M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

“You know, I’m beginning to wish I had never recommended Mr. John. But he has such a good reputation. Mrs. Jessie Black over at Ancombe, the chairwoman of the ladies’ society, she used to sport a terrible frizzy perm in an impossible shade of red and he tinted it auburn and put it into a beautifully smooth style.”

“I’ll see if I can get an appointment,” said Agatha. “I’ll try tomorrow.”

Agatha made her way to Evesham. The old buildings of Evesham shimmered in the dreadful heat. She parked in the carpark although she would have liked to try to find a parking place outside the hairdresser’s but did not want another confrontation with some embittered local.

Alert now for nuances, Agatha noticed this time that the receptionist, a vapid blonde in a pink overall with her name, Josie, on a badge on her left breast, gave her a sour, jealous look.

“I was certainly lucky to get a cancellation,” said Agatha brightly.

“Yes,” said Josie, jerking a pink gown round Agatha’s shoulders. “Mr. John is particularly popular with the elderly.”

“Was that crack meant for me?” demanded Agatha, rounding on her savagely.

“Oh, no, modom.” Josie backed away, flustered. “I’ll just get Yvette to shampoo you.”

Ruffled, Agatha sat down at a wash-basin and looked around. From the adjoining area, she could hear a woman’s voice raised in complaint. “I can’t do anything with her these days. I said, ‘That stuff 11 kill you,’ and she says to me, ‘Heroin is my friend.’ My own daughter on drugs! The shame of it. My neighbour says she thinks my Betty is pushing the stuff.”

“Can’t your husband have a word with her?” came Mr. John’s voice.

“Jim? Him! He doesn’t know she’s on the stuff and he wouldn’t believe me even if I told him. Betty’s always been able to twist him round her little finger. Daddy’s girl. Always been daddy’s girl.”

Yvette arrived and put a towel around Agatha’s neck. The subsequent hissing of the water drowned out the rest of the conversation between Mr. John and his customer.

A hairdresser’s salon is like the psychiatrist’s couch, reflected Agatha. The things they talk about. Didn’t that woman stop to think that one of the other customers might hear her and report her daughter to the police? But no. Hairdressers and beauty salons were like the confessional. The only one liable to profit from all these confidences was the hairdresser himself.

Agatha had her hair towelled and was led through to the salon where Mr. John flashed her a smile. Josie brought him a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam container and he added two pills of artificial sweetener called Slimtex. “I get my coffee sent in from across the road,” he said. “It’s that caff over there. Bit seedy, but they make marvellous coffee. Now, Agatha, let’s put you back together again.”

Agatha sighed. “I don’t see how you can do much in this heat. It’s worse than rain.”

“We’ll try.”

He rested his hands on her shoulders and gave them a light press.

“I owe you a dinner,” said Agatha.

“So you do and I’m going to keep you to it.”

Agatha took a deep breath. “Are you free tonight?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Oh. Oh, well; shall I pick you up?”

“No, I’ll call for you at eight. Josie, what are you doing standing there with your mouth hanging open? The phone’s ringing.

Josie fled. Mr. John shrugged. “Young girls these days,” he murmured.

Agatha’s hair was restored to a glossy, smooth shine. When she left the hairdresser’s, she walked quickly to the carpark, hoping she would not sweat too much and ruin the set.

When she got home, she debated whether she should phone Charles. But she felt sulky. He had said nothing about seeing her again. He seemed to walk in and out of her life, expecting her to be available.

She dressed with care but unfortunately not for comfort. She had read that stiletto heels were back in fashion and so had bought a gold sling-back pair, proud of the fact that she still had strong enough ankles to wear such high heels. But the heat had softened her skin and the criss-cross straps on the top of her shoes dug uncomfortably into her feet.

She decided that as she would be sitting in his car and then sitting in some restaurant or other, she could bear it. Just before he arrived, she slipped a little tape recorder into her handbag.

Mrs. Dairy was walking her yapping little dog down Lilac Lane as Agatha was escorted to the car by Mr. John. Agatha flashed her a triumphant look, delighted that the village bitch should witness her going out for the evening with such a handsome man. But Mrs. Dairy, instead of stopping and staring rudely, as she usually did, took to her heels and scurried off down the lane, dragging her protesting dog after her.

“Where are we going?” asked Agatha.

“The Marsh Goose in Moreton.”

“Nice,” said Agatha but reflected gloomily that there was no smoking except in the coffee lounge. It was odd that people who did not drink could never somehow say, ‘Don’t drink in front of me,’ but smokers were always made to feel guilty. Three scientists had recently issued a report that you were more in danger of getting cancer from eating dairy products than you were from passive smoking because dairy products were a killer, but smoking brought out the puritanical beast in people.

By the time she reached the restaurant, she craved a cigarette, but did not dare say so.

She put her handbag on her lap, opened it and covertly switched on the tape recorder. Then she switched it off again. A noisy party of people were at the next table, making conversation between her and the hairdresser almost impossible.

To her relief, the noisy party finally left. Agatha switched on the tape recorder again and turned a dewy-eyed look on Mr. John. “It’s such a break from my troubles to have a quiet dinner like this with you.”

“What troubles, Agatha?” He reached across the table and took her hand.

“It’s James,” said Agatha. To her horror, her eyes filled with tears.

Mr. John’s thumb caressed the palm of her hand. “Tell me about it.”

“He’s coming home, and I’ve missed him so much. I’ve been having an affair with Charles.”

“The baronet?”

“Yes, him. Charles is violently jealous. I tried to finish with him. He says he won’t go away. I’m frightened James will get to hear about it. I’d do anything-anything-to stop him finding out.”

He asked more questions and the more Agatha began to build up a picture of a violent and jealous Charles, the more she began almost to believe it.

But by the time she had moved through with Mr. John to the lounge for coffee, she realized she had done all the talking. She drew out a packet of cigarettes.

“That’s a filthy habit, Agatha. Do you mind if I ask you not to smoke?”

“Yes, I mind very much,” snapped Agatha.

“You’re killing yourself.”

“And so is everyone like you who drives a car that belts carcinogens into the air.”

Agatha then hurriedly closed her handbag, which she had opened wide in her search for cigarettes. She hoped he had not seen the tape recorder. Anyway, he was surely not going to blackmail her tonight.

He began to talk easily about how successful his business in Evesham had proved to be and that he was thinking of opening up another salon. “It’s war, hairdressing,” he said with a laugh. “It’s like the theatre. You would never believe the rivalries and jealousies. And I’m thinking of starting up a beauty salon.”

Agatha fumbled in her handbag and switched off the tape recorder. She felt heavy and sad. And her feet were killing her.

At last she said, “It’s been nice. Do you mind if we go home?” She signalled to the waiter and asked for the bill. “My treat, remember?”