Agatha Raisin and The Walkers of Dembley

'They'll give up in a minute,' said Mrs Bloxby on a sigh, 'and demand someone runs them home, and somehow I fear that someone is going to be me. Did you enjoy your stay in London?'

'Aggie was a whiz,' put in Roy eagerly. 'Best PR ever.'

'And according to you, the most unpopular one ever,' said Agatha waspishly.

'Just my joke, sweetie. You always take things too seriously.'

'I have always wondered,' commented Mrs Bloxby, 'why it is when someone says something cruel or offensive, they immediately try to cover it up by saying, 'It was only a joke. Can't you take a joke?' There was a woman, a visitor to the vicarage, the other day, who said, 'Don't you just look like a typical vicar's wife!' I said crossly I did not think I looked like a typical anything and she said, 'Can't you take a joke?' But she said it so nastily, you know, obviously implying that I looked mild, correct, prim and faded. I could have struck her. Oh, here we go!'

Mrs Boggle's voice was raised in complaint. 'Me heart! Me heart! Take me home before I die.'

'I'd better go,' said Mrs Bloxby regretfully.

To Agatha's dismay, James swung around. 'No, you stay. I'll get my car. Go ahead. I'll come back and catch up with you.' He set off back down the hill with long athletic strides. They waited while Mrs Boggle panted and gasped and her husband muttered it was all their fault for keeping up such a cracking pace, no consideration for the elderly, and young people these days were downright selfish, ignoring the fact that Roy was the only member of the party, apart from the teenagers, who could be considered young.

After James had driven up and collected the Boggles, the rest of them walked on. A chill wind from the north rustled the young leaves of the trees over their heads. Everything was very fresh and green. They turned off on to the back road which ran along the edge of Lord Pendlebury's estate. Fields of oil-seed rape spread out on either side, virulent yellow, Provencal yellow.

'Not allergic to rape, are we, Mrs Raisin?' called out Mrs Mason.

'Chance would be a fine thing,' Roy giggled. 'At her age, our Aggie takes anything she can get.'

'Shut your face,' exclaimed Agatha wrathfully.

'Just my joke,' said Roy, avoiding Mrs Bloxby's clear gaze.

Oh, this is not what I expected, thought Agatha. I thought I could sink back into Carsely like lying back in a warm bath. I wish Roy hadn't come. He seems to have brought that part of myself I don't like with him from London. She cast a covert glance at him. His thin white face was pinched with cold. Why had he come? At first she had naively thought he had regretted his remarks, but now she was not so sure. Roy moved away to speak to Miss Simms.

'So are your PR days really over?' The vicar's wife was looking inquiringly at Agatha.

'Oh, I hope so.' Agatha, gazing out across the golden fields, felt quite weak and tearful again. Was this the menopause at last? Was she tired? 'The last account was the pits, pop singer called Jeff Loon. I had to sweet-talk some pill from the Daily Bugle.'

'Would that be Ross Andrews?'

'Why, yes!'

'We take the Daily Bugle. There was a big spread about Jeff Loon, highly complimentary, on the entertainments page. Was that your doing?'

'As a matter of fact, it was.'

Agatha stared at Roy. Suddenly she was sure she knew what had happened. She herself had not even bothered buying a copy of the Daily Bugle. But that spread would make a tremendous impact in the PR world. She knew for the first time how much Pedmans would want her back. Wilson must have sent Roy down, and so the nasty little creep had oiled his way on to the train, babbling, 'Don't worry. I'll get her back.'

The party started to climb over a stile on to a path which ran alongside a field. It was a muddy path. Agatha was wearing flat shoes, fine for walking in London, but not really suitable for the country. Roy was wearing loafers and thin socks. Miss Simms was wearing a pair of Doc Martens and Agatha reflected it was the first time she had seen Carsely's unmarried mother wearing anything other than spindly high heels. Roy squelched into a muddy puddle and let out a wail of dismay.

He turned back and joined Agatha. 'Let's jack this in.'

But Agatha, who had been turning round from time to time to see if James was coming back, saw his tall figure climbing over the stile, and said curtly, 'Don't whine. The exercise is good for you.' Then she, too, stepped in a puddle, but now that James was catching up with the group, she was determined not to notice it.

'This land,' said James, 'used to belong to the Church. Then it was part of the Hurford estate. Lord Hurford lost his money gambling in the twenties and Pendlebury bought it from him. He had a place in Yorkshire but didn't like the climate. That was the present Lord Pendlebury's father. Now that little blue flower just at your feet, Mrs Mason, is...' He looked around. 'Can anyone tell me?'

'Like being back in bloody school,' muttered Roy.

'Speedwell,' said Mrs Bloxby.

'Very good,' said James with such warmth and approval in his voice that Agatha decided to buy a book on wild flowers and plants and study it before the next ramble. She had expected a gentle tour around the fields and then back home, but the indefatigable walkers ploughed ahead through woods and fields until, with a feeling of relief, Agatha saw the spire of the church and knew they were circling back home and were nearly at Carsely.

James finally joined Agatha. 'So now you are back with us, can we expect any more murders?'

'Oh, I shouldn't think so,' said Agatha, although guiltily wishing that someone in the village would bump someone off so that she and James could go detecting again.

James looked thoughtfully down at Agatha. There was something rather sad and lost at the back of her eyes. He wanted the old truculent and confident Agatha back. 'Why don't I call for you in an hour,' he said suddenly, 'and we'll have a drink together at the Red Lion?'

'I would love that,' said Agatha.

'Bring your friend, of course.'

'He will be much too tired,' retorted Agatha. Roy had only come down because Wilson had told him to. He was not going to spoil her evening.

And so a sulky Roy was told to watch television until she came home.

Agatha searched feverishly through her wardrobe for something attractive that would not look too overdressed. Everything felt tight. She tried on dresses and skirts and blouses, settling for a comfortable old tweed skirt and sweater at the very last minute. Life was once more full of excitement and colour. She was home.

Bugger London!

Deborah Camden trudged up the long drive which led to Sir Charles Fraith's mansion. Jessica had ordered her to walk over the route and check it out, but Deborah did not want to find herself facing some angry landowner or keeper all on her own and had decided it would be less frightening to call at the house first and explain her presence. To people who love architectural gems, Barfield House might appear a disappointment. It was not even Victorian Gothic. It was a large building built in the fake medieval style, vaguely William Morris, with mullioned windows on which the sun sparkled and winked.

The door was massive and studded. Deborah looked timidly around to see if there was perhaps not a smaller and less intimidating door but could not see anything. There was an electric bell on the wall at the side. She rang it and waited.

The door was opened by a man in a black suit, white shirt and plain silk tie. He had grizzled hair, small black eyes and a long mouth. He studied her impassively, and yet Deborah was suddenly sharply aware of the cheapness of everything she was wearing.

'Yes?' he demanded.

'Sir Charles Fraith?'

'Who wants him?'

'I represent the Dembley Walkers.' A thin line of sweat was forming on Deborah's upper lip.

A voice called out, 'Who is it, Gustav?'

The man turned and said evenly, 'A person from the Dembley Walkers, sir.'

Gustav drew back and his place was taken by Sir Charles. He blinked at Deborah and said, 'You're a girl. I thought it might be one of those big beefy chaps with big beefy boots. Come in.'