by M C Beaton
She was flooded with such yearning that she let out a small moan. Depression settled down on her once more.
She sat there miserably until a glance at the clock showed her that she would need to hurry if she was to be ready on time.
Mr. John took her to a French restaurant in the village of Blockley, which was only a few miles from Carsely.
“I still can’t understand why an expert like you should settle for Evesham of all places,” said Agatha. “You are good enough to compete with the best in London.”
“What’s up with Evesham?” he teased. “Evesham is the cradle of democracy.”
“How come?”
“Well, Simon de Montfort.”
Agatha looked blank.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never hear of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester!”
“No,” said Agatha with all the irritation one feels on being made to feel ignorant of historical facts, or any facts, for that matter.
“You’ve heard of King John and the Magna Carta?”
“Yes, got that at school.”
“It was to curb the power of the king. It didn’t really work. Both John and his son, Henry the Third broke the charter whenever they could and only adhered to it when the barons threatened and complained. So they had to find a better way of making the king keep his word. In 1258, King Henry agreed to the Provisions of Oxford, which set up a permanent council to supervise his actions.
“Anyway, Henry paid as little attention to the Provisions of Oxford as John had paid to the Magna Carta. Simon, with the barons, decided to impose control. In 1264 there was a civil war. The king’s army was beaten at Lewes in Sussex. Henry was taken prisoner along with his son, Edward.
“Simon called an emergency parliament of not only barons, but bishops and abbots, two knights from each shire and burgesses from a number of towns. He hoped to make it a lasting establishment.”
He paused to eat a piece of sea bass.
“What happened then?” asked Agatha. The story was keeping her mind off thoughts of James Lacey.
“Simon’s support began to crumble. The Marcher lords from the borders of Wales rose against him and were joined by Gilbert de Clare, the young and powerful Earl of Gloucester. Simon led an army to the Severn, taking the king and Prince Edward with him as hostages, but the prince escaped at Hereford to lead the royalist uprising.
“Both forces converged on Evesham as Simon was preparing to enter the town. Simon’s troops were massacred. Simon was beheaded and the head sent to his widow. His arms and legs and, erm, private parts, were cut off. All that remained was the torso, which was buried at Evesham Abbey.”
“That’s interesting,” said Agatha. “Is his grave in the churchyard?”
“There’s a memorial stone, but that’s all. No one knows what happened to his remains. You see, people began to make pilgrimages to his grave to pay their respects to the ‘good Earl Simon.’ Rumour has it that the remains were dug up, burnt, and the ashes scattered to prevent worship of this dangerous democrat. The curator at the Almonry-the Evesham museum-he thinks Henry the Eighth was responsible, because a lot of the relics at Evesham Abbey were destroyed during the dissolution of the monasteries. Am I boring you?”
“No, I didn’t know all this. I’d better take a closer look at Evesham.”
“So tell me all about yourself and your love life.”
They had drunk one bottle of wine and he had ordered another. Agatha, now slightly tipsy, found herself telling him all about James and about her brief fling with Charles. But she did not tell him that James knew all about Charles.
“So where is James now?”
“I don’t know,” said Agatha sadly. “Abroad somewhere.”
“You’re an attractive woman.” He reached across the table and took her hand in his.
Agatha laughed and disengaged her hand. “You make women feel attractive.”
“Tell me more about yourself.”
Agatha talked on but mostly about her days in public relations. Somehow the fact that Bill Wong hadn’t phoned her hurt and so she did not brag about her detective abilities or mention his name.
And while she talked she began to wonder whether he would want to stay the night and whether she would let him. By the end of the meal she was languorously tipsy and was planning to invite him in when they got home.
As they left the restaurant, which was attached to the Crown Inn, Agatha saw Mrs. Friendly emerging from the adjoining bar. “Mrs. Friendly,” called Agatha.
