“Name, please, sir?”
“Wilson. James Wilson.”
The clerk looked across the foyer and gave a little nod. Sweat began to run down Jimmy’s fat face. He was suddenly frightened to turn around.
“Got that room?” he asked in a quavering voice.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. A deep voice said, “James Wilson, we are arresting you for the murder of Arnold Birntweather and the theft of funds belonging to the church of—”
He broke off because Jimmy, who had slowly turned round, was scrabbling at his shirt collar. “Air. Need air,” he gabbled. Then one side of his face slipped and he fell to the ground, unconscious.
Jimmy died of a massive stroke on the road to hospital. In the following two weeks, Agatha coped with the guilt of Mrs. Freedman and all her fears that her business would slump. The murder of Arnold had been solved as far as the police were concerned, although they had been unable to track down Jimmy’s female accomplice. Comfrey Magna was almost forgotten as Agatha’s staff rushed to wrap up as many of their other outstanding cases as they could to prove their worth. They had even been working through the weekends.
Agatha at last called a halt. She announced they would all take the next weekend off. Toni received an excited phone call from Harry. He wanted to take her to a production of Prokofiev’s
In anticipation of Harry’s visit, she cleared all the women’s magazines she liked to read out of her flat. She felt sure he would not approve.
Harry then texted her and said he had good seats for the matinee on Saturday afternoon. Toni felt relieved. She had been wondering what to wear. A Saturday-afternoon performance didn’t seem to call for anything too grand. Besides, Harry had said he would have to leave for Cambridge after the show.
The weather was unusually chilly for summer, so she bought herself a smart dark-blue trouser suit at an up- market thrift shop. She wore a low top under it and three strings of fake pearls bought at the market. She tried out the outfit for her friend, Sharon.
“You look like a businesswoman,” commented Sharon. “You don’t look like someone going out on a hot date.”
“I don’t think opera is a hot date,” said Toni. “He’s trying to widen my experience.”
“What about sex?”
“Haven’t got round to that yet.”
“Why?” demanded Sharon. “My latest squeeze can’t keep his paws off me.”
Toni frowned. “Maybe they do things differently in Cambridge.”
Earlier that day, Harry had given his Cambridge girlfriend, Olivia, a hearty kiss before getting on his motorbike. Olivia was plump and pretty. Harry considered their current affair to be warm and uncomplicated. Before he drove off, Olivia said, “Remember
“I’m just helping the girl,” said Harry. “I’d make a good teacher.”
When he reached Mircester, he parked his bike near the theatre and stripped off his protective leathers and helmet. He was wearing jeans and an open-necked checked shirt. He pulled a suede jacket out of his satchel and put it on. As he strolled towards the theatre, he ran into a group of his old school friends, who were just coming out of the pub. “We’re going for a curry,” said a tall gangly youth called Bertie Bryt-Anderson. “Coming?”
“No, I’m going to the opera. I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Female friend?”
“Just a friend. Oh, that’s her. Just about to cross the road.”
Toni was waiting for the traffic light to change. Sunlight glinted on her fair hair.
“If that’s just a friend, what about an introduction?” said Bertie. “What a looker!”
“I’d better go,” said Harry.
Followed by cheers and wolf whistles, he hurried to meet Toni.
“What’s that about?” asked Toni, looking towards the group of young men.
“Idiots! Never mind them.”
Toni felt a flutter of anticipation as they took their seats in the stalls. This would be her first opera. The conductor arrived, the audience applauded and he raised his baton. After a few minutes, Toni whispered, “Is this it? Has it started?”
“It’s the overture,” hissed Harry.
Toni blushed miserably. The curtain rose on a large cage which dominated the stage. Toni tried to enjoy it, but it all seemed brutal and violent. The female worker the other workers tried to rape on the stage was actually stripped naked. She gave a sigh of relief when the interval arrived. “Do you know Stalin walked out when he first saw this opera?” said Harry eagerly as he ushered her to the bar.
“Really?” Toni miserably felt she might have done the same thing if she had been on her own.
Harry got himself a beer and Toni a glass of orange juice. He was just about to explain more about the opera to her when he found himself accosted by his former English teacher, Mark Sutherland.
“How’s Cambridge?” asked Mark, his eyes fastened on Toni.
Mark was a tall, rangy man in his forties with a prominent nose and bright blue eyes.
“Going all right. Oh, Toni, this is my former English teacher, Mr. Sutherland. Mr. Sutherland, Miss Toni Gilmour.”
