Agatha Raisin and The Walkers of Dembley

tail. He had a spot on his chin and his suit was of the type where the jacket appears to be hanging off the shoulders and the sleeves are turned back at the cuff. His silk tie was broad and a mixture of violent fluorescent colours which seemed to heighten the unhealthy pallor of his face.

'Off then?' he asked, looking poised for flight.

'Oh, sit down, Roy,' said Agatha. 'I've been here six months and we've hardly seen anything of each other.'

'Been busy, you know that, Aggie. So have you. How did you get on with the Jeff Loon account?'

'All right,' said Agatha uneasily. She was beginning to wonder why she had gone over the top like that. Not that she had actually taped the creep. She just happened to have had her tape recorder in her handbag and had taken it out while he was absorbed in bragging about himself and put it on her lap under her napkin to trick him.

Roy sat down. 'So you're off to Carsely. Look, Aggie, I think you've found your niche.'

'You mean PR? Forget it.'

'No, I meant Carsely. You're a much easier person to know when you're there.'

'What d'you mean?' demanded Agatha truculently. She held up a silver paper-knife she had been about to drop into a box on her desk along with her other belongings.

Roy cringed but said firmly, 'Well, Aggie, I must say you've been a success, back on your old form, rule by fear and all that. I'd got used to Village Aggie, all tea and crumpets and the doings of the neighbours. Funny, even murder in your parish didn't bring out the beast in you quite the way PR has done.'

'I don't indulge in personality clashes,' said Agatha, feeling a tide of red starting at her neck and moving up to her face.

'No?' Roy was feeling bolder now. She hadn't thrown anything at him. 'Well, what about your seccies, love? Darting along to Personnel in floods of tears and sobbing their little hearts out on Mr Burnham's thirty-four-inch chest. What about that rag-trade queen, Emma Roth?'

'What about her? I got a spread on her in the Telegraph.'

'But you told the old bat she had the manners of a pig and her fashions were shoddy'

'So she has, and so they are. And did she cancel her account with us? No.'

Roy squirmed. 'Don't like to see you like this. Get back to Carsely, there's a love, and leave all this nasty London behind. I'm only telling you for your own good.'

'Why is it,' said Agatha evenly, 'that people who say they are only telling you things for your own good come out with a piece of bitchery?'

'Well, we were friends once...' Roy darted for the door and made his escape.

Agatha stared at the door through which he had disappeared, her mouth a little open.

His last remark had dismayed her. The new Agatha surely made friends, not lost them. She had blamed London and London life for her loneliness, never stopping to think that by sinking back into her old ways, she had once more started alienating people.

There was a separate box on her desk, full of cosmetics and scent, products of her various clients. She had been going to take it home. She called out, 'Bunty, come in here a moment.'

Her secretary bounced in, fresh face, no make-up, ankle-length white cotton skirt and bare feet. 'Here,' said Agatha, pushing the box forward, 'you can have this stuff.'

'Gosh, thanks awfully,' said Bunty. 'Too kind. Got everything packed, Mrs Raisin?'

'Just a few more things.'

There was something lost and vulnerable in Agatha's bearlike eyes. She was still thinking of what Roy had said.

'Tell you what,' said Bunty, 'I've brought my little car up to town today. When you're ready, I'll give you a run to Paddington.'

'Thank you,' said Agatha humbly.

And so Agatha, unusually silent and not back-seat driving one bit, was taken to Paddington by Bunty.

'I live in the Cotswolds,' volunteered Bunty. 'Of course, I only get home at weekends. Lovely place. We're over in Bibury. You're near Moreton-in-Marsh. If I'm home during the week, I go with Ma to the market on Tuesday.'

And so she rattled on while Agatha kept thinking of how lonely her stay in London had been and how easy it would have been to make a friend of this secretary.

As Agatha got out of the car at Paddington, she said, 'You have my address, Bunty. If you ever feel like dropping over for a meal, or just coffee, please do.'

'Thanks,' said Bunty. 'See you.'

Agatha trudged on to the train, taking up the seat next to her with her boxes. When the train moved out, gaining speed, and London fell away behind her, Agatha took a long slow breath. She was leaving that other Agatha behind.

Carsely again. After a long dreary winter and a cold wet spring, the sun was blazing down, and Lilac Lane, where Agatha had her cottage, was living up to its name, heavy with blossoms of white, mauve and purple. She saw James Lacey's car parked outside his house and her heart lifted. She admitted to herself that she had missed him - along with everyone else in Carsely, she told herself sternly. Her cleaner, Doris Simpson, who had been caring for Agatha's two cats while she had been away, had been looking out for her, and came out on the step with a smile of welcome.

'Home again, Agatha,' she said. 'Coffee's ready, and I got a nice piece of steak in for your dinner.'

'Thank you, Doris,' said Agatha. She stood back a moment and looked affectionately at her cottage, squatting there like a friendly beast under its heavy roof of thatch. Then she went indoors to a chilly reception from her cats, who in their catlike way would not stoop to any raptures on the return of an owner who should have had more consideration than to go away.

Doris carried Agatha's boxes in and put them in the small hall and then went through to the kitchen and poured Agatha a cup of coffee.

'I forgot about the garden,' said Agatha. 'Must be a right mess.'

'Oh, no, the Ladies' Society took it in turns to do a bit of weeding, and that Mr Lacey did quite a bit. Why, what's the matter, Agatha?'

For Agatha had begun to cry.

Agatha took out a serviceable handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. 'I'm glad to be home,' she mumbled.

'It's London,' said Doris, nodding her head wisely. 'London never did folks any good at all. Me and Bert go up now and then to the shops. It's all crowds and push. Glad to get back to where it's quiet.'

The cleaner tactfully turned away until Agatha had composed herself.

'So what's been going on in the village?' asked Agatha.

'Not much, I'm glad to say. Reckon as how us is in for a nice quiet time. Oh, there's a new thing. We've got a ramblers' group.'

'Who's running that?'

'Mr Lacey'

Agatha was suddenly conscious of the expense-account rolls of fat around her middle. 'I'd like to join. How do I go about it?'

'Don't think anyone joins, 'zactly. Us meets up outside Harvey's after lunch on Sunday, about half-past one. Mr Lacey takes us on one of the countryside walks and tells us about the plants and things and a bit o' the history. Lived here all my life and the things I don't know!'

'No trouble with the landowners?'

'Not around here. Lord Pendlebury's people keep the walks nice and neat, and signposted, too. We did have a bit of trouble over at Mr Jackson's.' Mr Jackson owned a chain of computer shops and had bought a large piece of land. 'We was following the marked path and came up against a padlocked gate right across it and there was Harry Cater, Jackson's agent, with a shotgun, telling us to get off the land.'

'He can't do that!'

'No, but Mr Lacey said with so many nice places around, it wasn't worth the trouble making a fuss. Miss Simms, she told Cater what to do with his shotgun and where to put it, and with the vicar and his wife listening and