Mrs. Friendly stood stock-still. Her eyes were wide with fright and her face paper-white as she looked at Mr. John. She made an inarticulate sound and turned and went hurriedly back into the bar, pushing her way through people until she was lost to view.
Outside, Agatha said, “You frightened her.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Friendly.”
“Who’s she? Sounds like Happy Families. Miss Bun, the Baker’s Daughter, Mrs. Friendly, the-”
“No, no. She was really frightened. The woman who was staring at you just as we left.”
“I saw no one I know. The restaurant behind us was crowded, Agatha. She probably saw someone behind us.”
Tipsy as she was, a little warning bell was beginning to sound in Agatha’s brain. She had talked a lot about herself, but she knew practically nothing about this hairdresser apart from the fact that he possessed a good knowledge of Evesham history.
“Should you be driving?” she asked. “We’ve had rather a lot to drink.”
“I’ve a hard head. Don’t worry.”
“If you’re sure. The fact that I know a lot of the police won’t help us if we’re caught.”
But he had marched ahead of her to the car and did not hear her.
When they reached her cottage and got out, Agatha turned to him and said firmly, “Thank you so much for a delightful evening.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
“Not tonight. I’ve had too much to drink. The next dinner’s on me.”
“I’ll keep you to that.” He bent to kiss her. Mrs. Friendly’s frightened face rose up in Agatha’s mind and she turned her face so that his kiss landed on her cheek. “Good night,” she said hurriedly and left him standing by the car, looking after her.
Agatha pottered about her house and garden the following day. It had rained during the night but the day was once more hot and stifling. The newspapers reported it was the hottest August in England since records had begun. There seemed to be a plague of mosquitoes and the Cotswold spiders were everywhere. Agatha did not like killing spiders and scooped the beasts up in kitchen paper and threw them out into the garden. One was descending from the kitchen ceiling in front of her eyes. She glared at it and it hurriedly retreated upwards, almost as if it were hauling itself up hand over hand.
She was wearing a washed-out cotton caftan she had bought years ago, with nothing underneath. On the kitchen floor, still in its box, was an electric fan she had bought in Evesham. She sighed. She tore open the box and lifted it out. It was in pieces. Did nothing come whole these days? She read the instructions carefully but could not unscrew one piece so as to attach the fan. She was just about to kick the infuriating thing across the floor when the doorbell rang.
Would she ever stop going to answer the door without hoping with all her heart that when she opened it James Lacey would be standing on the doorstep?
But it was Charles who stood there, looking cool and barbered.
“Come in,” said Agatha, her voice curt with disappointment. “What brings you?”
“Got bored.” He followed her into the kitchen.
“You can make yourself useful. I can’t put that fan together.”
“Make us a cup of coffee and I’ll do it.”
Charles worked away busily at the large pedestal fan. “Have you got one of those screwdrivers with the little cross at the head, Aggie?”
“In that box on the kitchen table. How do you want your coffee?”<
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“As ever. Milk, no sugar. If you loved me, Aggie, you would remember.”
“There’s your coffee, Charles. I’m going upstairs to put some clothes on.”
Agatha went upstairs, took a quick shower, towelled and dressed in shorts and a cotton top.
When she went back to the kitchen, the fan was spinning busily.
“How clever of you, Charles,” said Agatha. “What a relief! How did you get that big screw undone?”
“You unscrew it clockwise.”
“Now, how was anyone supposed to know that?” Agatha sat down at the kitchen table. “I may have stumbled across a mystery, Charles.”
“What bleeding body have you tripped over?”
“No body.” She told him about overhearing the pleading woman while she was in the toilet at the hairdresser’s. “Then I went out with this Mr. John for dinner and as we were leaving, we ran into Mrs. Friendly.”
“Who is she?”
“Newcomer to Carsely. Arrived last winter. Has one of those little cottages opposite the church. Mr. John said she must have been looking at someone in the restaurant behind us but I’ll swear it was him she was frightened of.”
