by M C Beaton
She drove to the Four Pools Estate. How quickly Evesham was spreading out. A new McDonald’s had been built in about two weeks earlier in the year and a large new pub in about two months. Soon the countryside would be swallowed up. Agatha realized that she was in danger of becoming one of those people she had hitherto despised-the I-know-they’ve-got-to-live-somewhere, but-why-can’t-it-be-some-where-else? type of person.
Before she got out of the car, she took a comb out of her handbag and wrenched it down through her lacquered hair until she felt she had flattened it a bit.
As she braced herself to walk up a neat garden path, she was engulfed in a sudden wave of depression. Charles’s cavalier treatment of her brought back all her fierce longing for James and her mind began to credit him with warmth and affections that he did not have.
She rang the doorbell.
The door was opened. She recognised Mavis immediately, but Mavis did not recognise her.
“I would like you to know, we go to mass every Sunday,” said Mavis crossly, “and we don’t want anything to do with the likes of you!”
The door began to close.
“I’m not a Jehovah,” said Agatha quickly. “I was a client of Mr. John’s.”
The door opened again. “The one that died?”
“Was murdered, yes. May we talk?”
“Yes, come in.” Mavis had an ordinary sort of face without any particular distinguishing features, pale blue eyes and a surprisingly smooth and shining stylish head of hair.
Mavis, as she led the way into a cosy living-room, did not evince any signs of fear or nervousness. “Sit down, Mrs…?”
“Raisin. Call me Agatha.”
“Right Agatha. I’ll get us some tea. I’d just put the kettle on and I’m dying for a cuppa.”
When Mavis left the room, Agatha looked about her. She had somehow expected the mother of a drug addict and pusher would live in squalor. But the living-room was furnished with a three-piece suite in shades of gold and brown. An electric fire with mock coals glowed cheerfully. There were framed family photographs on the walls and a crucifix over the fireplace. Women’s magazines and television guides lay on the coffee-table.
After a short time Mavis entered carrying a tray on which was a fat teapot and china mugs decorated with roses and a plate of cakes, bright with pink and white icing.
“Terrible business, that,” said Mavis, pouring tea. “And to think I knew him!”
“As a client?”‘ Agatha accepted a mug of very dark strong tea.
“Oh, no, he even took me out for dinner once. What’s your interest?”
“I suppose I am by way of being an amateur detective,” said Agatha modestly, for she privately thought there was nothing amateur about her efforts at all.
“Oh, I know. You was in the papers once. Your hubby got bumped off. This is exciting. Just like on telly. Wait till I tell my Jim.”
Jim, the monster! Agatha was beginning to feel bewildered.
“Why did he ask you out and you a married woman?”
“Well, look, it all started with a sort of bet I’d had with Selma Figgs next door. She was saying how Mr. John was like a film star. ‘We couldn’t get off with one of those, now could we, Mavis,’ she says to me. So I said, ‘I bet you a tenner I can.’ I knew our Mr. John was a bit of a ladies’ man and he always seemed to be chatting up right frumps, if you ask me.”
Agatha winced.
“So I spun him a line about an unhappy home-life and all that. I’d pinched it out of one of the soaps, the story, like. So he asks me out for dinner. I told Jim and we had ever such a laugh. ‘Go on,’ says Jim, ‘enjoy yourself. Let the silly sod pay for it.’ ”
“And did he come on to you?” asked Agatha.
“Naw. He was ever so polite and I had a rare good meal. Course it was a bit of a strain, what with me having to keep the story going.”
“Did he ask you about money?”
“Wait a bit. I s’pose he did. Asked what Jim did. I said he was in bathroom sales over at Cheltenham and had a fair enough wage, but what with Betty’s university education and our Jack’s needing new bits for his computer every week, I said it was a miracle we made ends meet.”
She took a sip of tea and wrinkled her brow. “What else? Oh, I know, he said women like me were very clever and I’d no doubt got a bit put by, and well, I laughed at that one and said every penny I got came from Jim. He never asked me out again. Probably guessed I was a liar.”
