by M C Beaton
Surely he could not have got it repaired in time. Did some jealous husband beat him up? Someone he had been blackmailing?
But that kiss still burned on Agatha’s lips and she found she was becoming inclined to think that there was nothing wrong with him, except perhaps that he was a bit of a philanderer.
As she drove back into town and to Tesco’s supermarket, she began to feel the first surge of excitement about his idea of starting a salon in London. She was a shrewd enough businesswoman to make certain it prospered. He certainly was talented, more talented than London hairdressers Agatha had gone to. She had only said that bit about putting her money into his business to get him on the hook and allay his suspicions that she was on to him.
But what if he was genuine? She could get out of Carsely and back into an exciting, busy life. James would return and found her gone. With work to do, she would not have time to think of him.
She wandered around the supermarket wondering what to get for dinner. Then she reflected it was silly to waste money on expensive food for Charles, who would probably prefer sausage, egg and chips to anything else.
She queued and paid for her groceries, all the time thinking of the hairdressing project as escape.
It was only when she finally entered her cottage and began to unpack her groceries that Agatha’s common sense began to reassert itself. Mr. John surely got women on the hook by being charming to them. And yet… and yet… If he had reason to suspect she was on to him, why offer her a business proposition where she would be working closely with him? He had not asked for any money. She had offered it. She phoned Charles and asked him for dinner, telling him she would let him know her news when he arrived.
The sad fact was that Agatha had become addicted to the state of being in love and was all too ready to transfer that love to someone, anyone, other than James Lacey.
Charles arrived just as the first crack of lightning split the sky overhead. “Let’s hope the weather’s broken at last,” he said.
“Do you mind if we eat in the kitchen?” said Agatha.
“Not at all. What delicacies are you going to microwave for me?”
“Sausage, egg and chips, all fried.”
“Good. I’d like a bit of fried bread as well.”
“You’ve got it. Go and make yourself a drink and get me a gin and tonic while I fry. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”
Agatha turned to the stove. There was another great crack of thunder and then all the lights went out.
“Blast!” she shouted to Charles, who was at the drinks trolley in the living-room. “I’ll light candles. Don’t fall over anything.”
She fumbled in the kitchen drawer for the candles she kept in readiness to cope with Carsely’s many power cuts. Charles came in holding a branch of candles he had taken from the dining-room table. “If you’re all right, I’ll go back and get the drinks.”
“Wait a bit. I’ve got a big torch in this cupboard under the sink.” Agatha found it and handed it to him.
He put the candles with the others on the kitchen table and retreated with the torch.
“Thank God this is a gas cooker,” muttered Agatha.
When dinner was cooked, they sat down to eat it in candle-light.
“Now,” said Charles, “what happened?”
Agatha told him about her visit, about the hairdresser’s
bruised face, about the business offer and how she had found
the car, unmarked, at the side of the house.
“So it does look as if someone might have beaten him
up. Good,” remarked Charles.
Agatha said, “I’ve been wondering if we’ve been
wrong… about the blackmailing, I mean. Maybe he’s just a
ladies’ man.”
“A successful one, too, by the look in your eyes. Agatha,
he’s after your money.”
“I offered it. All he was doing was offering me a job.”
“Which you wouldn’t dream of accepting.”
“It might be a good idea. I mean, I’m rotting here in
Carsely.”
“When you talked about your life in London, I always
got the impression you were rotting there without knowing it.
You’ve got friends here. Something always seems to be happening to you.”
“I could do it for a bit. See how it works. I wouldn’t
sell up here till I was sure.”
“Aggie, he has got to you, you silly old thing.” Agatha winced at that “old” but said defensively, “In
any case I mean to string him along. It’s a good way of getting
to know him better. Then I can be sure.”
“I think that’s a damn dangerous thing to do.” “Why? If he does try to blackmail me, then I’ll go
straight to the police.”
“Aggie, blackmailers create violence. You’ve gone potty.” But Agatha had begun to build a dream up in her head of
being back working in London. Why not go for Bond Street?
Start with a splash. Big party. Get all the celebs. She could practically smell the petrol fumes of Bond Street, the scent from the perfume counter at Fenwick’s, the glowing pictures in the art galleries, the glittering jewels in Asprey’s window.
And perhaps, just perhaps, if he kissed her again like that, the bright pictures of James would fade and die.
“If you don’t want to know any more about it…” she began huffily.
“Oh, I do. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need my help soon. Listen to that storm, Aggie. You’re surely not going to send me home tonight.”
“You can sleep here… in the spare room.”
The phone rang. Agatha picked up the kitchen extension. It was Mr. John, his voice warm and concerned. “I just wanted to know you were all right.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Why?”
“This terrible storm. There are trees down everywhere. Have you electricity?”
“No, but I’ve a gas cooker and candles.”
“I’m very excited about our business project and would like to talk some more about it. Why don’t you drop over here tomorrow afternoon at three, say?”
“Yes, I’d like that. Get off!” Charles had crept up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.
