through the morning’s mail, which she had not had time to open, when the phone rang. It was Roy Silver. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Sure. Why?”
There was a silence and Roy said, “I think I should come down for the weekend.”
“You’re welcome. Any particular reason?”
“We’re friends.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at Moreton Station, usual time, around six-thirty in the evening.”
“See you then.”
What’s up with him? Agatha wondered.
Ever since the advent of e-mail, one hardly ever got anything interesting in the post, apart from bills and junk mail. Agatha put the junk mail on one side to be thrown away and the bills on the other side. There was an interesting-looking square envelope of expensive paper. Agatha saved it for last and then slit it open and drew out a heavily embossed invitation.
At first she could hardly believe what she was reading. She rose stiffly from the kitchen table, went through to the living room and poured herself a gin and tonic. Returning to the kitchen table, she lit a cigarette, took a good strong pull of her drink and studied the invitation again. It said:
Agatha felt her heart thumping against her ribs. When had all this happened? He had written to her a month ago and said nothing about it.
She heard her front door opening and Charles calling, “Anybody home?”
“In the kitchen,” said Agatha, thrusting the invitation under the pile of junk mail.
Charles came in carrying the boxes of photographs. “You have a look. I can’t find anything. Yes, I got an invitation as well and from the lost look in your eyes, so did you.”
“Bastard!” said Agatha. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Why should he? All was over between the two of you. Stop being bitch in the manger and look forward to the evening. It’ll be interesting to see who won that confirmed bachelor’s heart.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” said Agatha stiffly.
“Oh, but I do. You don’t want him, but you don’t want anyone else to have him.”
“He should have told me!” howled Agatha.
“So you keep saying. Drop it. Life goes on.”
“I won’t go.”
“Of course you will.”
“He’s invited the whole bloody agency.”
“And you were thinking of not telling anybody?”
Agatha scowled. “Something like that.”
“You’ll just have to be a big girl and go. Wish him well. Be a lady.”
“Oh, all right. That must be why Roy is coming down this weekend. He must have had an invitation as well. Probably thinks my hand needs holding.”
“That’s what friends are for. Are you any further forward with finding out who put acid in the jam?”
“Not a clue. But I’m beginning to wonder a lot about George Selby.”
“You’ve spiked his guns. He’ll probably move to another village and start all over again. Now, I’d better be going. I just came back to give you the photographs.”
“Can’t you stay for a meal?”
“One of your frozen curries? No, thanks. Probably be around later in the week.”
The following day Agatha worked hard, because there was a backlog of unsolved cases. By the time she finished up, it was seven o’clock. She bought a copy of the Mircester newspaper before driving home. Once she had fussed over her cats and settled down at the kitchen table, she opened the newspaper and scanned the items. On page seven,
