Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham (16 page)

I can’t ask him if he knows the address, thought Agatha. That would be pushing it. I’ll go to the post office and check the phone book for Burkes.

She suffered dismally under the ministrations of the energetic Garry. He had been bad enough before, but now he was worse. She looked sadly at her bouffant hair-style.

‘Very nice,’ she said bleakly. She tipped him again, paid Josie and went out into the High Street.

She went into a phone-box at the post office and checked her Call Minder. ‘No messages,’ said the tinny, elocuted voice, with what Agatha felt was smug satisfaction. So face up to
it. Charles had laid her and now he was gone and she was on her own.

She asked at the counter for the Worcestershire phone book and ran her finger down the Burkes. There was one Burke on the Four Pools Estate, and J. Burke at that.

I’ll show Charles, I’ll show the police, I’ll show
everybody
I can do it on my own. Agatha strode along the High Street to the car park. She caught a glimpse of her
reflection in a shop window and shuddered. The things I suffer in the name of detection!

She drove to the Four Pools Estate. How quickly Evesham was spreading out. A new McDonald’s had been built in about two weeks earlier in the year and a large new pub in about two months.
Soon the countryside would be swallowed up. Agatha realized that she was in danger of becoming one of those people she had hitherto despised – the
I-know-they’ve-got-to-live-somewhere,but-why-can’t-it-be-somewhere-else? type of person.

Before she got out of the car, she took a comb out of her handbag and wrenched it down through her lacquered hair until she felt she had flattened it a bit.

As she braced herself to walk up a neat garden path, she was engulfed in a sudden wave of depression. Charles’s cavalier treatment of her brought back all her fierce longing for James and
her mind began to credit him with warmth and affections that he did not have.

She rang the doorbell.

The door was opened. She recognized Mavis immediately, but Mavis did not recognize her.

‘I would like you to know, we go to mass every Sunday,’ said Mavis crossly, ‘and we don’t want anything to do with the likes of you!’

The door began to close.

‘I’m not a Jehovah,’ said Agatha quickly. ‘I was a client of Mr John’s.’

The door opened again. ‘The one that died?’

‘Was murdered, yes. May we talk?’

‘Yes, come in.’ Mavis had an ordinary sort of face without any particular distinguishing features, pale blue eyes and a surprisingly smooth and shining stylish head of hair.

Mavis, as she led the way into a cosy living-room, did not evince any signs of fear or nervousness. ‘Sit down, Mrs . . .?’

‘Raisin. Call me Agatha.’

‘Right Agatha. I’ll get us some tea. I’d just put the kettle on and I’m dying for a cuppa.’

When Mavis left the room, Agatha looked about her. She had somehow expected the mother of a drug addict and pusher would live in squalor. But the living-room was furnished with a three-piece
suite in shades of gold and brown. An electric fire with mock coals glowed cheerfully. There were framed family photographs on the walls and a crucifix over the fireplace. Women’s magazines
and television guides lay on the coffee-table.

After a short time Mavis entered carrying a tray on which was a fat teapot and china mugs decorated with roses and a plate of cakes, bright with pink and white icing.

‘Terrible business, that,’ said Mavis, pouring tea. ‘And to think I knew him!’

‘As a client?’ Agatha accepted a mug of very dark strong tea.

‘Oh, no, he even took me out for dinner once. What’s your interest?’

‘I suppose I am by way of being an amateur detective,’ said Agatha modestly, for she privately thought there was nothing amateur about her efforts at all.

‘Oh, I know. You was in the papers once. Your hubby got bumped off. This is exciting. Just like on telly. Wait till I tell my Jim.’

Jim, the monster! Agatha was beginning to feel bewildered.

‘Why did he ask you out and you a married woman?’

‘Well, look, it all started with a sort of bet I’d had with Selma Figgs next door. She was saying how Mr John was like a film star. “We couldn’t get off with one of
those, now could we, Mavis,” she says to me. So I said, “I bet you a tenner I can.” I knew our Mr John was a bit of a ladies’ man and he always seemed to be chatting up
right frumps, if you ask me.’

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 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 in 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 heard the door of the drawing-room open again, that burst of noise and laughter, and then Charles’s voice:
‘Hello, 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 Darry 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.’

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.