spirits.
'What's up with you?' asked Charles. 'You've gone all moody.'
'It's these divorce cases. I hate them. The two that Toni wrapped up weren't too bad.'
'Why?'
'No children involved. But there are in the two new ones.'
'Not developing a conscience at this late time in life, Aggie?'
'I am not late in life, but yes, it does seem dirty.'
'You can't avoid divorce cases if you're going to run a detective agency.'
'It's not only that,' said Agatha, 'it's this weekend. I've been lost in dreams of a Poirot-type set-up and I feel now it's just the paranoia of one batty old woman.'
'We'll suffer today,' said Charles, 'and if we decide she really is bonkers, we'll clear off. But from what you've told me, she certainly seems to have thought up a will to make herself a prime target.'
'You've got the map,' said Agatha, who was driving. 'Remember to direct me to the entrance from Upper Tapor. I don't want to have to endure that long walk across the fields again. Besides, it looks like rain.'
'Occasionally it's looked like rain in the past few days,' said Charles, 'but the clouds then disappear and the sun blazes down again. Cheer up. You'll feel better once we're there and suss things out. Then if the old girl is still alive by this evening, we could push off.'
'I have to stay. She's paying me handsomely by the day and now that I'm paying Toni full detective wages, I need the money.'
'Your generosity surprises me sometimes, Aggie.'
'Well, as someone who always forgets to find his wallet when we're out for dinner, you should not be surprised at all.'
'Miaow!'
Just outside Upper Tapor, they saw a sign, THE MANOR HOUSE. Agatha drove along a well-kept drive and soon they found themselves at the house.
Phyllis Tamworthy greeted them. 'I thought you were bringing your son,' she said to Agatha.
'Roy Silver is not my son,' said Agatha crossly. 'This is a colleague of mine, Sir Charles Fraith'
'A 'sir?'' Phyllis grinned. 'My snobby daughters are going to love you. I'll show you to your rooms--or are you sleeping together?'
'No,' said Agatha, ignoring a whispered, mocking 'Maybe' from Charles.
Agatha found her bedroom a surprise. Obviously Phyllis had decided to forgo the appearance of a stately mansion on the upper floors. Everything looked as if it had come from Ikea. Also, it was decorated in shades of brown: dark brown carpet, lighter brown curtains, midbrown painted walls and a rust-coloured duvet on the bed.
There was a television set on a table by the window. Agatha reflected that it looked exactly like a bedroom in a three-star hotel.
Charles came in as she was unpacking. 'I'm not a romantic like you,' he said, 'but I must admit the bedrooms come as a surprise. Hardly the right sinister setting. This house depresses me. It must have once been a charming family home.'
Phyllis came in without knocking, drying her hands on her apron. 'They'll all be in the drawing room just after one o'clock. Jimmy closes the shop half day on Saturday. Stupid. It should be his busiest day, but there's no arguing with him. When you're ready, come down.'
When she had left, Agatha said, 'You unpacked quickly.'
'Didn't unpack at all,' said Charles laconically. 'Took one look at the bedroom and decided a quick getaway might be a good idea. Let's go down and face the music.'
On entering the drawing room, Agatha surveyed the assembled company and decided with a sinking heart that she had never seen a bunch of such ordinary people before.
As Phyllis introduced them, Agatha took mental notes so that she would remember who was who. Daughter Sadie, married to Sir Henry Field, was small and dumpy, and dressed in a bright blue silk trouser suit. Sir Henry was so bland and pompous that there was something not quite real about him, as if he had come from Central Casting. Divorced daughter Fran was as thin as her sister was fat, with tightly permed white hair, indeterminate features as if someone had taken a sponge and tried to erase her face, and wearing a baggy tweed skirt and Aertex blouse. I haven't seen an Aertex blouse in years, thought Agatha.
Son Bert was small and red-faced, bald and with pursed-up lips, as if perpetually discontented. He was wearing a suit which had obviously been tailored for him when he was a slimmer man.
His wife, Alison, was a domineering woman in tweeds. She had a heavy truculent face and slightly protruding brown eyes. Fran's daughter, Annabelle, made Charles's eyes light up. She was in her late thirties with thick auburn hair and creamy skin. She stood out in the pedestrianlooking crowd. Sadie's daughter, Lucy, on the other hand, looked as dreary as her mother, and her eight-year-old daughter, Jennifer, had 'spoilt brat' written all over her.
Agatha had phoned Phyllis the night before to ask her where she should say they had met and Phyllis told her to say they had met five years ago in Bournemouth when she, Phyllis, had been on holiday at the Imperial Hotel.
Jimmy, the favourite, was last to arrive. His shoulders were stooped. He had a long face and a beaten air, as if years of working at a job he hated had bowed him down.
Agatha wondered if Phyllis planned to cater for and serve the lot of them lunch. Sherry was served. Even to Agatha's uneducated palate, it tasted awful. Charles muttered he thought it was British sherry, and so it turned out. 'Do you remember the days when you could buy British sherry?' said Phyllis. 'It was so cheap that every time I had an empty bottle, I would go down to the off-licence and get it filled up. It was on draught. I've still got bottles of it in the cellar.'
'Oh, Mother,' wailed Fran, casting an anxious look at Charles. 'What will Sir Charles think of you?'
They were summoned to the large dining room. Two women, who looked as if they came from the village from their appearance, and who behaved as if they were part of the local protest group, served the first course of ham-and-pea soup, slopping the soup into plates, and scowling all around.
The long mahogany table shone and the china was of the finest, but placed strategically down the table were bottles of HP sauce and bottles of ketchup.
The second course was steak and kidney pie with chips and peas. The meat was tough and there was more kidney than steak and the pastry was like a wet book. Phyllis's choice of wine was served. Blue Nun.
'I'm out of here--fast,' whispered Charles, who was seated next to Agatha.
'Don't leave me,' pleaded Agatha.
Conversation was stilted. They talked among themselves about the weather and about people Agatha did not know.
Over the apple pie and custard--sour apples and lumpy custard--Phyllis, flushed with several glasses of Blue Nun, asked, 'When do I get my presents?'
'We all agreed we would give you your presents when the brandy and coffee are served.'
'If you mean the end of the meal, fine,' said Phyllis. 'But you know I don't like brandy. You're all going to have some of my elderberry wine. Agatha,' she shouted down the table, 'I pick my own elderberries and make my own wine. Nothing like it.'
'I'll bet,' muttered Charles gloomily.
As the coffee was served, one by one the family rose and went out, returning with their presents. Not one of them, it seemed, had thought it necessary to loosen the purse strings to buy the old woman a decent present. Several gave books which Agatha recognized as ones currently on sale in the sort of bookshops that specialized in remainders. Jimmy gave his mother a hot water bottle in the shape of a teddy bear. Fran gave her a necklace. Agatha had seen one just like it recently in the jewellery section of Marks & Spencer.
Sadie stared at Agatha and Charles. 'Haven't you brought Mother a present?'
'Hadn't time to drop into the thrift shop,' whispered Charles.
Agatha could feel laughter bubbling up inside her. She tried to suppress it but up it came and she laughed and laughed.
