by M C Beaton
“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.”
“Okay.” He got to his feet. “Let me know how you get on.”
“I haven’t said I’ll do it.”
“Think about it, Aggie. Think about it.”
Charles was right. Agatha could not bear to drop what she was beginning to consider ‘her case.’
She drove to Moreton-in-Marsh station early the next morning and joined the commuters on the platform. Then the woman who manned the ticket office came out and shouted, “There will be no trains due to a shortage of engine drivers.”
Cursing, Agatha walked back over the iron bridge to the car-park. She got in her car and drove to Oxford and took a train from there to Paddington. From Paddington, she took a taxi to Asprey’s in Bond Street. In the almost religious hush of the great jeweller’s, she examined trays of cuff-links, finally selecting a heavy, solid-gold pair and paying a price for them which left her feeling breathless.
She then travelled to the City to see her stockbroker and be reassured that her stocks and shares were prospering. As she was in the City, she called at Pedmans to see Roy Silver, a public relations officer who had originally worked for her before she had sold out to Pedmans.
“I haven’t heard from you for a while,” said Agatha, reflecting that Roy looked as weedy and unhealthy as ever. But obviously he was doing well. Her practised eye noticed that his suit was Armani.
“I’ve been very busy, sweetie. How’s life in Boresville?”
“I thought you liked the country. You’re always saying how lucky I am.”
“A passing aberration. Sophisticates like me would wilt in the country.”
“You’re joking, of course.”
“Not really. What are you doing anyway? Village fetes?”
“No, much more exciting than that,” said Agatha, but remembered that she had to arrange the teas for Ancombe and had better get back and call a catering company.
“Murder?”
Agatha wanted to brag. “I’m chasing a blackmailer.”
“Tell me about it.”
So Agatha did.
Roy was intrigued. “Tell you what, I’ll come down this weekend and help you.”
He hadn’t bothered phoning her for a long time, so Agatha said huffily, “Can’t. I’m busy this weekend.”
When she got home, she phoned the hairdresser’s and made an appointment for the day after the next. The following day was the concert at Ancombe. Then she phoned a top catering firm in Mircester and ordered sandwiches, cakes and hot savouries to be delivered to her early the following morning. Agatha meant to convey the goodies to the concert herself and produce them as her own.
On the following morning, she transferred all the catering firm’s supplies into her own boxes and put them in the boot of her car and drove to Ancombe.
With the good excuse that she could not watch the concert because she would be too busy preparing the teas, she escaped into an adjoining hall where three schoolgirls had been drafted to help her put out the tables and chairs. The hall smelt like all church halls, dusty and redolent of dry rot and sweat. The church hall was not only used by the Scouts but by an aerobics class as well.
She could hear Miss Simms’s voice raised in shrill song. If it was meant to be Cher, then it was a Cher in the process of getting liposuction.
Agatha heated trays of savouries in the oven and spread cakes and sandwiches on plates. It looked a magnificent feast.
Finally she heard the strains of “God Save the Queen”-the Ancombe ladies were traditionalists-raised in song. Then there was the scraping back of chairs and they all came filing in, exclaiming in delight at the spread laid out for them.
But Mrs. Dairy was not amongst them. What a lot of money I do waste on pettiness, thought Agatha with a rare pang of remorse.
There was no Mrs. Friendly either, so she could not even continue her investigation.
By the end of the event, she felt tired and sticky. Mrs. Bloxby stayed behind to help Agatha load and stack empty foil trays in her car.
“You did us proud, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “If you ever feel like going into business again, you could be a professional caterer.”
Agatha looked at her sharply and the vicar’s wife gave her an innocent look. But Agatha knew she had been rumbled and felt silly.
For the first time in her life, she began to feel that living alone was an effort. Not that she had ever lived with anyone else, apart from a brief sojourn with James. If she lived with someone, then that someone would be there to chatter to her as she contemplated washing out the foil trays. After the catering company
had called to pick up theirs, she reminded herself that the main purpose of foil trays was that they were disposable and put the whole lot in a garbage bag.