“What’s going on?” demanded the hairdresser sharply. “Who’s there?
“No one,” said Agatha. “Just a mosquito. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”
She swung round on Charles. “What did you do that for? That was John.”
“I guessed as much. You are getting into deep water, Aggie.”
“I’m not,” she protested huffily. She took a Sarah Lee apple pie out of the freezer and put it in the oven. “I should have put that on earlier,” she said. “Let’s go sit and relax.”
As they went into the living-room, all the lights came on again. “Good,” said Charles, “we can watch telly.”
He switched it on and flicked the channels until he came across a rerun of “Hill Street Blues” and settled down happily to watch.
“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to see that,” aid Agatha crossly. “And it is my television set.”
“Shh!”
So they watched “Hill Street Blues” and then there was a Barbra Streisand movie and Charles was addicted to Barbra Streisand. While he watched, Agatha let dreams of a new life curl around her brain rather like the smoke which was beginning to curl under the kitchen door. She had forgotten about the apple pie and it was only as smoke began to drift between them and the television set that she realized with a squawk of alarm what had happened. She ran to the kitchen and switched off the oven and opened the door and windows. Sweet cool air drifted in. She walked out into the garden. The rain had stopped and a little chilly moon sailed overhead through ragged clouds. She stood breathing in the fresh air until all the smoke had cleared from the kitchen. The pie when she removed it was a blackened mess. She threw it into the garbage an
d then began to diligently clean the surfaces of the kitchen.
By the time she had finished cleaning, the movie had ended and Charles was watching “Star Trek, The Next Generation,” an early one, to judge from the beardless and baby-faced Commander Riker.
“Charles,” said Agatha crossly. “It’s late and the storm’s over. You can go home.”
“I haven’t got Sky Television and I haven’t seen this one.”
“Home, Charles.”
He left grumbling. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, “but you don’t deserve my concern.”
The next day was almost chilly and the residents of Carsely, like the rest of the British Isles who had been bitching for weeks about the heat, began to bitch instead about the cold.
Agatha dressed carefully in a tailored suit and silk blouse and headed for Evesham. Her dreams of the day before had faded and would have stayed faded had John not immediately taken her in his arms when she arrived and given her another of those warm, passionate kisses full on the mouth.
She felt quite weak at the knees as she sat down. His bruises appeared to be fading fast and his eyes were as blue, as intensely blue, as ever.
“Have you thought any more about my business proposition?” he asked.
Agatha flexed her public relations muscles. She described how she thought they should go big from the word go, open in Bond Street, say. She outlined how she would go about rousing interest so she could get it into as many newspapers as possible. “And do you know what we’ll call it?”
“I thought just Mr. John.”
“No, we’ll call it the Wizard of Evesham.”
He looked at her thoughtfully and then began to laugh. “I like that. It’s catchy. I like it a lot.”
All afternoon, they talked busily. Then he sent out for Chinese food. Before dinner, he opened a bottle of pills and popped two in his mouth. “Is that your medicine?” asked Agatha.
“No, they’re vitamin pills, a multi-vitamin called Lifex. I swear by them. I keep a supply in the shop. You should try them.”
Agatha picked up the bottle and shook one out. “I’m not very good at swallowing pills,” she said, looking at the large brown gelatine capsule in her hand. “I would choke on something this size. What do they do for you?”
“I find they give me a lot of energy. Let’s eat.”
They talked busily over dinner, firing ideas for their new venture back and forth across the table. Agatha at last said reluctantly that she should get home.
If he had asked her to stay with him, Agatha probably would have succumbed, but he only gathered her back into his arms as he said good night and again sent her senses spinning with one of those kisses, fuelling the hopelessly romantic side of Agatha to boiling point.
She decided as she drove dreamily home that all her suspicions of him had been unfounded. What were they based on after all? One frightened village woman who had probably had a crush on him, had probably written him a silly love letter or something like that and her bad-tempered husband had found out.
There was a message from Charles on her Call Minder but she did not want to phone him, did not want anything to burst the rosy bubble in which she floated. Mr. John-no, John-stop calling him that silly hairdresser’s name-had said he had taken the liberty of making an appointment for her for the following day. Soon she would see him again.
Agatha in love meant an Agatha who could not make up her mind what to wear. Although she started her preparations early the next day, she at last left in a rush, wearing a coat over a sweater and skirt and having torn off more dressy ensembles, feeling she looked as if she were trying too hard.
She would need to steer him to a good interior decorator, she thought, looking round the salon in a proprietorial way. And no receptionist like the dreadful Josie, but no one too glamorous either.
She was shampooed and with a dithering feeling of anticipation was led through to Mr. John.
“Agatha,” he said, giving her a warm smile. He pressed her shoulders and then gripped them hard.
She looked, startled, at his reflection in the mirror. Under the bruises, his face was an unhealthy red colour.
