M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

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.

Roy look at her, puzzled. “What?”

“Nothing. Yes, I think we’ll go to Portsmouth tomorrow.”

AGATHA sat uneasily on the passenger side of her car as Roy hurtled down the motorways towards Portsmouth the following day. She had wanted to leave her cats in the cottage for the day, but Roy had pointed out that the murderer might come looking for her and destroy her cats in revenge, so Hodge and Boswell had been put in their cat boxes and taken round to the cleaner, Doris Simpson’s, for security.

Agatha realized that all her hurt over Charles had dulled the fact that she might be at risk.

“Portsmouth’s a big place,” said Roy, “and there must be an awful lot of hairdressers.”

“We can only ask around a few places,” said Agatha. “Oh, rats!”

“Rats what?”

“I forgot to switch on the burglar alarm. I’m always doing that.”

“Want to go back?”

“Not now. We’ve already gone miles. Just need to hope everything will be safe.”

“You know, I think it will be,” said Roy, “now that I’ve had time to think about it.”