M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

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 phoned,” 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.”