The next day in the office, she jumped whenever the phone rang, waiting for Freddy to call. By late afternoon, she had almost given up hope and was tired of making excuses not to leave the office when he did call. “What about dinner tonight?” he said.
“At what time?”
“I’ll pick you up at your cottage at eight.”
Without making any more excuses, Agatha left the office and went straight to the nearest hairdresser’s. Then, with her hair newly done, she hurried off home to begin elaborate preparations for the evening ahead.
Freddy arrived promptly at eight o’clock and took her to a new restaurant in Moreton-in-Marsh.
Had Agatha not been so elated to be in his company, she would certainly have complained about the meal. Freddy recommended the rolled, stuffed pork belly. When it was served, Agatha found herself staring down at what looked like one small brown turd surrounded by acres of empty plate. It was served with a tiny bowl of mixed salad. But there was handsome Freddy across the table, plying her with questions about the murders and exclaiming in a flattering way at what he described as her brilliant intuition.
And, oh, the way he looked into her eyes and the way his hand brushed hers as he reached across to fill her wine glass.
They were sitting at a table in the bay of a window. It had started to rain again, but for once Agatha was oblivious to the miseries of the dreary weather.
“Do you know,” breathed Freddy, “I fancy you something rotten, old girl.”
He should have left the “old” out. Agatha turned away and stared out of the window just in time to see Charles in his car stopping at the pedestrian crossing lights outside the restaurant. He gave her a startled look. The lights changed to green, a car behind him honked and Charles moved on.
Agatha realized Freddy was waiting for some sort of reply, but found she couldn’t think of anything that might be suitable come on.
So instead she asked, “How was South Africa?”
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Met friends. That sort of thing.”
The door of the restaurant opened and Charles breezed in. “Mind if I join you?”
“You weren’t invited,” snapped Agatha.
“And how are you, Freddy?” asked Charles, ignoring the fact that Agatha was glaring at him.
“Fine,” mumbled Freddy.
“Bring the wife and kids back with you?”
“They’re still there.”
Agatha could hardly believe what Charles was saying.
“When are they joining you?” pursued Charles.
“Next week.”
“Jolly good. Well, I better not interrupt your meal. I’ll phone you tomorrow, Agatha.”
“Wait!” Agatha got to her feet. “I’m coming with you. Give me a lift home. I want to get away from this bastard as quickly as possible.”
“I thought you knew I was married,” said Freddy.
“How was I to know that when you didn’t tell me, and you told that copper right in my kitchen that you weren’t married.”
“You’re a rat, Freddy,” said Charles. “Come along, Agatha.”
“You should have told me,” said Agatha for the umpteenth time when they were both back in Agatha’s cottage.
“And you should have told me he had been dating you. How many times do I have to say it?” protested Charles.
“Well, it’s all very depressing. I was feeling low as it was. I mean, all that publicity was rather exhilarating, but it suddenly just died away. Midlands TV wanted me for another interview and they cancelled.”
“It may have been something to do with Detective Inspector Wilkes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He gave a rather unflattering interview about you in the Guardian”
“When?”
“I forget exactly when, but as it happens I’ve got a copy of the paper in my car. Gustav got it for me.”
“If it was unflattering, then he would. Fetch it for me.”
Charles went out and came back with a crumpled copy of the Guardian.
Agatha riffled through it until she came to the features page. There was a big headline: THE INSPECTOR AND THE LUCKY AMATEUR. She began to read.
Wilkes had been very amusing about Agatha’s detective abilities. “I think Mrs. Raisin stumbled on where the murderers were because they were amateurs and she is an amateur,” he had said. “She bumbles around my cases like some sort of bumble bee, occasionally, by sheer luck, crashing into the truth. We are grateful to her, of course, but Interpol were on it and they would have been caught eventually.” There was a lot more of the same.
“This is character assassination,” said Agatha. “I’ll sue him.”
“I wouldn’t do that. Not if you intend to keep running a detective agency. You sue him and you’ll soon have the police working against you at every turn.”
“You should have told me,” protested Agatha. “I could have countered this by reminding everyone it was I who found Jessica’s body, not to mention tracking that pair to Spain.”
“The paper was old by the time Gustav gave it to me. Anyway,” said Charles, “you never mentioned me once in any of your interviews.”
“Because you had beetled off chasing a bit of skirt.”
“That’s it,” said Charles. “I’m off. Phone me when you’re in a better temper.”
Agatha arrived at the office the next morning to find them all waiting for her. “What’s this?” she asked wearily. “A strike?”
“We just wanted to be sure that you want to continue with this agency,” said Patrick. “You didn’t bother doing any work yesterday and you took the whole weekend off.”
“Of course I am continuing,” said Agatha. “I’ve just been tired, that’s all. Mrs. Freedman, let’s go through the work for today.”
In order to show enthusiasm, Agatha took on one of the nastier cases, which was following a man whose wife thought he was being unfaithful and wanted grounds for a divorce.
He owned a delicatessen in Mircester. The shop was a popular one. Agatha found a parking place across the road. Phil was beside her with his camera.
Customers came and went. Then the shop was closed for an hour at lunchtime. Their quarry went to a local restaurant but ate on his own.
Back to watching the shop as the hours dragged on until closing time. His two assistants left and then he came out and locked up the shop. He stood outside, looking up and down the street.
“He’s waiting for someone,” said Agatha, crouching down. “Get ready with the camera. Thank God for the light evenings. Wouldn’t want him to be alerted with a flash.”
A youngish man came along the street and hailed the owner. They walked off together.
“Today was a waste of time,” said Phil.
“No, get out the car and follow them,” said Agatha. “I’ve got an idea.”
They hurried after them at a discreet distance. They stopped outside a club called the Green Parrot.
“Thought so,” said Agatha. “Bang off a couple of pictures and let’s get out of here.”
Phil did as he was told, getting two good shots before the two men walked into the club, their arms around each other’s shoulders.
“So why did I have to take photographs?” asked Phil. “Was that his illegitimate son, or what?”
“The Green Parrot is Mircester’s only gay club. Sometimes I hate this job. I feel grubby. I’ll drive you back to your car, Phil. You can go home now and print up those photos. I just want to look at the books.”
After she had left Phil, Agatha slumped down in Mrs. Freedman’s chair and stared at the blank computer screen.