Knew you hadn’t any money, thought Agatha. She said, “But when you were telling him those stories-I mean, I heard you telling him your Betty was on drugs. Weren’t you afraid someone might inform the police?”
Mavis stared at Agatha round-eyed. Then she said slowly, “I never thought of that. I mean, everyone chatters on about everything at a hairdresser’s don’t they? I mean, when you’re talking, what with the noise from the driers and all, you never think anyone is listening. I don’t think what I’ve told you can be of much help. Who would want to bump him off in that cruel way? And why?”
Agatha put down her cup and stood up. “Well, here’s my card. If you hear of anything that might be interesting, let me know.”
“Thanks a lot. You haven’t had a cake.”
“Not hungry,” said Agatha with a smile.
Mavis walked her to the door. “Bye, bye,” she said cheerfully. “Call round again if you’re ever this way.”
Now what do I do? thought Agatha. That was a waste of time.
Inside the trim house she had left, Mavis sat down, her hands to her mouth. Then she gave herself a little shake and smiled up at the photograph of herself on the wall, a photograph Agatha had failed to notice. It showed a much younger Mavis, a blonde and leggy Mavis performing as principal boy in a pantomime production of Puss and Boots.
“I could have been a real actress,” said Mavis aloud.
Agatha went home and fed her cats and played with them for a little. Then she checked her phone to see if there were any messages. None. This was silly. Why not just phone Charles? He could be ill.
She was just about to pick up the phone when it rang. Charles, at last. She picked up the receiver. “Roy here.” Roy Silver.
“What d’you want?” demanded Agatha sharply.
“I’ve got a few days off. Thought I might pop down and see you.”
“I’m afraid I’m busy.”
“Oh.”
That “oh” sounded disappointed, but Agatha calculated sourly that this sudden desire to see her meant that Roy’s boss had some public relations scheme he wanted to involve her in.
“And I’ve got something on the stove,” lied Agatha. “Look, I’ll call you back. Are you at home?”
“Yes, but don’t trouble, sweetie,” said Roy huffily.
“I’ll ring you.” Agatha put the phone down and dialled Charles’s number. The phone was answered by his aunt.
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin,” she fluted when Agatha had identified herself. “Charles is busy with our guests. Is it terribly important?”
“I have found out something that might interest him.”
“Wait a moment and I’ll see if he can come to the phone.”
The phone was in the draughty, cavernous wood-panelled hall of Charles’s home. Agatha could hear the aunt’s heels clopping across the parquet, then the door of the drawing-room opened, a burst of noise and laughter, door closed, silence again.
Charles took so long to answer the phone that Agatha almost hung up. But then she hear the door of the drawing-room open again, that burst of noise and laughter, and then Charles’s voiced: “Hullo, Aggie.”
“I thought you might have phoned,” said Agatha crossly.
“Oh, you mean our case?”
No, I don’t mean our case, Agatha wanted to howl. Don’t you remember making love to me?
“Yes, I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.”
Charles listened and then said, “Seems you do better on your own.”
“Why I p
honed,” Agatha pressed on, “is I wondered when we’re going to take that trip to Portsmouth?”
“Can’t.”
“Why? Do you think it’s a waste of time?”
“No, not that. The most wonderful thing has happened. There’s this girl here. Fantastic. I’m in love.”
“In that case,” said Agatha evenly, “I won’t keep you.”
She hung up and sat down on a chair beside the phone and stared miserably into space.
The silence of the cottage suddenly seemed oppressive. And she was alone. And out there was the maniac who had killed Mrs. Dairy so brutally. No one wanted Agatha Raisin, except perhaps some murderer who wanted to silence her. There had been a murder committed in Carsely, home of that famous detective, Agatha Raisin, and yet not a reporter had called. But then the police had claimed the credit before. Still, Agatha Raisin had found the body. They probably hadn’t told the press that.
