floating gown of some sort of chiffon material, semitransparent, but enough to show she was wearing a formidable brassiere underneath and a pair of purple French knickers. 'Do try one of my cakes.'
'We're still interested in the Sunday murder,' said Patrick. 'You, having been closest to him, might have heard that someone was threatening him.'
Patrick had seen a woman's lips pout before, but Tilly's whole face seemed to pout, fat and wrinkles all creased forward.
'Nobody liked him much,' she said, plumping herself down on the sofa next to Patrick and releasing a cloud of scent.
'But you were heard to quarrel.'
'Oh, that was because I told him I had finished with him,' said Tilly. 'He was amusing for a time, but that's me--easy come, easy go.'
How did she do it? wondered Patrick. She'd need to be the last woman on earth for me to ever dream of fancying her. 'I thought it was the other way round,' he ventured.
'Then you were wrong. Most people in the village had it in for him. But the atmosphere of the village had changed before he came.'
'How? Why?'
'This isn't an Agatha Christie-type village with some lord or some retired colonel at the head of the hierarchy, with the rest of us peasants waiting for an invitation to some fete in the manor grounds. We're all pretty equal. Old George Briggs used to own the manor, but he kept himself to himself. Then Miriam came and wanted to play lady of the village. It upset the balance, see? So folks were already edgy when Sunday came on the scene. Although there was all that fuss about the special ramp for the disabled at the manor and that turned her against him, I think she encouraged his petty little vendettas. She clashed with Giles, the vicar, a lot. She said the church was too
Patrick wondered if all this was one hell of a red herring. 'What about that photograph of you and the mayor? You must know who took it.'
'It was Sunday. Too many complaints were coming in against him, and the mayor had been swearing to do something about it.'
'So you set him up!'
'Not me. I told Sunday I was going to have a little fling with him when the mayor's missus was away, that was all. You can't blame me.'
Her cloying scent and proximity were beginning to make him feel queasy. 'Someone must be living in this village who is a murderer,' he persevered. 'There was that attack on Mrs. Raisin's friend, Roy Silver. It could have killed him if it hadn't turned out he had a hard head.'
'I don't think that was attempted murder,' said Tilly. 'Probably someone just got fed up with this outside nosy parker. Can't we talk about something else?' She leaned against him.
Patrick got abruptly to his feet. 'Thank you for your time. I must be on my way.'
He moved rapidly for such a big man and before plump Tilly could struggle out of the depths of the sofa, she heard the front door slam behind him.
Patrick, Toni and Agatha met up on the village green. Only one of them had found out anything and that was that Tilly had told Sunday about her proposed fling with the mayor. Suddenly a clod of earth struck Agatha on the cheek. She swung round in a rage. She had not noticed any teenagers in the village before, but now there was a group of them, seizing stones and tussocks of earth and throwing them viciously, screaming, 'Get out! You ain't wanted here!'
They ran to their cars and met up again at the office. 'Do we report them to the police?' asked Toni.
'I don't think we should,' said Agatha. 'But as I ran to the car, I saw Giles, the vicar, looking out of the vicarage window. He made no move to run out and stop those boys. Well, let's get on with our other cases and forget Sunday for a bit. How are you getting on, Simon?'
Simon swung round in his chair. 'I've printed out all my notes. You told me to put in everything, no matter how small.'
'Great. I'll go over them later. No one is now paying us to find out who murdered Sunday, so we all need to begin to concentrate on our paying clients.'
_______
When Agatha returned to her cottage that evening, she found Charles waiting for her. 'I've got something to report,' he said.
'About Sunday?'
'Forget Sunday. I was driving through Moreton-in-Marsh and who should I see walking boldly along the street but Dan Palmer?'
'I wonder what he's doing there?'
'Let's just hope he isn't looking for revenge. I heard through my contacts that he'd lost his job. I thought I'd keep you company just to be sure. How's the Sunday business going anyway?'
Agatha gave him the latest news. She ended with 'I think this is one case that's never going to be solved.'
Dan Palmer craved a drink. But he promised himself one later in the day, just one. He had taken notes of Agatha's cases with him before he had left the newspaper office and found the unsolved case of John Sunday. It was then he had a great idea. If he could solve the case, then he would set himself up as a private detective in competition with Agatha Raisin. He knew if he stayed sober, he could beat her hands down because he was prepared to use some dirty tricks that she probably wouldn't even contemplate.
He decided the best time would be around ten o'clock in the evening. He had a high-powered listening device. All he had to do was wait until everything was quiet and listen in to various conversations in the cottages. An old police contact had told him that the police were sure the murderer was one of the villagers.
He checked into a motel on the outskirts of Mircester on the ring road. There was no minibar in the room. He drove to a roadside restaurant and ate an all-day breakfast and felt better, although there was still a great hole inside him needing to be filled with alcohol. Just one drink wouldn't hurt.
At a pub in Mircester, he confined himself to two large vodkas. With a great effort, he got off the bar stool and back to his car, where he switched on the overhead light and studied an ordnance survey map until he located the road to Odley Cruesis.
The village was dark and silent. The little cottages around the green seemed to be crouching there. He drove out of the village and parked his car under a large horse chestnut tree on the crest of a hill. The sky was overcast. Clutching his listening device, which had cost him a fortune but had been the source of many scoops, he cautiously made his way back to the churchyard on foot, crouched behind a large tombstone, switched on the device and pointed it at the vicarage.
A man's voice came over, loud and clear. He cursed and turned down the sound so that only he could hear it. Must be the vicar. 'I'm off to bed,' he said. 'Coming?'
'In a minute, dear,' came a woman's voice. 'Just finishing the dishes.'
And that was that.
Great, just great, he thought. Let's try somewhere else. He was wearing dark clothes with a dark wool hat pulled down over his eyes. The evening was warm and humid and he was beginning to sweat. He emerged cautiously from behind his tombstone and then let out a scream. A tall hatted figure was staring down at him.
By the time he had recovered enough to see it was a stone angel with a hat on top, the vicarage door had opened and a tremulous woman's voice demanded, 'Anyone there?'
He crouched down again, his heart thudding until she closed the door. He crept off. Down in the village, lights were shining from a tall building. He made his way there. A little road leading to the building had a sign saying Mill House Lane.
Crouching in bushes by the side of the pond, he switched on the powerful listening device. 'I wish that young man hadn't left,' said a woman's voice. 'He was so nice. I'm sorry he turned out to be a snoop. The rent made such