“Excuse me,” he muttered. He fled to the toilet. The tape deck was playing a selection of sixties pop. The Beatles were belting out “She’s got a ticket to ride,” filling the salon with noisy sound. The number finished and then Agatha and everyone else could hear retching sounds coming from the toilet.
Agatha went through and knocked at the door and called, “What’s the matter?”
Another bout of dreadful retching answered her. She was joined by the assistant, Garry.
“He sounds terribly ill,” said Agatha. She rattled the door handle.
“John! John! Let me in.”
She was answered by a loud tearing groan. Then crashing noises.
“Break open the door!” she shouted at Garry.
The willowy Garry threw himself against it but succeeded only in hurting his shoulder.
Agatha was joined by the other customers. Maggie was amongst them, she noticed.
“Get me a screwdriver or chisel,” said Agatha. “Quick. Josie, phone for an ambulance.”
Garry went into the nether regions and came back with a tool-box. Agatha seized a chisel and stuck it into the door jamb at the lock and jerked it sideways. There was a splintering and cracking as the flimsy lock gave way.
Mr. John was lying on the floor. He was now stretched out, immobile, his eyes staring upwards. His pale grey eyes. God, even his eyes have changed colour, thought Agatha wildly.
She knelt down and felt for his pulse, only finding a faint flutter. In the distance, she could hear the wail of the ambulance siren. Thank God, the hospital was quite near.
She gagged at the smell. Vomit was everywhere.
“Ambulance is here!” shouted Josie. Everyone except Agatha rushed to the door. She stared helplessly down at John, wishing she knew first aid. And then she saw his keys had fallen out of his pocket. She scooped them up and put them in the pocket in her skirt.
The ambulance men came in. They told everyone to stand clear. After what seemed to Agatha like an interminable wait he was carried out to the ambulance with a drip in his arm and an oxygen mask over his face.
The police arrived and took notes. “Might be food poisoning, by the sound of it,” said one.
“Can I go home now?” asked the woman called Maggie. Her face was paper-white. “I’ve had a terrible shock.”
“I suppose so,” said one. “We’ll just take a note of your names and addresses and then you can go. But you can’t leave until then.”
There were exclamations of dismay from some of the other customers who, although they were half-way through perms and tints, just wanted to leave as quickly as possible. Maggie sat down and began to cry.
Agatha felt the keys burning a hole in her pocket. Why had she taken them?
Because, she thought, her brain sharpened by fear, perhaps he was a blackmailer, perhaps I’ve been as silly as Charles thinks I am. If he were a blackmailer, then he might have something on Mrs. Friendly in his house. Poor Mrs. Friendly. Why should she suffer more? Agatha did not realize that she had become a true villager: Although Mrs. Friendly was nothing more than an acquaintance, she felt she should be protected, even if it meant breaking the law.
She gave her name and address to one of the policemen. Her hair was still wet but she didn’t care. She wanted to find out what was in that house and then somehow return with the keys and hide them somewhere in the salon. Besides, when Mr. John recovered from his bout of food poisoning, which was what it had looked like, then she would know definitely one way or the other whether he was a villain or simply a very good hairdresser with nothing sinister about him to worry her. Her mind jumped to murder. Could it be murder? The police would not search his house because of simple food poisoning.
Oh yes, they would, she suddenly thought. They’ll want to go through everything and find out what he ate. The Chin
ese meal! She hoped it wasn’t that. But he would have developed symptoms of food poisoning before today and she herself would have fallen ill.
Feeling naked and exposed, she parked in the back streets behind the Cheltenham Road and set off on foot for the villa. The neighbours might be watching and although they might not spot her, they might remember the make and registration number of any car parked outside the house. The day was so dark and still. As she cautiously approached the villa by way of the side street which ran along the side of it, she glanced nervously to right and left but no face glimmered at her through a window and no one was working in their garden.
After putting on a pair of gloves and fumbling with several of the keys, she found the right one and let herself in.
How many eyes had been watching her from the house opposite? She could say he had given her the keys before he collapsed. Oh, God, his staff would say he had done no such thing. But she was here and so she may as well get on with it.
She walked through the silent, dark, over-furnished rooms. No desk, no filing cabinet. She went upstairs. Two bedrooms showing no signs of recent occupation and then a large double bedroom, obviously his. She searched the bedside table and then the pockets of his jackets in the wardrobe.
Reluctant now to give up the search, she went slowly downstairs. And then, at the bottom of the stairs, she saw a door she had missed before. It was padlocked. A cellar door?
She tried all the keys until she had found the right one. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
She switched on the light inside the door and made her way down steep stone steps to a basement room. She was just reaching for the switch to illuminate the basement when she heard a noise above her head. She switched off the light on the stairs and stood in the darkness, panting like a hunted animal. The police must have arrived.
Agatha had a little torch in her handbag. If only she could find another way out of the basement! Her heart slowed down its pounding race. She cocked her head and listened hard. There were furtive noises from above. She frowned. The police would surely make more noise. Then a sinister gurgling sound. She had shut the door behind her at the top but the padlock was hanging open on the other side of the door.
