by M C Beaton
“Evesham is also twinned with Melsungen in Germany and Evesham, New Jersey.”
“Yawn,” said Agatha. “Can’t I go and sit in the garden and wait for you?”
“No, there’s more upstairs. Come on.”
Agatha found herself becoming fascinated with two examples of Victorian dress. Usually in museums the ladies’ shoes were tiny, but these Evesham ladies had great big feet.
They moved on. Agatha became uneasy as she saw household items she remembered from her youth.
She was relieved when the tour was over. But then Charles wanted to see the two churches, St. Lawrence and All Saints. She fretted behind him wondering how such a frivolous man could become so excited over the sight of a Norman arch. Then they walked through the dark arch of the old Bell Tower, built between 1529 and 1539, chattered Charles, and so across the grass and down towards the river Avon. Just before the river was a paddling pool shrill with the cries of children. “That’s where the monks used to fish,” said Charles.
“Let’s sit down for a moment,” said Agatha wearily.
They sat down together on a bench. It was a lazy, sunny scene. A band was churning out selections from My Fair Lady. Families sprawled on the grass. It looked so safe, so English, so far from the violence of the inner cities. Agatha relaxed. Evesham had a laid-back charm.
“Let’s take a boat,” said Charles.
“Are you going to row?”
“Too hot. One of those pleasure boats.”
They walked back out into Bridge Street, past the multistorey car-park and so down to the landing stage, where a boat was just about to leave.
The boat went under the Workman Bridge and circled back when it came to a weir, then went back under the bridge and slowly along beside the Abbey Gardens, as they are called.
“Do you know that Evesham Abbey was larger than Gloucester Cathedral?” said Charles.
“Urn,” said Agatha absently.
“And do you know that-What?” For Agatha had suddenly clutched his arm.
“Over there. Mr. John,” hissed Agatha.
The open pleasure boat was sliding slowly past a tea garden. Charles looked. “Blond chap?”
“Yes.”
Agatha twisted her head backwards as the boat moved on. “Don’t know. Oh, yes. I think it’s a customer of his called Maggie. We’re all first names at the hairdresser’s.”
“She didn’t look all that happy.”
“We go back this way again, don’t we?”
“Shortly, I should think. The trips are only half an hour long, so we should be turning back any moment now.”
Sure enough, the boat soon made a circle.
“Get ready,” said Agatha. “Be prepared for a good look at them this time.”
But as the boat passed the tea garden, the table at which Mr. John had been sitting with Maggie was empty.
“Pity,” said Agatha. “She was bitching to him about how her husband didn’t appreciate her. Do you think it really is blackmail? He might just be a philanderer.”
“So why was Mrs. Friendly so frightened?”
“I’d forgotten about Mrs. Friendly. I’ll ask Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife. She might know something. Want to come with me?”
He looked at his watch. “Can’t. Got to get home soon. Going out tonight.”
“Where?”
“Taking this girl to see Macbeth at Stratford.”
“Oh,” said Agatha in a small voice. She felt disappointed but reminded herself that Charles was a bachelor with his own life to lead.
When they left the boat and walked back towards the car-park, the heat was suffocating.
“Thunder tonight,” said Charles as they drove out of Evesham. Agatha looked ahead. There were purple clouds building up over Fish Hill.
“There’s a thunderstorm almost every night,” she said, “and yet the next day is always as hot and humid as ever.”
Charles grunted by way of reply. He seemed immersed in his own thoughts. Agatha could feel the edges of that depression in her brain. She would go and see Mrs. Bloxby. Perhaps that would take up some of the lonely evening ahead.
When Charles dropped her off, he did not say anything about seeing her again. Agatha had a feeling that the mystery of the hairdresser had become a bore. She said goodbye to him in a subdued voice and let herself into her cottage just as the first fat raindrops struck the thatch on the roof.
She hurried to let her cats in and then opened a can of cat food for them. Her cats, Hodge and Boswell, although they purred around her ankles, seemed so self-sufficient, so little in need of the company of Agatha Raisin.
