early this morning.”
“I am here with the vicar, Mr. Arthur Chance, and Mrs. Chance. This must be a sad blow, Mr. Chance.”
“It’s a disaster,” said Arthur Chance. Trixie stood beside him dressed in a long black gown with a low neck.
“I bet those breasts aren’t real,” muttered Agatha.
“I don’t know what to do,” Arthur went on, his voice trembling. “The church roof is leaking and there is no longer any money for the repairs.” He burst into tears. Trixie pressed his head into her bosom and stared nobly into the camera.
“Mrs. Chance?” pursued the reporter.
“I must take my poor husband indoors,” said Trixie. “It is not only the church roof that the money was needed for but for the families of the two ladies who were killed during the fete.” She tossed back her blonde hair but still managed to clutch her sobbing husband to her chest.
Her eyes filled with tears and she said with a little break in her voice, “Please help us.”
Then she escorted her husband into the vicarage.
“And now to the Middle East,” said the presenter.
“Switch it off,” said Agatha. “What a performance!”
“It was pretty moving,” said Charles.
“Oh, the vicar was genuine. But did you see how Trixie said ‘Help us’? Not ‘Help us find who did this terrible murder.’ She’s hoping for donations, and she’ll get them.”
Charles finished his drink. “You’re too cynical. We’ll pop over to Comfrey Magna in the morning.” He stood up and stretched and yawned. “I’m off to bed.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Coming with me?”
“My days of casual sex are over,” said Agatha.
“Didn’t know they’d ever started. Good night.”
After he had gone, Agatha sat looking into the flames, her cats beside her on the sofa. She felt strangely empty and purposeless. For so long, her obsession for James, her ex-husband, had fuelled all her actions. She missed the roller coaster of emotions. She even missed the pain.
“At least I felt alive,” she whispered to her uncaring cats.
The morning was cold, damp and misty as Agatha drove herself and Charles to Comfrey Magna. At one point she said to Charles, “I forgot to find out about Jimmy Wilson.”
“What about him?” asked Charles.
“There’s something unsavoury about him. I asked Patrick to find out why he took early retirement from the police force. He made a pass at Toni.”
“Most men would. She gets prettier by the minute.”
Agatha felt a stab of jealousy. She had promised Toni to hold a dinner party to further the girl’s hopes with Harry Beam. Now she meanly decided not to do anything about it.
Agatha parked at the entrance to the village, just before the vicarage. A great lake of water lay across the road, fed by angry little streams rushing down from the hills.
“We’ll need to paddle,” said Charles. “I wouldn’t risk driving through that if I were you.”
“I’ll see if I can see the ground underneath the water.” Agatha got out of the car. She stared down at the water gloomily and then returned to Charles.
“We’ll need to paddle.”
“Right.” Charles got out of the car, took off his socks and shoes and then his trousers. Agatha took off her shoes and hitched up her skirt.
Charles, holding his trousers, socks and shoes above his head, walked into the water. “Not too bad,” he said. “It’s only just up past my knees.”
“There’s the postal van outside the vicarage,” said Agatha, fighting to keep her balance in the swirling water. “I’ve always come this way. The road in from the other end must be clear.”
“He’s unloading sacks of mail. The vicar’s distress must have caused a lot of people to send money. Dry ground at last,” said Charles. “We’ll nip into the church and I’ll put my trousers on. Don’t want to shock the vicar’s wife.”
“You’re kidding. Nothing could shock that one.”
The church was cold and damp. Buckets full of rainwater lay on the floor and balanced on the altar and the pews.
Agatha shivered as she pulled on her shoes. “This is misery,” she moaned.
“Never mind,” said Charles. “Think of those poor bastards in Cheltenham and Tewksbury. No drinking water and up to their armpits in sewage.”
“I can never feel grateful because of other people’s misery,” said Agatha piously. “Let’s go. Hope the police aren’t there or it’ll be a wasted journey.”
They were just about to emerge from the church when Agatha saw Wilkes and Collins leaving the vicarage. She retreated, colliding into Charles. “The police are just leaving,” she hissed. “Wait a minute. I wonder where their car is. I didn’t see a police car.” She peered round the church porch. A police car and driver drove in from the other end of the village. Wilkes and Collins got in and the car drove off.
“All clear,” said Agatha. “Let’s go.”
It was George Selby who opened the door to them.