“Is there a Mr. Friendly?”
“Yes, he’s a building contractor.”
“Do you think this hairdresser could have got his leg over, or maybe he’s indulging in a spot of blackmail?”
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “I thought of blackmail. The way women talk to their hairdressers! You should hear them.”
“Let’s go and see this Mrs. Friendly.”
Agatha shifted uneasily. “What? Now?”
“Why not? Don’t beat about the bush. Ask her why she was so frightened.”
“Shouldn’t I phone first?”
“Let’s surprise her.”
“All right,” said Agatha reluctantly. “I’ll put the cats out in the garden and lock up.”
Mrs. Friendly’s cottage was small and neat, two-storied, with no garden at the front.
They rang the bell. The door was opened by a very hairy man. He was wearing a tank top and shorts and grizzled hair sprouted all over his body. He had tufts of hair in his ears and hair sprouting out of his nose. His eyes were surprisingly weak and pale, peering at them from out of all this hairy virility. He must have been nearly sixty and Agatha thought he looked thoroughly unpleasant.
Agatha introduced herself and Charles and said they had called to see Mrs. Friendly.
“Why?” His voice was thin and high.
“Ladies’ Society.”
“Come in,” he said reluctantly.
The little cottage was dark and stifling. It had the original leaded windows, which looked so quaint and pretty from outside but allowed very little light to penetrate the inside. Mr. Friendly ushered them into a hot, dark living room and said, “I’ll get Liza.”
“I didn’t know he was retired,” whispered Agatha. “Looks as if he must be.” Fierce whispers were coming from the nether regions, then Mr. Friendly’s voice, sharp and angry: “Just get rid of them.”
“Oh, dear,” muttered Agatha.
Liza Friendly came in. She had a round pleasant face, pretty even in middle age.
“Is it about the concert?” she asked.
“Not really,” said Agatha. “I was at that French restaurant in Blockley last night with Mr. John and you saw us and I thought you look frightened.”
For one brief moment, Liza looked every bit as frightened as she had been the night before, but then she said brightly, “Oh, I must have looked odd. It was the heat. I had to get out of there. I thought I was going to faint. Anything else?”
“Well, no,” said Agatha.
Liza had remained standing. She moved towards the door. “In that case, I won’t keep you.”
There was nothing else they could do but leave. “I haven’t introduced my friend,” said Agatha. “Sir Charles Fraith.”
But Liza had reached the front door and was holding it open.
“Goodbye,” she said formally. “How kind of you to call.”
“Well, that was a wash-out,” said Charles. “Let’s go back to your place and talk.”
They returned to the kitchen of Agatha’s cottage. Agatha switched on the fan and poured two more cups of coffee.
“Now,” said Charles, “if he’s a blackmailer, there is one way to find out.”
“How?”
“You think of some truly awful secret, Aggie, and take him out for dinner and cry on his shoulder. Then we’ll wait and see.”
“I could do that,” said Agatha slowly. “You know, we could be imagining things. Maybe she’s just frightened of her hairy husband. Wait a bit. At the ladies’ society meeting, I said I was going to Mr. John in Evesham and she said something like, ‘I wouldn’t go there.’ Oh, and there’s something else. I did ask Mr. John about those voices I overheard when I was in the toilet, but he said it was a husband and wife who owned the shop next door and who were always quarelling. Should we watch Mrs. Friendly’s cottage and see if her husband goes out?”
“I think we should try my way first,” said Charles. “Let’s go somewhere for lunch and then I’ll take a look at this hairdresser’s in Evesham. You could make another appointment. Your hair looks nice like that.”
“Thank you. Where shall we have lunch?”
“Your choice.”
“I don’t lunch in Evesham, but there’s bound to be somewhere.”
They got into Charles’s car and drove up through the hot countryside to the A-44. “You’d best cut off at the top of Fish Hill and go through Willersley,” said Agatha.
“Why?”
