M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

He arrived and greeted them with the words, “I hope you two have been keeping your noses clean.”

“Yes,” said Agatha huffily. “But we can’t help being curious. We just wanted to know if you’d found Shawpart’s wife.”

“I don’t see that there is any harm in telling you that we haven’t. Why?”

“She could be in Evesham.”

“She was last heard of in Glasgow. A friend of hers got a postcard from her.”

“What friend?” asked Agatha eagerly.

“I’m not telling you. When you call on someone, Agatha, the next thing we know, that person has mysteriously died.”

“Mrs. Dairy was from Portsmouth,” said Agatha eagerly. “That was the connection.”

“Obviously,” said Bill. “But we do not know what she found out.”

“Can’t you give us any help?” asked Agatha.

“I can’t,” said Bill. “You caused enough trouble by masquerading as Shawpart’s sister and then lying about driving past the house. Agatha, please just leave it alone.”

“Well, if you don’t want my help…”

“I DON’T!”

“There’s no need to shout.”

“Look, Agatha, you’ve nearly got yourself killed before and I don’t want to see that happening again.”

But Agatha was deeply offended. “Come along, Charles,” she said haughtily. “Bill obviously doesn’t want to tell us anything.”

Charles winked at Bill and meekly followed her from the room.

“He’s only concerned for you, Aggie,” said Charles mildly when they were outside.

“Tough,” grumbled Agatha. “He can sit there and rot. I shall never offer him my help again.”

“Bit hard. He’s gone out on a limb for you before.”

“Like when?”

“Like when he faxed all that stuff to you in Cyprus. Let’s go back to your cottage and cool down.”

After a late and silent lunch, Charles suddenly said he would go home and check out things there. Agatha could think of nothing to say or suggest to keep him. She heartily wished there could be some way she could find out more about what the police had discovered.

She pottered around aimlessly for the rest of the day, played with her cats and fed them, watched some television, or rather flicked backwards and forwards through the channels, and then decided to have an early night.

But Agatha tossed and turned. She kept going over what she had found out again and again. Faces swam in front of her-Maggie, Jessie, Harriet, Josie and the rest. At last, she felt her eyes close. She would forget about the whole thing, go to that nice hairdresser, Marie, and get her hair done and maybe buy a new dress.

Suddenly her eyes shot open. She could almost hear Marie’s voice talking about the jealousies and rivalries in the hairdressing business. And wait a bit! John Shawpart had said the same thing. And who was it had said that John’s wife had been jealous of him?

Her heart beat faster. And who was it who had turned up in Evesham after John’s death, set up business and taken over his staff?

Eve!

Mrs. Shawpart had been described as blonde and statuesque. But then in these days of clever dying and tinting, Eve could have changed her hair from blonde. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try.

The next day she phoned up Eve’s and told Josie she insisted that Eve herself did her hair. Josie sulkily said she could fit her in at three that afternoon, although Agatha was sure that the day was probably full of free appointments.

Agatha felt she should tell someone what she was about to do… well, just in case. If she told Bill, he would order her not to go. But if she told Charles, perhaps he could phone the police.

She dialled Charles’s number. To her relief he answered the phone himself. He listened carefully and to her relief did not tell her she was behaving like an idiot.

“Tell you what, Aggie,” said Charles. “I’ve got a friend in the village who’s a TV sound man. I’ll see if I can get him and bring him over. He’ll put a mike on you and then we’ll wait across the road with the headphones on and if there is even a glimmer that she’s the one we want, I’ll call the police.”

“Don’t be long,” urged Agatha.

She waited impatiently and, as the hands of the clock crept around to two in the afternoon, was beginning to wonder if she should go ahead without them. But suddenly Charles’s car drove up, and Charles got out followed by a tall thin man.

“Right, Aggie,” said Charles when she had let them in, “Brian here will just fix you up and then you can get off.”

Agatha was wearing a trouser suit. The sound pack was clipped onto the waistband of her trousers and the small mike fastened on her collar. “She might see that little black thing,” said Charles. “Have you got a brooch or something?”

Agatha went up to her jewel box and found a gaudy piece of costume jewellery. “That’s quite horrible,” commented Charles, “but it will stop her noticing the microphone.”

They all set off in Charles’s car.

“I never thought about this,” exclaimed Agatha suddenly. “How can I start accusing her of murder in front of her staff?”

“Try anyway,” said Charles. “Say you want a quiet word with her.”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

Agatha was feeling nervous on two counts. First, if Eve were the murderess, then she might be in real danger. And second, if Eve were not, Agatha felt she would make a terrible fool of herself in front of this sound man.

They parked and then walked along the High Street. “Now,” said Charles, “we’ll wait across the street in this doorway. Go to it, Aggie, and best of luck.”

The day was sunny and unusually warm. People came and went in the High Street with their amiable, non-threatening Evesham faces. Agatha suddenly felt silly. In the clear sunshine, her idea began to seem mad. All that would happen would be that she would end up with a truly dreadful hair-style.

Agatha pushed open the door and went in.

Josie was painting her nails and did not look up. “I’ve an appointment,” snarled Agatha. “Jump to it!”

Josie gave a stage sigh and said, “Follow me,” and, waving her painted nails in the air to dry them, led Agatha through to the wash-basins. Eve was sitting reading a magazine. There were no other customers.

“That’s all right, Josie,” said Eve, putting down her magazine. “You can take the rest of the day off. I’ll attend to Mrs. Raisin. Would you like a coffee first, Mrs. Raisin?”

“No, thank you.” Agatha did not want to risk getting coffee laced with ricin.

Josie went off Eve unhitched a gown and held it out to Agatha.

“I’d like a word with you first… Mrs. Shawpart,” said Agatha.

“Who’s she?”

“You are the wife of the hairdresser who was murdered, aren’t you?” demanded Agatha.

Eve looked at her in bewilderment. “I never even knew John Shawpart,” she said. “I had a hairdressing establishment in Worcester and moved here. Whatever gave you such an odd idea?”

“Despite the colour of your hair,” pursued Agatha, although she was beginning to feel stupid and acutely conscious of Brian and Charles listening in, “you fit the description given me of Mrs. Shawpart. Your husband divorced you and collected all the insurance from your salon when it burned down. You were jealous of his success.”

Eve looked at her wearily. “You are talking absolute rubbish. Wait a minute.”

She went away and came back with a business card. “That was the business I had last year and I was in business in Worcester for ten years. Ask anyone.”

Agatha dismally looked down at the business card. It said, “Eve’s Hairdressing,” with an address in the Foregate in Worcester.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.