decided not to check it for messages until the following day, when she hoped Harry would be safely on his way somewhere for his holiday.
Early the following evening, Toni and Agatha set out to park in the same place where they had lurked to watch for Maggie leaving the village. “He drives a black BMW,” said Agatha. “It’s going to be difficult to spot a black car racing past.”
“I know,” said Toni, “I’ll go down to the road and hide behind one of those trees. When I spot him, I’ll run back.”
Agatha waited impatiently. She lit a cigarette, took a few puffs and then put it out. She had been momentarily cheered by a new item on television about a hundred-year-old woman who had smoked since the age of seven, but was then depressed when the old lady said she smoked only four cigarettes a day and didn’t inhale.
Just as it was beginning to get dark, Toni hurtled back to the car, crying out, “He’s just gone past.”
Agatha set off in pursuit.
After several miles, straining their eyes to try to keep him in view, George turned onto the Oxford Road.
“It’s so hard to see with all these cars,” complained Agatha as they approached Oxford.
“I see him,” said Toni. “He’s taken the roundabout. Must be going into Oxford by the Woodstock Road.”
“Unless he’s going in to London,” said Agatha.
But on the Woodstock Road, where the traffic slowed down to thirty miles an hour under the harsh glare of the sodium lights, they could clearly see George’s car. At last he turned off on Clarendon Street and went along Walton Street a little way and then parked. Agatha carefully parked several cars behind him.
He turned down Aurelius Street, went up to the door of a trim villa and rang the bell. A statuesque blonde promptly answered the door and fell into his arms. The couple engaged in a passionate clinch.
“I wonder who she is,” said Agatha. She and Toni had cautiously followed on foot. “We can hardly stand out in the street waiting to see what happens. We’ll go back and wait in the car.”
They waited and waited. At one point Toni went off to a fish-and-chip shop and came back with their supper. By the time the bells of Oxford were chiming out midnight, there was still no sign of George.
Agatha yawned and stretched. “I think we should check into a hotel for the night and then come back, say, about seven. This is only two-hour parking, so he’ll want to collect his car before the traffic wardens start checking in the morning.”
To Toni’s relief, Agatha booked them into two single rooms at a hotel up by the roundabout. She wanted to wash out her underwear for the morning and somehow did not want to endure the intimacy of stripping off in front of Agatha.
They set out again at six-thirty the following morning. To Agatha’s relief, George’s car was still there.
At quarter past seven, George appeared, hurrying towards his car. He jumped in and drove off. “Don’t we follow him?” asked Toni.
“No, we put some more money in the parking meter and then go to the end of the road and keep a watch on that house. I want to find out who she is and where she goes.”
It was another long wait. At last, just before nine, the blonde came out and got into her car, a small Ford Escort, and drove off. Agatha groaned as, followed by Toni, she rushed back to her own car and set off in pursuit.
“Thank goodness her car is red,” said Agatha. “I wonder where she’s going. She’s heading towards Woodstock. Oh, look, now she’s turning off. I know, there’s an expensive health farm along this road. It’s called Bartley’s. I’ve often thought of going there for a weekend. She doesn’t know us, so we can follow her right in, if that’s where she’s going.”
Sure enough, the blonde turned in at the gates of the health farm. “Right,” said Agatha, when they saw her enter the building. “We’ll give it a few moments and then go in and ask for a tour of the place.”
In answer to Agatha’s query, the receptionist said their public relations officer would be glad to take them around and show them the facilities. Agatha stifled a yawn as they moved from treatment room to treatment room and then studied health food menus. Then Agatha caught a glimpse of George’s blonde, now dressed in a white overall, going into one of the rooms. “Who is that?” she asked. “I think I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
“Oh, that’s Gilda Brenson, one of our masseuses.”
“No, I don’t know her. But is she good?”
“The best. But I fear we might soon be losing her. Gilda is getting married and her future husband is going to set her up in a clinic of her own. Now, if you will just follow me, I will show you our gym …”
At the end of the tour, Agatha said brightly, “It all looks splendid. I shall probably book in for a week before Christmas. But I wonder if I could ask a favour? I really could do with a massage. I would gladly pay you for Gilda’s services if she has a free appointment this morning.”
“Come to the reception desk with me and I’ll see what we can do.”
The receptionist said that Gilda would be free in half an hour, so Agatha and Toni settled down to wait.
Agatha saw a reflection of herself in a mirror opposite where they were sitting. Her skirt was creased and she had a ladder in one leg of her tights. Beside her reflection, Toni glowed with youth and health.
At last, Agatha was ushered into the massage room and told to remove her clothes and lie on the massage table. She winced as she climbed on.
“Trouble with your hip?” asked Gilda.
“No,” said Agatha defiantly. “Nothing up with me at all.” She did not want to admit to having arthritis even to herself.
Gilda was indeed good at her job. Agatha nearly fell asleep but remembered in time why she was there.
“I hear you will shortly be leaving,” said Agatha.
“Yes. I am going to be married and then my fiance says he will set me up in a clinic of my own. There is a good location near the centre of Oxford.”