“It’s the new Broadway by-pass they’re building. There’re traffic lights at the bottom of Fish Hill and you can get stuck there for ages.”
“Right you are.”
In Evesham and following Agatha’s directions, Charles parked at the top of the multi-storey car-park next to the river Avon. They left the car and walked to Bridge Street. “That looks all right.” Agatha pointed to a restaurant called the Lantern.
“I hope they do good chips,” said Charles, holding the door open for her. “I like chips.”
The chips turned out to be real ones and not the frozen variety. “Now what am I going to tell Mr. John?” asked Agatha.
“Don’t rush it. Wait till you get him out for dinner. I’ll bet you told him about James.”
Agatha blushed guiltily.
“Ah, I thought so. Let me see. I know, James is due back but you’ve been having an affair with me.”
Agatha stared at the table.
“Oho, you gabby thing. You told him about me, too. He does have a way of winkling out secrets.”
“I didn’t tell him that James had found out about us,” mumbled Agatha.
“There we have it. You want to marry James. He’s a violently jealous man. He’s written to say he loves you. You are terrified he finds out about me because I am violent and jealous.”
“I could do that,” said Agatha. “I’m not normally so gossipy. It’s just I seemed to have drunk quite a lot.”
“Did he try to go to bed with you?”
“He did expect to be asked in. No, Charles. I am not amoral like you. I shall tell him I am keeping myself pure for James.”
“Good girl.”
They finished their meal and walked up Bridge Street and turned into the High Street.
“Look at that beautiful house,” said Charles, pointing across the road.
“It’s a Chinese restaurant,” said Agatha. “The Evesham Diner. Pretty good.”
“I don’t care if it’s pretty good. What kind of barbarians are there in this town not to preserve that lovely building properly? Look, here’s a newsagent’s. I’m going to buy a guidebook.”
Agatha sighed. The sun was beating down and the humidity had made her make-up melt.
Charles emerged with a small guidebook. “Here we are. Dresden House. Built in 1692-see, I was right about William and Mary-by
a Worcester man, Robert Cookes.”
“Why Dresden?”
“Ah, one owner of the house, Dr. William Baylies, ran into financial trouble and went to live in Dresden, becoming physician to Frederick the Great of Prussia.”
“Never mind history. Here’s the hairdresser. Oh, rats!”
“What rats?”
“I forgot, it’s Wednesday. Half day. They’re closed and I was all geared up with my story.”
“Come on, Aggie, you can’t have been. Were you meaning to go in and make an appointment and then say, ‘Oh, by the way, James is coming home and I’m having an affair with Charles here’?”
“I only meant I was all geared up to ask him out for dinner.”
“We’ll trot about. Isn’t there an abbey? What does the guidebook say? Ah, there was an abbey built in 700 A.D. but Henry the Eighth got rid of it. There’s a museum in the old Almonry.”
“You’re as bad as the hairdresser,” grumbled Agatha. “I got a whole lecture on Simon de Montfort.”
“Then seduce him with your superior knowledge.”
The Almonry, where the almoner, the medical-social worker of his day, helped the less fortunate of the town, is a rambling fourteenth-century building.
Agatha and Charles went in. Agatha paid the entrance fee, for Charles took so long finding any money-deliberately, Agatha thought. Evesham is twinned with Dreux in France, where Simon de Montfort was born. They studied the charter proclaiming that fact. “Heard about Stow-in-the Wold?” asked Charles.
“No, what?”
“Some nice little town on the Loire wanted to be twinned with Stow, so the parish council put the vote to the townspeople and got a resounding NO.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t want anything to do with the French. Can you believe it? They must still be fighting the battle of Waterloo over there.”
“So who did they decide to twin with?”
“Nobody. They’re going to have a drinking fountain instead. I say, look at this map of the world, Aggie-1392, can you believe it?”
Agatha sighed. The heat was suffocating and she longed for a cigarette.