She slowly dialled Roy’s number. “I’m sorry I was so rude,” she said when he answered. “You are most welcome if you want to come.”
“I’ll be on the train that gets in around eleven-thirty in the morning.”
“Is that Great Western or Thames Turbo?”
“Don’t ask me, sweetie. I was born in the days of British Rail. Why?”
“It’s just the trains sometimes get cancelled. If you get stuck, take the train to Oxford and I’ll pick you up there.”
“Righto. See you.”
Agatha put down the phone, suddenly grateful for Roy and his thick skin. And if he had a few days free, then perhaps he might like to go to Portsmouth with her. She marvelled at the insensitivity of Charles. How on earth could you bed one woman and then tell her soon afterwards that you were in love with another?
She remembered when she was a little girl going out to play with a gang of boys who had turned nasty and thrown stones at her. She had run home to her mother, blood streaming down her face. “I told you not to play with the wrong children,” her mother had raged. “Now, see what happens?”
And I’ve never learned my lesson, thought Agatha sadly. I’ve been playing with the wrong children all my life.
It was a blustery day with red leaves swirling down into the station car-park when Roy’s train cruised in, miraculously on time. Great fluffy clouds sailed across a pale blue sky.
Roy kissed the air on either side of Agatha’s face, making mwaa, mwaa sounds.
“Lovely to see you, Aggie.” Agatha experienced a pang. Charles also called her Aggie.
“You’re looking well,” lied Agatha, privately thinking that Roy looked as seedy and unhealthy as ever with his lank hair, white, pinched face, too-tight jeans and bomber jacket.
“I’ll be healthier after a bit of country air. Tell me how you’re getting on with the hairdresser murder.”
As she drove him back to Carsely, Agatha outlined everything she had discovered, but left Charles’s name out of it. She ended up by saying, “Don’t feel like a trip to Portsmouth, do you? I feel if I dug into his past I might find something.”
“Give me a day to relax and then maybe we’ll go for it.”
“How’s business?”
“Business is very good. In fact, I’ve got another rise. There’s a new restaurant in Stratford called the Gold Duck. I took the liberty of booking us a table for dinner.”
At Agatha’s cottage, Roy took his bag up to the spare room and then joined Agatha in the kitchen.
“So how’s James?”
“I haven’t heard. He’s abroad somewhere.”
“No reason to let yourself go to seed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Grey hairs coming through.”
Agatha gave a squawk of alarm and ran up to the bathroom. She peered at the roots of her hair. Her hair grew quickly. Her old colour was beginning to show, along with unmistakably grey hairs.
She ran downstairs again. “I can’t bear it. I’ve got to get my hair done again. God, I’m spending all my days at the hairdresser’s! Now, who did Garry, say everyone was going to? Thomas Oliver, that’s it. You’ll need to amuse yourself, Roy.”
She phoned and was told there had been a cancellation and they could take her in half an hour’s time.
“See you,” she gabbled at Roy and ran out to her car.
…
The hairdresser’s seemed a slicker establishment than either Eve’s’s or Mr. John’s. There was a friendly atmosphere. She was told to take a seat and that Marie, the owner, would be with her soon. Agatha looked about her curiously. It was very busy, a good sign.
Then Marie Steele joined her. She was an attractive blonde with a friendly smile. “I’ve brought a chart of colours,” she said, opening it on Agatha’s lap. “Do you want your hair the same shade?”
“Yes,” said Agatha. “I’d like it to look as natural as possible.”
“Perhaps this? Or maybe you’d like a little warm touch of auburn?”
Agatha thought of Charles, of James, of lost love. “Wouldn’t it look too false?” she asked cautiously.
“You’ll look great. I’ll tell Lucy which colour to mix and then I’ll blow-dry your hair myself.”