A blinding flash of lightning lit up the kitchen. Then came a crack of thunder which seemed to rock the old cottage to its very foundations. Agatha switched on the kitchen light only to find out that Carsely was suffering from one of the village’s many power cuts.
She crept up to her bedroom and into bed without undressing, pulled the sheet over her and lay listening to the fury of the storm. She fell into an uneasy sleep, waking at seven in the evening feeling hot and gritty. Late sunlight streamed in at the windows.
She climbed out of bed and looked out of the window. Everything in the garden glittered in the sunlight. She leaned out. The air was as warm and sticky as ever.
Agatha showered and changed and then made her way along to the vicarage.
She hesitated on the doorstep as she heard the vicar’s angry voice, “Does that woman never think to phone first?”
She was about to turn away. That was the trouble with true Christians like Mrs. Bloxby; one never thought of them as having any life of their own.
But the door opened and Mrs. Bloxby smiled a welcome, pushing a wisp of grey hair out of her eyes.
“I saw you coming up the road,” she said. “Come in.”
“And so did your husband,” said Agatha ruefully. “He’s quite right. I should have phoned first.”
“Never mind him. The heat is making us all irritable and he’s got evening service.”
“In that case… ”
Agatha allowed herself to be led indoors just as the back door slammed angrily and through the window she could see the vicar striding off through the churchyard.
“The trouble is,” said Agatha, sitting down in the pleasant living room, “that when something is bothering me, I simply come along to see you without thinking you might be busy.”
“It works both ways,” said Mrs. Bloxby placidly. “I never bother calling you first. I’ll make some tea and then we’ll have it in the garden and see if we can get a breath of air.”
She never fussed, thought Agatha enviously, as through the window she watched Mrs. Bloxby wiping the raindrops from the garden table and chairs. Then she retreated to the kitchen to make tea before summoning Agatha into the garden.
“Look at that!” said Agatha. “Over at the churchyard. The gravestones are actually steaming in the heat. Looks like some Dracula film.”
“We’re heading towards the end of the month. The cooler weather should be here soon,” said Mrs. Bloxby, pouring tea. “Now, what is the matter? James?”
“No, it’s my hairdresser.” Agatha told of her suspicions and Charles’s idea of setting a trap.
“It could be quite dangerous for you.” Mrs. Bloxby’s large grey eyes looked concerned. “Surely this Mr. John has heard of your reputation as a detective.”
“He remembers about my husband’s murder. But I have never been credited in the newspapers with solving anything,” said Agatha. “The credit has always gone to the police. Tell me about the Friendlys.”
“They haven’t been in Carsely long, as you know. Let me see, there was some scene after morning service a few weeks ago. Alf told me.” Alf was the vicar.
“Alf had been preaching a sermon about how we should have minds above material things and Mr. Friendly said something afterwards in the church porch about how he hoped his wife had been paying attention to the sermon because she was going through mo
ney like water. Mrs. Friendly protested she had only been buying a few clothes and her husband said something like, ‘what clothes? I haven’t noticed.’ ”
“You think I should leave it alone?”
“One part of me thinks you should. On the other hand, it would be quite dreadful should he prove to be a blackmailer. Just think of the misery he would cause! But why not tell your friend, Bill Wong?”
“I can’t,” said Agatha. “Bill’s on holiday.” She was still hurt by Bill’s not phoning her and did not want to say that Bill was holidaying at home.
“What about his boss, Wilkes?”
“He thinks I’m an interfering pain. No, I would need proof. There’s no harm in trying. At the worst he’s going to blackmail me. Not kill me.”
“So what do you plan to do?”
“I meant to ask him out but think I’ll make a hair appointment and this time watch and listen. See if I can suss out any other customers he might be putting the squeeze on.”
“Be careful. Now about the concert at Ancombe. It’s very good of you to take over the catering. Do you want me to help you?”
“No, I’ll manage.” Agatha had already decided to hire a catering firm to make cakes and savouries. Worth every penny to put Mrs. Dairy’s nose out of joint.
“You know, I’m beginning to wish I had never recommended Mr. John. But he has such a good reputation. Mrs. Jessie Black over at Ancombe, the chairwoman of the ladies’ society, she used to sport a terrible frizzy perm in an impossible shade of red and he tinted it auburn and put it into a beautifully smooth style.”