The heat was suffocating. She wandered out into her garden. She had lost interest in gardening and hired a local man to do that. Mrs. Simpson did her cleaning for her. Pity she couldn’t hire someone to do the living for her. The gardener was not due to call for another two days, and despite the recent rain the flowers were beginning to wilt in the heat.
She got out the hose and went to fix it to the tap in the garden but sat down in a garden chair instead. The depression she had been fighting off all day engulfed her and immobilized her.
She sat there while the sun slowly sank in the sky and the trees at the end of the garden cast long shadows over the grass. The pursuit of money and success had been everything in her life. Money meant the best restaurants, security, the best medical attention if she fell ill, and, at the end of her days, a good old folks’ home where they actually looked after the patients. She felt as if the tide of life had receded, leaving her stranded on a sandbank of money.
“I will not sink down under this,” she muttered to herself. Feeling like an old woman, she rose from her chair and went to the garden shed and wheeled out her bicycle. Minutes later, she was cycling off down the country lanes, pedalling fast like one possessed, racing to leave that tired failure of an Agatha behind her.
She pedalled while darkness fell over the countryside and light came on in cottage windows. When she at last turned homewards and free-wheeled down the hill into Carsely under the arched tunnels made by the trees on either side of the road, she felt calm and exhausted.
She let the cats in from the garden, locked up for the night, made herself a ham sandwich, then showered and went to bed and fell into a deep sleep.
When Agatha awoke in the morning, she felt stiff and sore from the exercise, but prepared for the day ahead. She put the little Asprey’s box in her handbag and drove to the hairdresser’s. On the other side of Broadway she looked up at the sky. Mares’ tails streamed across the blue of the sky. The weather must be about to change.
By the time she drove into Evesham, the sky was changing to grey. To her delight, there was actually a legal parking space right outside the hairdresser’s.
With a twinge of apprehension, she opened the door and went in. With something like triumph, the receptionist informed her that Mr. Garry would do her hair.
“Who the hell’s Mr. Garry?” snarled Agatha. “And stop grinning when you speak to me.”
“Mr. Garry is Mr. John’s assistant,” said the receptionist, Josie. Agatha was about to cancel her appointment, but she got a glimpse of herself in one of the many mirrors. Her hair looked limp and sweaty.
Yvette washed her hair and then she was led through to the ministrations of Mr. Garry, who proved to be a youth who chattered endlessly about shows he had seen on television. Agatha interrupted the flow by asking, “What’s Mr. John got?”
“He phoned in to say he was under the weather. He didn’t say exactly what it was.”
“Does he live in Evesham?”
“Yes, one of those villas on the Cheltenham Road.”
Agatha’s hair emerged as shiny and healthy as it had recently become, but she was unhappy with the style, which looked slightly rigid. Normally she would have complained and made him do it again, but she was tired of sitting in the hairdresser’s. As she was paying for her hair-style, she saw a framed certificate behind the desk. So Mr. John’s second name was Shawpart.
She went along to the post office and asked for a phone book and found only one Shawpart. She took a note of the number in Cheltenham Road and, swinging round into the traffic, headed in that direction. As she crossed the bridge over the river Avon, she noticed the water was greenish black and very still under a lowering sky.
Up the hill, past the garage, past the hospital and along in the direction of the by-pass she went, until she found Mr. John’s house, a fairly large modern villa. She parked outside and walked up the short path and rang the doorbell.
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the traffic humming past her on the road behind her. The sky above was growing even darker. Then she faintly heard the sound of shuffling footsteps, like those of a very old man.
She suddenly wished she had not come. The door swung open on the chain.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Mr. John’s voice. “Come in.”
He unlatched the chain and stood back. The hallway was in darkness. He led the way into a sitting-room and switched on a lamp and turned around.
Agatha let out an exclamation. His face was black with bruises.
“What on earth happened to you?” she asked. “Car accident?”
“Yes, last night. Some drunken youth ran into me and I hit the windscreen.”
“Didn’t you have an air bag? Or didn’t you have your seat-belt on?”
“I don’t have one of those models with an air bag. I’d just started to drive off, so I didn’t have a seat-belt on.”
“What did the police say?”
“I didn’t bother reporting it. I mean, what could they do? I didn’t get the number of the other car.”
