M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

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.