“I’ll see if I can get an appointment,” said Agatha. “I’ll try tomorrow.”
Agatha made her way to Evesham. The old buildings of Evesham shimmered in the dreadful heat. She parked in the carpark although she would have liked to try to find a parking place outside the hairdresser’s but did not want another confrontation with some embittered local.
Alert now for nuances, Agatha noticed this time that the receptionist, a vapid blonde in a pink overall with her name, Josie, on a badge on her left breast, gave her a sour, jealous look.
“I was certainly lucky to get a cancellation,” said Agatha brightly.
“Yes,” said Josie, jerking a pink gown round Agatha’s shoulders. “Mr. John is particularly popular with the elderly.”
“Was that crack meant for me?” demanded Agatha, rounding on her savagely.
“Oh, no, modom.” Josie backed away, flustered. “I’ll just get Yvette to shampoo you.”
Ruffled, Agatha sat down at a wash-basin and looked around. From the adjoining area, she could hear a woman’s voice raised in complaint. “I can’t do anything with her these days. I said, ‘That stuff 11 kill you,’ and she says to me, ‘Heroin is my friend.’ My own daughter on drugs! The shame of it. My neighbour says she thinks my Betty is pushing the stuff.”
“Can’t your husband have a word with her?” came Mr. John’s voice.
“Jim? Him! He doesn’t know she’s on the stuff and he wouldn’t believe me even if I told him. Betty’s always been able to twist him round her little finger. Daddy’s girl. Always been daddy’s girl.”
Yvette arrived and put a towel around Agatha’s neck. The subsequent hissing of the water drowned out the rest of the conversation between Mr. John and his customer.
A hairdresser’s salon is like the psychiatrist’s couch, reflected Agatha. The things they talk about. Didn’t that woman stop to think that one of the other customers might hear her and report her daughter to the police? But no. Hairdressers and beauty salons were like the confessional. The only one liable to profit from all these confidences was the hairdresser himself.
Agatha had her hair towelled and was led through to the salon where Mr. John flashed her a smile. Josie brought him a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam container and he added two pills of artificial sweetener called Slimtex. “I get my coffee sent in from across the road,” he said. “It’s that caff over there. Bit seedy, but they make marvellous coffee. Now, Agatha, let’s put you back together again.”
Agatha sighed. “I don’t see how you can do much in this heat. It’s worse than rain.”
“We’ll try.”
He rested his hands on her shoulders and gave them a light press.
“I owe you a dinner,” said Agatha.
“So you do and I’m going to keep you to it.”
Agatha took a deep breath. “Are you free tonight?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Oh. Oh, well; shall I pick you up?”
“No, I’ll call for you at eight. Josie, what are you doing standing there with your mouth hanging open? The phone’s ringing.
Josie fled. Mr. John shrugged. “Young girls these days,” he murmured.
Agatha’s hair was restored to a glossy, smooth shine. When she left the hairdresser’s, she walked quickly to the carpark, hoping she would not sweat too much and ruin the set.
When she got home, she debated whether she should phone Charles. But she felt sulky. He had said nothing about seeing her again. He seemed to walk in and out of her life, expecting her to be available.
She dressed with care but unfortunately not for comfort. She had read that stiletto heels were back in fashion and so had bought a gold sling-back pair, proud of the fact that she still had strong enough ankles to wear such high heels. But the heat had softened her skin and the criss-cross straps on the top of her shoes dug uncomfortably into her feet.
She decided that as she would be sitting in his car and then sitting in some restaurant or other, she could bear it. Just before he arrived, she slipped a little tape recorder into her handbag.
Mrs. Dairy was walking her yapping little dog down Lilac Lane as Agatha was escorted to the car by Mr. John. Agatha flashed her a triumphant look, delighted that the village bitch should witness her going out for the evening with such a handsome man. But Mrs. Dairy, instead of stopping and staring rudely, as she usually did, took to her heels and scurried off down the lane, dragging her protesting dog after her.
“Where are we going?” asked Agatha.
“The Marsh Goose in Moreton.”
“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. S
he 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.
