James got up as well. 'Look here, Agatha. I only--'
'Shut up!' screamed Agatha. 'Just shut up!'
As she raced out of the door, she saw Mrs Darry standing at the bar, her face avid with curiosity.
James slowly finished his drink, aware all the time of curious eyes turned in his direction, of the fact that Mrs Darry was eagerly grabbing hold of every newcomer and whispering fiercely.
He rose and went out and walked slowly home. He could not admit to himself he had been at fault, or that his remarks had been prompted by jealousy. He was overwhelmed instead by a burning desire to find out something about this murder. Then perhaps, just perhaps, he would tell Agatha what he had found out. Her scene in the pub had been unforgivable.
Four
The following Monday, Agatha packed her bags and headed for London. She had a heavy week's work ahead of her talking to journalists. James's words still burnt and hurt.
The Charles he had referred to was Sir Charles Fraith, a baronet in his forties with whom Agatha had enjoyed a fling in Cyprus. Although she had only gone to bed with Charles out of pique over James's own unfaithfulness, she knew he had no more forgiven her for that brief affair than for trying to marry him when she was already married.
Charles had phoned Agatha several times since their return from abroad, but she had always told him she was too busy to see him and so he had stopped calling.
She was glad she was leaving. There was a police force to cope with murder investigations. She would concentrate on her work and forget James and forget murder and forget Carsely for a little.
She passed a busy week in London, cajoling journalists into promising to come to the fete. Instead of bringing the new brochures over to Carsely as he had promised, Guy had sent them to her hotel in London.
At the end of her week's work, Agatha finally accepted an invitation to lunch from Roy Silver.
Roy took her to an old City restaurant where the public relations company they both worked for had an account. It was quiet and stately, mahogany and brass and solid old-fashioned City food. It was hardly Roy's scene. He would have preferred a trendy wine bar full of bright young things, but he had no intention of paying for the meal when he could charge it to the firm.
Roy was wearing an Armani suit which looked a size too large for his thin figure. His tie was a noisy psychedelic glare in the gloom of the conservative restaurant.
They both ordered roast beef, Agatha eating hers with every appearance of enjoyment and Roy poking at his and occasionally eating little nibbles.
They discussed various aspects of the fete, who was definitely going to attend, who was iffy. Then Roy leaned back in the chair and ran his fingers through his hair. He had a thin face, a weedy body and sharp clever eyes. After working for Agatha and taking up his present job, he had adopted a more sober style of dress--if you discounted the tie--and the hole in his left ear where he used to wear an ear-ring was the only mute sign of his discarded image.
'You haven't mentioned James Lacey or murder all week, Aggie,' he said.
'Been too busy,' said Agatha. 'I wonder if I should have a pudding?'
'It's your waistline, sweetie.'
Agatha signalled the waiter. 'I'll have the spotted dick.'
Roy giggled. 'What a name for a pudding! Sounds like a case of syphilis. So, like I said, how's murder?'
'I told you, I've been too busy.'
'Not like you. What's happened to that famous curiosity of yours?'
'I've decided to do my job and leave the police to do theirs.'
'So what happened with you and James in Cyprus?'
'He went off with a tart. He claims it was all part of his investigations into drugs.'
'And you don't think so? Come on, Aggie. Our James isn't the kind to go with tarts for any reason other than investigation. Too much of a puritan.'
'Well, I had a bit of a fling with someone and he got miffed.'
'Naughty old Aggie. You really ought to do something about this murder.'
'Why?'
'Be a good bit of publicity if you found out who did it. I mean, haven't you got one teensy-weensy suspect?'
'There's one I would like it to be.'
'Give.'
'Some old bat called Jane Cutler. She's a walking monument to the plastic surgeon and the beautician. In her sixties, but all face-lifted. She's poison. The things that go on in villages. She seems to specialize in marrying men on their last legs with cancer and then benefiting in their wills. She's a parish councillor. One of the others, Angela Buckley, fortyish, strapping, was keen on the late Percy Cutler, but the older Jane Cutler snatched him out of her grasp. Actually, Angela warned me off.'
'So you think it might have nothing to do with the water?'
'I don't know.'
'Anyone else warn you off? Any trouble?'
'Andy Stiggs, another councillor, one of the ones who are against the water company. He warned me off when there was that ruckus from Save Our Foxes.'
'Who the hell are they?'
'Some environment group who have transferred their attention from the plight of foxes to the sacrilege of taking water out of the spring. Usual lot. Nice people really interested in a batty way in protecting village life followed by the usual trouble-making skinheads. There was a bit of a dust-up. James nearly got hurt protecting me.'
'So is he doing anything about finding out about anything?'
'I don't think he's interested in anything other than insulting me.'
'Shows he's still interested, Aggie. Wouldn't insult you otherwise. Why don't you ask me down for the weekend? We could ferret around together.'
Agatha opened her mouth to refuse and then closed it again. She did not know if Guy meant to have an affair with her, or whether it was to be regarded as a one-night stand. Suddenly the idea of going back on her own made her feel vulnerable. Roy could be tiresome and malicious, but they had known each other since he had started work for her as an office boy.
'Yes, all right,' she said. 'I suppose it might be interesting to trot around and ask a few questions.'
'You'd better eat that stodgy pudding. It's getting cold.'
Agatha regretted her invitation when she met Roy at Paddington Station on Saturday morning. He was dressed in skin-tight jeans and a black leather jacket and talking into a mobile phone, looking around all the while to see if people noticed he was talking on a mobile phone, just as if millions of people hadn't got the damn things, which Agatha thought had been expressly designed to irritate the travelling public.
'If you use that on the train,' snarled Agatha when he had rung off, 'I'll throw it out of the window. And you're only in your twenties. I thought men only went in for jeans and black leather when they hit the male menopause.'
'And I thought middle-aged women only took to eating roast beef and fattening pudding when they thought they were past attracting
'Oh, stop bitching,' snapped Agatha.
She passed the journey to Moreton-in-Marsh by ignoring Roy and reading a novel set in the Cotswolds about middle-class, middle-aged infidelity, marvelling as she did so at her own attitude that the well-off middle classes
