M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

“So what should we do at the dentist’s tomorrow?” asked Charles. “March in and question her there?”

“No, she’s bound to go out for lunch. We know what she looks like. We’ll go in about lunch-time and waylay her.”

“She might have lunch at her desk. I suggest I use my charm and invite her out for lunch. You could fill in the time by getting your hair done.”

“I’ve got an appointment with that Eve person, but it’s for four o’clock, the day after tomorrow.”

“See if you can change it.”

“I should think the terrible Josie will delight in telling me that there are no free appointments, but I’ll try. I’ll phone in the morning. Oh, I forgot to check when we got back from Honeybourne if there were any messages.”

Agatha went to the phone and dialled. She listened and then put down the phone and turned to Charles. “A message from Mrs. Dairy. She says she wants to see me. She sounded like her old self. Nasty and bitchy. I’ll think about it. Maybe call on her when we’ve finished in Evesham.”

The following day, Agatha left Charles outside the dentist’s and went to the hairdresser’s. Josie was barely polite but reluctantly said there was a cancellation. Agatha had her hair shampooed and was led through to Eve.

Eve was a tall, stately woman, rather like a figurehead on an old ship, proud bosom, flowing dark hair, rounded arms.

As she worked away with the drier, Agatha said, “Did you know Mr. John?”

“The hairdresser who was killed? No. Terribly sad, that,” said Eve. “Lucky for me. I was starting up this business and about to advertise for staff, so I just took his old staff over. I think I’ll just pop some rollers in and put you under the drier. Gives it a firmer set.”

“I don’t want anything too fussy!”

“Oh, it’ll look great.”

“Are you from Evesham, Eve?”

“No, I moved here recently. Thought it might be a good place for business.”

“Where were you before?”

“Worcester.”

Agatha fell silent as the hairdresser put down the drier and then rolled her hair up and sprayed it.

“Yvette, put Agatha under the drier,” called Eve.

“Terrible about Mr. John,” said Agatha to Yvette.

“Yeah. Want some magazines?”

Agatha nodded. The drier was lowered over her head. Several copies of last year’s Vogue and Good Housekeeping were plopped on her lap. At first Agatha amused herself by reading last year’s horoscopes to see if they were anything like what had happened to her, but, like most horoscopes, they were so vague you could read anything you wanted into them.

Time passed. Agatha squinted at her watch. Her hair had been nearly dry when it had been put in the rollers and she had been under the wretched drier for nearly an hour.

Determinedly she put the magazines on a table beside her, removed her head from the drier and went through to the salon.

No sign of Eve.

“Where is she?” barked Agatha.

“Gone out for her lunch,” said Garry, who was perming a customer’s hair.

“What kind of place is this?” howled Agatha. “I want my hair finished now!”

Garry threw her a frightened look. “She’s in the restaurant next door. I’ll get her.”

Agatha stood and fumed. Eve came hurrying back in.

“In a rush, are we?” she asked sweetly.

“I don’t know about you, but I do not like to be kept waiting,” snapped Agatha.

“Well, I’m here now,” said Eve soothingly. She guided Agatha to a chair and began to remove the rollers. Then she back-combed and smoothed the hair.

Agatha stared at her reflection in the mirror.

“That,” she said bitterly, “is the epitome of provincial middle-aged hair-styles. Too bouffant.”

“It’s the latest style,” said Eve.

“It was the latest style somewhere around the sixties.”

“If you would like me to restyle it?”

“Oh, forget it. Just give me the bill and let me out of here.”

In a thoroughly bad temper, Agatha went back to the carpark to wait for Charles. Fortunately for her, they had used her car, so she sat and smoked and waited… and waited.

Eventually Charles turned up.

He burst out laughing when he saw Agatha’s hair. “Oh, shut up,” snarled Agatha. “I’ll never go there again. Take her for lunch while I sat here and starved?”

“No, our Jessie was very frightened. Said she had not known our Mr. John, refused to talk about him.”

“So what kept you?”

“I went for lunch.”

“Why didn’t you come looking for me?”

“I didn’t think. I was hungry.”

“I’m going straight home to brush out this wretched style and eat. You can do what you like.”

“Since you’re driving,” said Charles mildly, “whither thou goest, I goest.”

Agatha grumbled the whole way back to Carsely about the sheer selfishness of men.

Once home, she was restored to good temper by two chicken sandwiches and a cup of soup and by brushing her hair smooth.

“Now what?” she asked. “Perhaps I should have been the one to have a go at Jessie Lang.”

“You can have a try. What about Mrs. Dairy?”

“God, I’d forgotten about her. Let’s take a walk up there. She’s probably regretted telling us anything.”

“All right. You know, Aggie, if that ricin was put into his vitamin pills, it could have been done at any time. All the poisoner had to do was wait. You know what I mean? Poison two of them and you could be out the country by the time he got to them.”

Agatha sighed. “I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever find out who did it.”

“Anyway, let’s see what Mrs. Dairy has to say for herself.”

The day was cold and grey as they walked through the village. The first leaves of autumn twirled down at their feet. “All that that seems so far away now,” said Agatha. “I don’t like the winter in the country. You really never notice it in town. Afternoon, terrible weather, isn’t it?”

“Who was that woman you just spoke to?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha. “Apart from the women who go to the ladies’ society, I don’t really know that many people in the village. In Carsely, we all say ‘Morning’ or ‘Afternoon’ to each other, whether we know each other or not.”

“What about the community spirit?”

“I think it went when everyone got cars,” said Agatha. “The children are bussed out to schools and a lot of the parents work up in Birmingham or Worcester and commute. Here we are now. I can’t help hoping she’s not at home.”

The little cottage lay dark and silent. “That’s her car,” said Agatha. “She’s probably walking the dog. Don’t peer in the window, Charles. I tell you, she’s out. Charles!”

He turned round and looked at her, his face strangely pinched and drawn.

“Aggie, there’s a pair of feet sticking out from behind the sofa.”

“She’s must be ill. Let’s try the door.”

Agatha turned the brass handle on the front door. It swung open. Agatha rushed into the living-room. Mrs. Dairy lay stretched out behind the sofa. Blood from a terrible wound on her head spread out on the carpet. Beside her lay the corpse of her little dog, and beside both lay a blood-stained brass poker.

Charles knelt down beside Mrs. Dairy, feeling for a pulse and finding none.

He shook his head dismally. Agatha dialled 999 and asked for the police and an ambulance.

She turned to Charles. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Better go outside on the road.”

Agatha fled. She was thoroughly sick. She tried to brace herself to return to Charles but found she hadn’t the courage to go back into the house of death. Somehow it was the memory of the little dog with its head smashed in as well that made the picture that was imprinted on her mind so full of horror. It had been murder done in a vicious rage. Murder done in Carsely. Murder coming closer to Agatha Raisin.