“But you have to report it to the police! The insurance-”
“Oh, just leave it. I don’t want to talk about it. What do you want?”
Agatha had planned to be flirtatious, but confronted with his black-and-blue face, she did not quite know how to begin.
“I heard you were ill,” she began, “and was concerned about you.”
“That was nice of you.” He rallied himself with an effort. “Can I offer you something? Tea? Something stronger?”
“No, don’t trouble. How long have you lived here?”
“Why?”
Agatha blinked. “Just wondered. “Here.” She fumbled in her handbag. “Just a silly little present I got you.” She handed him the Asprey’s box.
He opened it and stared down at the heavy gold cufflinks nestling in their little bed of velvet.
Suddenly his face and manner were transformed. “How beautiful. And how very, very generous. I don’t know what to say.”
He came across to her and bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Now, we really must have a drink to celebrate. No, we must. I insist.”
He went out and returned after a few moments carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He expertly popped the cork, filled the glasses and handed one to Agatha.
Agatha raised her glass. “Here’s to friendship,” she said.
“Oh, I’ll drink to that. I do need a friend.” His voice had a ring of sincerity for the first time. I wonder if I’ve been mistaken about him, thought Agatha.
He sat down and held his tulip glass in one slender hand. “You were asking how long I had lived here? About a year. I had been working in Portsmouth and I wanted a change of scene. I saw in the Hairdresser’s Journal that this business in Evesham was going for sale. When I first came to Evesham, I looked the place over. It seemed neither go-ahead, nor sophisticated. But there was something about the sheer laziness of the place which got to me. And I knew there were a lot of rich people in the surrounding villages. Well, the business took off almost from the beginning. Although I am thinking of moving on. I get restless after I’ve been in the same place for a bit.”
Agatha glanced around her at the heavy furniture and the dark wallpaper decorated with uninspiring scenes of the Cots-wolds, those sort of scenes, peculiarly lifeless, painted by local artists as if they had meticulously copied photographs.
“Did you take this place furnished?”
“Yes, I rent it. Not my taste. So how’s your muddled love life, Agatha?”
She manufactured a world-weary shrug. “That scene Charles threw was the last straw. I’m weary of James.” She looked down at the floor and wished she could blush to order. “I kept thinking about you, instead.”
“I’ve been thinking about you as well,” he said. “We could make
a great team.”
She looked at him in surprise.
He put his glass down and leaned forward. “You wondered why I didn’t move to London. Well, I’ve been thinking about it. One of my customers told me about how successful you were at organizing things and about your public relations job. Oh, I know you told me, but it was only I thought of it later. I’ve enough money put by to take a lease on a place in the centre of town, Knightsbridge, Sloane Street, somewhere near Harrods. With my hairdressing skills and your public relations skills, I could be another Vidal Sassoon.”
If only I could believe he was not a blackmailer, thought Agatha quickly. But string him along anyway.
“Do you know, that could be very exciting. I miss London. And it would get me out of the mess I’ve made for myself down here. When do we start?”
“It’ll take some time to wind things up in Evesham. We could think about starting next year.”
He can’t have thought that tape recorder meant anything. Agatha stood up. “I really must be going. I’m sorry about your accident. When are you back at work?”
“Couple of days.”
“I’ll make an appointment when I know you’re going to be there.”
He surveyed her. “Garry did that to you, didn’t he?” She nodded. “You see, that’s the trouble. It’s so hard to get assistants with any flair. Good hairdressers are born, not made.”
He walked with her to the door. “When you come in for that appointment, we’ll fix up a date for dinner.” He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “We’re going to be a great partnership. I’m good at raising money, so funds won’t be any problem.”
“I’ve got some money of my own. I could help you.”
He swept her into his arms and kissed her passionately. “What did I ever do before I met you,” he said huskily.
Well, well, well, thought Agatha shakily as she made her way to her car. Perhaps I really was mistaken in him. He is rather a dish.
She decided to drive into Evesham and buy some groceries in case Charles wanted to come to dinner. She was tired of eating out. The villa was on the corner of a side road.
She drove round into the side road to make a three-point turn and so drive back into town. It was then she noticed Mr. John’s car at the side of the house, gleaming, unmarked.
