“Nice,” said Agatha but reflected gloomily that there was no smoking except in the coffee lounge. It was odd that people who did not drink could never somehow say, ‘Don’t drink in front of me,’ but smokers were always made to feel guilty. Three scientists had recently issued a report that you were more in danger of getting cancer from eating dairy products than you were from passive smoking because dairy products were a killer, but smoking brought out the puritanical beast in people.
By the time she reached the restaurant, she craved a cigarette, but did not dare say so.
She put her handbag on her lap, opened it and covertly switched on the tape recorder. Then she switched it off again. A noisy party of people were at the next table, making conversation between her and the hairdresser almost impossible.
To her relief, the noisy party finally left. Agatha switched on the tape recorder again and turned a dewy-eyed look on Mr. John. “It’s such a break from my troubles to have a quiet dinner like this with you.”
“What troubles, Agatha?” He reached across the table and took her hand.
“It’s James,” said Agatha. To her horror, her eyes filled with tears.
Mr. John’s thumb caressed the palm of her hand. “Tell me about it.”
“He’s coming home, and I’ve missed him so much. I’ve been having an affair with Charles.”
“The baronet?”
“Yes, him. Charles is violently jealous. I tried to finish with him. He says he won’t go away. I’m frightened James will get to hear about it. I’d do anything-anything-to stop him finding out.”
He asked more questions and the more Agatha began to build up a picture of a violent and jealous Charles, the more she began almost to believe it.
But by the time she had moved through with Mr. John to the lounge for coffee, she realized she had done all the talking. She drew out a packet of cigarettes.
“That’s a filthy habit, Agatha. Do you mind if I ask you not to smoke?”
“Yes, I mind very much,” snapped Agatha.
“You’re killing yourself.”
“And so is everyone like you who drives a car that belts carcinogens into the air.”
Agatha then hurriedly closed her handbag, which she had opened wide in her search for cigarettes. She hoped he had not seen the tape recorder. Anyway, he was surely not going to blackmail her tonight.
He began to talk easily about how successful his business in Evesham had proved to be and that he was thinking of opening up another salon. “It’s war, hairdressing,” he said with a laugh. “It’s like the theatre. You would never believe the rivalries and jealousies. And I’m thinking of starting up a beauty salon.”
Agatha fumbled in her handbag and switched off the tape recorder. She felt heavy and sad. And her feet were killing her.
At last she said, “It’s been nice. Do you mind if we go home?” She signalled to the waiter and asked for the bill. “My treat, remember?”
“You’re looking tired,” he said, his blue eyes full of concern.
He drove a silent Agatha home. He helped her out of the car and then said, “I would really like to see the inside of your cottage.”
Agatha was wearily thinking of polite excuses when a wrathful voice behind her made her jump.
“And just who the hell is this, Aggie!”
THREE
CHARLES stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his side. At first, Agatha was too taken aback to realize it was an act.
“I’ve been out for dinner with John,” she said. “Charles, may I introduce you? This is-”
“I don’t want to meet scum like this.” Charles seized her arm and jerked her towards him. Her clutch handbag went spinning and the contents spilled out over the road, exposed in the security lights which had come on in the front of Agatha’s cottage. Her little black tape recorder went flying across the cobbled surface of the road and landed at Mr. John’s feet.
He picked it up. Charles stood frozen, his hand on Agatha’s arm.
“Yours, I think.” Mr. John held out the tape recorder to Agatha, who numbly took it. His eyes glittered with malice and amusement.
Then he waved his hand and got into his car and roared off.
Agatha rounded on Charles. “What the hell were you playing at?” She stooped and began to gather up the contents of her bag.
“I was just playing my part,” said Charles mildly. “I went to the Red Lion and learned you were off with Mr. John. So I decided to hang about until you came home and play the jealous lover.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t. I didn’t know what you were up to. Why didn’t you phone me? I thought we were in this together.”
“Oh, come into the house. I’m fed up. He saw the tape recorder, so he’s wise to us.”
He followed her into the house and through to the kitchen. “Maybe not.”
“Why not?” demanded Agatha, angrily plugging in the kettle. “I saw the expression in his eyes when he handed me that tape recorder.”
“Well, he knows you were in publicity. Lots of people carry those little tape recorders around. I sometimes carry one myself to remind me of appointments and things to do.”
“A blackmailer is not going to think that,” jeered Agatha.
“We don’t know he’s a blackmailer. Make me a coffee while I think. Give me a cigarette.”
“You don’t smoke.”
“I only smoke other people’s. It’s a charitable gesture. It reduces their intake.”
“And stops you spending the money yourself. Cheapskate! Oh, help yourself. There’s a packet in my handbag.”
Agatha made two cups of instant coffee. She had given up making fresh coffee and was back to microwaving most of her meals. Old habits refused to die. She was weary of trying to be “a village person.”
“What can we possibly do now?” she asked, sitting down at the table.
“I’m thinking. Let’s assume he is a blackmailer. Why does one become a blackmailer?”
“Power?”
“But money must be a strong motive. Money and greed. Think about this one. If you were to give him an expensive present. Drop the James business. Glow at him. Let him think he’s the one.”
“What present?” asked Agatha suspiciously.
“Little something from Asprey’s. Does he smoke?”
“No, not even mine.”
“What about a tasteful pair of solid-gold cuff-links in a dinky little Asprey box?”
“What about spending a thousand pounds? Are you going to contribute?”
He looked shifty and his hand instinctively clasped protectively over the breast of his jacket. The foreigner presses his heart, thought Agatha cynically, but your true blue-blooded Englishman presses his wallet to make sure it’s safe.
“Why should I waste a lot of money on a provincial hairdresser?” Agatha demanded.
“Because,” said Charles patiently, “it would keep the game going, and the reason for keeping the game going is you’re bored.”
“And so are you,” said Agatha shrewdly.
“But not as bored and depressed and lovelorn as you, light of my life.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do. You’ll find he’ll melt like butter and only think the best of you.”
“If you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll show you out.” “I’m tired. Can’t I stay here?” “No. Out.”
