So Agatha was relieved on returning home to find a message on her phone from Roy Silver, her former employee, asking if he could come down for the weekend.
Agatha phoned him and said she would be delighted to see him with more warmth in her voice than Roy had heard before.
“You might have asked me to that murderous gig,” said Roy petulantly.
“Honestly, Roy, with all the flurry of last-minute arrangements, I forgot. I’m sorry.”
There was a little silence while Roy digested the fact that Agatha Raisin was actually apologizing to him.
“I’ll be at Moreton-in-Marsh on Friday evening. Train gets in at six-twenty.”
“I’ll be there,” promised Agatha.
Agatha felt guilty at leaving what she thought of as the Jam Case alone, but was looking forward to a lazy weekend with Roy.
When he descended from the train on Friday, she saw he was all dressed in black: black leather jacket, black shirt, black trousers, and black high-heeled boots. He had even dyed his hair black. He pirouetted on the platform.
“Why the Man in Black effect?” asked Agatha.
“Because we’ll be going detecting, Aggie.”
“Don’t call me Aggie, and I want the weekend off.”
“You can’t just leave it! I’ll take you for dinner and you can tell me all about it.”
“You can take me to the Black Bear. It’s the only place left where I can smoke before this dreadful nonsmoking ban hits the country.”
Agatha felt her enthusiasm for the case returning as she carefully described what she had found out.
“Fascinating,” said Roy, ignoring the fact that some beefy-looking men at the bar were looking across at him and sniggering. “How’s Toni getting on?”
Agatha told him about the date-rape drug and finished by saying, “She’s back at work and appears none the worse.”
“So to get back to your case,” said Roy, “you said most of the LSD might have been in the jam supplied by Miss Tubby. So we start there. Let’s go and see her tomorrow.”
“You’d better wear something more conservative. She and her partner are a couple of bitches.”
“I think I look rather smart in a sinister way.”
Agatha looked at Roy’s rather weak face topped with its crop of gelled dyed-black hair. “Very nice for London,” said Agatha with rare tact. “But a bit too exotic for down here.”
Agatha felt a twinge of reluctance as they approached the village on the following day. The police unit was still in evidence, but apart from that, the village seemed to have sunk back into its usual rural torpor.
“We’ll call at the vicarage first,” said Agatha. “I’m employed by the vicar to solve this case.”
“Must we?” complained Roy. “I don’t like holy people.”
“You like Mrs. Bloxby.”
“That’s different. Everyone likes Mrs. Bloxby.”
The door was opened by Trixie. She was wearing a white-lace vintage morning dress. Agatha’s expert eye, honed by working in the past for various couture houses, estimated it was genuine and must have cost a mint.
“Lovely dress,” said Agatha. “Your husband at home?”
“Yes, go through to the garden.”
They followed her. Trixie’s blonde hair flowed down her back. She’s really rather sexy in a feral way, thought Agatha. Without that dress and hair, she wouldn’t get far in the attraction stakes with her mean features.
The vicar was seated at a garden table under the shade of a cedar tree with the accountant, Arnold Birntweather. Mr. Chance looked up and saw Agatha. The sun flashed on his thick glasses as Agatha and Roy approached, giving him a blind look.
“Welcome!” he cried. “We’re just going over the accounts.”
Agatha introduced Roy. “Sit down,” urged the vicar. “We are just deciding who gets what out of the money. We cannot take it all for the church when there are so many needy charities.”
Trixie appeared, carrying a tray with a jug of lemonade and glasses.
Agatha said, “I forgot to introduce Roy to you, Trixie. This is a friend of mine, Roy Silver.”
Trixie cast Roy an amused look. Agatha could only be glad that Roy had changed into a conservative shirt and trousers. She had already put Trixie down as a bitch.
Trixie set down the tray and then put an arm around Arnold’s bent shoulders. “Stop fussing over the accounts on such a lovely day,” she cooed.
Arnold smiled but said, “They’ve got to be done.”
“Oh, nonsense, have some lemonade.”
Arnold let out a cry as Trixie poured lemonade over the account papers.
“I’m so very sorry,” said Trixie. “Here. I’ll take them away and dry them.”
Agatha noticed a washing line at the end of the garden. “We could peg them up on the washing line,” she said. “They’d be dry in no time. Has the writing been washed away?”
