was about to ring the bell, but she decided to try the door first. To her delight it opened. Agatha was at home.
She walked through to the kitchen.
A strange blonde young woman was sitting at the kitchen table.
Felicity looked at Emma and Emma looked at Felicity. Felicity had only seen grainy newspaper photographs of Agatha on the microfiche in the library. This woman with the hunting knife in her hand must be her prey.
Emma sprang towards her and Felicity shot her in the chest. After Emma had fallen, she coolly fired two bullets into Emma’s head.
PC Boyd awoke with a start. A voice on his radio was calling him. “Yes?” he asked.
“Be on the look-out. Emma Comfrey’s escaped.”
“When?”
“About an hour and a half ago.” “Roger.”
And then Boyd heard shots from inside the house. The door was standing open. He rushed in. He saw the woman who had given him the wine standing over a body on the floor. He flung himself on her as she fired and the shot went wild. He pinned her down and got the handcuffs on her.
Then he radioed for help.
As he went outside, his legs were shaking. He was in deep trouble. They would ask how both women had got past him and he would need to say he had been asleep. He pulled a photograph out of his pocket. The woman with the gun was Felicity Felliet and he hadn’t recognized her. But, wait a bit, she had that scarf over her head. I bet that wine was drugged, he thought. Please let it be drugged. Of course it was.
The police could not keep Agatha out of the papers after that. All those attempts on her life were headline news. Agatha’s first thought was to flee to some hotel and wait till the fuss died down, but then she thought publicity was just what the agency needed, and so she bragged about her prowess on television, on the radio and in the newspapers.
Reading the accounts, Roy and Charles found no mention of their names.
First Charles phoned up and sarcastically asked how it felt to have done it all on her own. Flustered, Agatha began to reply, but then he hung up on her.
Then came Roy at his most waspish. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in PR, you old hag,” he said. “Any publicity helps. You seem to want your friends just when you need them and otherwise you’re not prepared to help or go out of your way. You’re a disgrace!”
Agatha fumed for days. They were both being ridiculous. After all, the solution had been her idea. Anyway, she couldn’t spare any time to worry about them. The detective agency was so busy she was having to turn down clients.
Bill Wong called one evening. “Well, it’s all sewn up. Felicity was simply using Jeremy and told us all we need to know about him and his operations.”
“The thing that puzzles me,” said Agatha, “is why he should send a death threat to the daughter he was so fond of?”
“Felicity told us he was prepared to give Cassandra a scare. He said once her mother was shot, she’d soon get over it. I think Jeremy was obsessed with Felicity. When he wound up his import/export agency, he decided it would be better if Felicity took a job abroad so that there would be no connection between the two of them.”
“But the police checked out his business. They surely heard about the blonde secretary and wanted to contact her.”
“Felicity had been working under an assumed name and papers. She was working under the name of Susan Fremantle.The real Susan Fremantle died last year in a car crash and her home was burgled during the funeral. Jeremy probably bought the papers for Felicity from some villain or other. I’m not quite clear why you managed to jump to the idea that Jeremy had got someone to stand in for him.”
“It was one little word—reunion. That’s what the French call their AA meetings. The fake Jeremy told the desk clerk that he was going to a reunion. A friend of mine had been talking about some handsome man who had sobered up and from the description it sounded like Jeremy. But it wasn’t. I knew Jeremy wasn’t an alcoholic, I mean at his age it would have shown on his face and figure.”
“You’ve had all the luck of the amateur,” said Bill.
“I,” said Agatha Raisin stiffly, “am a professional now.”
It was only when the dark days of November began to draw to a close that she began to badly miss Charles and Roy. Business had suddenly gone quiet, as if everyone had decided to save for Christmas, and all the lucrative would-be divorcees planned to leave finding out about their adulterous spouses until after the festive season.
Miss Simms had handed in her notice, saying she was better off at home with her baby daughter because she didn’t like leaving her with a baby-sitter the whole time.
Patrick Mullen had suggested Agatha hire a woman detective, Sally Fleming, who had already worked for two other agencies. Sally was small, neat and dark and highly efficient. Instead of the succession of temps, Agatha had also hired a Mrs. Edie Frint as secretary, a widow with impeccable qualifications.
For the first time since she had set up the agency, Agatha had time on her hands and began to mourn her lost friends.
At least there were still Mrs. Bloxby and Bill Wong.
Agatha went along to the vicarage one gusty black November day. She had not told Mrs. Bloxby about the disaffection of Charles and Roy, but now she sought her advice.
“I don’t know what to do,” wailed Agatha in the comfortable vicarage sitting-room. The log fire crackled and the wind howled around the gravestones in the churchyard. “I thought either of them would have phoned by now.”
“Have you tried phoning them?”
“It’s no use phoning Charles because that wretched manservant of his is going to say he’s not at home even when he is. I tried phoning Roy once, and I could hear his voice in the background, but then his secretary said he was in a meeting.”
“Oh dear. Let me think. Are you giving your staff a Christmas party?”
“I thought of a little do in the office, champagne and twiddly bits to eat.”
“What about a Christmas dinner at your home? I don’t think you’ve used that dining-room of yours at all. And if you held it, say, two weeks before Christmas, there’s a chance both of them might be free of social engagements.”
“But why would they come?”
“There’s something about the idea of a Christmas dinner that mellows everyone. And I will help you with the cooking.”
“That’s kind of you. But I’ll do it all myself”
“Mrs. Raisin, can you roast a turkey?”
“Any idiot can roast a turkey.”
“Not really. We’ll talk about it some more. And don’t forget to ask Miss Simms.”
“All right. But she’s not working for me any more.” “But Patrick Mullen is.” “What’s that to do with it?”
“Patrick Mullen is Miss Simms’s new gentleman friend.”
“The sly old dog. Let me see. There’ll be Sammy and Douglas, Patrick and Miss Simms, Sally and Edie, Charles and Roy, you and your husband …”
“Aren’t Sammy and Douglas married?”
“No, neither.”
“Ell help you. But it’s a terribly busy time of year for Alf and he won’t be able to come.” Mrs. Bloxby meant her husband would refuse to come.
“Well, that’ll be eight, ten including you and me, if you can make it. But this time I am going to do all the cooking.”