Lucy, a slim, elegant girl who looked like a model, soon arranged Agatha in a chair in the back salon and deftly began to tint her roots. Agatha felt soothed for the first time in days. The gossip of the hairdresser’s surrounded her. Mort, who, it transpired, was Iranian by birth, was chattering non-stop. Gus, a Sicilian, was making his customer laugh; Kevin, a beautiful young man, was washing hair and bringing coffee; and the efficient Marie was here, there and everywhere.
At last Agatha had her hair shampooed and was led through to Marie.
“Now, how do you like it?” asked Marie, raising the hair-drier.
“Sort of smooth. I wear it in a smooth bob.”
“Right. You’ll find that tinge of auburn works great.”
She worked busily. The hairdresser’s was thinning out. Apart from Agatha, there was only one other customer left.
Finally Agatha looked with delight at her gleaming hair. “Oh, that’s very good,” she said with relief.
“Your hair’s in very good condition,” said Marie, sitting down beside her. “Are you from Evesham?”
“No, Carsely.”
“Raisin! That’s it! I knew I’d heard that name. Oh, dear, your husband was murdered.”
“Yes, but I’m over that now.”
“And you were there when John Shawpart died?”
“It was awful.”
“It must have been.”
“You don’t expect murder and mayhem at a hairdresser’s,” said Agatha.
Marie laughed. “I don’t know about that. There’s times I could have committed murder myself.”
“Awkward customers?”
“No, other hairdressers. It’s a bit like the theatre. Lots of rivalries and jealousies. I had most of my staff poached by a rival last year, and just before Christmas. I was so down, I didn’t feel like going on. But I’ve got a great team now.”
“I see that,” said Agatha. “I’ll make another appointment.”
She paid and left, scurrying to the sanctuary of her car in case the wind messed any of the glory of her auburn hair.
“That’s better,” said Roy when she arrived home. “I put your cats in the garden. Have you fed them?”
“Yes. Any phone calls?”
“That aristo friend of yours.”
“Charles?”
“Yes, him.”
“What did he want?”
“Didn’t say. Why not call him?”
“Later,” mumbled Agatha.
“So, do we go detecting?”
“Maybe, if you’re fit, I’ll drive to Portsmouth tomorrow. I spent so long at the hairdresser’s, there’s not much of the day left. I’ll have a bath and change, have a drink and watch some television and then we’ll be off. What time did you book the table for?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Agatha forced herself to make up and dress with care, just as if she were about to go out with a glamorous man and not Roy, whom she had first employed as an office boy all those years ago. He was a good public relations officer, particularly with pop groups, who hailed him as one of their own kind.
When she went downstairs, Roy was lounging in front of the television set. “Aren’t you going to change?” demanded Agatha.
“Nobody dresses up to go out for dinner these days,” said Roy, flicking aimlessly through the channels with the remote control.
“I do. So you do. Hop to it!”
Grumbling, Roy went upstairs to change.
The restaurant in Stratford-upon-Avon was crowded. They were given a corner table which commanded a good view of the rest of the customers.
And then Agatha saw Charles. He was sitting with a blonde who had one of those rich-monkey-Chelsea faces. He was telling jokes and laughing uproariously. Agatha noticed with a certain sour pleasure that the girl looked bored.
Roy, on an expense account or had Agatha been paying, would have ordered all the most expensive things on the menu, but as it was, he said he wasn’t feeling very hungry and would skip a starter and watched moodily as Agatha ate her way through quail and salad before going on to Steak Béarnaise while he himself had pasta as a main course. He ordered the house wine, saying with a false laugh, “I don’t see any point in ordering anything else. I find the house wine is usually just as good.”
Oh, James, thought Agatha, you were never mean. I feel at this moment, if you walked in the door of this restaurant, I would forgive you anything.
A young man approached Charles’s table and hailed his companion. She introduced the newcomer to Charles and asked Charles something. Charles gave a grumpy nod. A waiter was called, another chair brought and the newcomer joined Charles and his lady. She proceeded to sparkle at the newcomer and give him all her attention while Charles, after a few jocular remarks to which neither paid any attention, relapsed into a moody silence.
“Revenge is mine,” said Agatha.
