Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham (2 page)

‘Mr John in Evesham.’

‘Oh, I went there once to get my hair done. I was bridesmaid at my sister Glad’s wedding. He did it ever so pretty, but I didn’t like him.’

‘Why?’

‘Awful patronizing, he was. Gushed around the richer customers.’

Agatha shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter what a hairdresser’s like, does it?’

‘To me it does. I mean to say, I don’t like anyone I don’t like touching me.’

The meeting was called to order. They were to give one of their concerts over at Ancombe. Agatha’s heart sank. Ladies’ Society concerts were truly awful, long evenings of shrill
singing and bad sketches.

Mrs Darry piped up, her eyes gleaming in her ferrety face. She was wearing a tweed skirt, blouse and tweed jacket but seemed unaffected by the heat. ‘Why doesn’t Mrs Raisin ever
volunteer to do anything?’

‘Why don’t you?’ snapped Agatha.

‘Because
I
am doing the teas.’

‘I have no talent,’ said Agatha.

Mrs Darry gave a shrill laugh. ‘Neither do any of the others, but that doesn’t stop them.’

‘Really,’ protested Mrs Bloxby, ‘that was unkind.’

Miss Simms, who had volunteered to do her impersonation of Cher, glared. ‘Jealous cow,’ she said.

‘I’ve a good mind to let you do the teas yourselves,’ said Mrs Darry.

There was a silence. Then Agatha said, ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Good idea,’ said Miss Simms.

Mrs Darry got to her feet. ‘Then if you don’t need my services, I’m going home.’

She stalked out of the garden.

Agatha bit her lip. She didn’t want to be bothered catering for a bunch of women in all this heat.

The depression which had lifted because of her visit to the hairdresser came down around her again like a black cloud. This is your life, Agatha Raisin. Trapped in a Cotswold village, cut off
from excitement, cut off from adventure, doing teas for a bunch of boring women.

She trudged home afterwards. There did not seem to be a breath of air.

She opened all the windows. She looked at the silent phone. Could anyone have rung when she was out? She dialled 1571 for the Call Minder. ‘You have
one
message,’ said the
carefully elocuted voice of the computer. ‘Would you like to hear it?’

‘Of course I would, you silly bitch,’ growled Agatha.

There was a silence and then the voice said primly, ‘I did not hear that. Would you like to hear your message?’

There was a click and then the well-modulated tones of Sir Charles Fraith sounded down the line, ‘Hello, Aggie. Fancy dinner tomorrow?’

Agatha brightened. Although she had been wary of Charles because of a one-night stand when they had both been in Cyprus, a night of sex which had seemed to mean very little to him, the thought
of going out to dinner and showing off her new hair-style appealed greatly.

She dialled his number and got his Call Minder and left a message asking him to call for her at eight o’clock the following evening.

Her depression once more lifted, she went upstairs and had a bath and went to bed. She had left her hair pinned up, but as she lay on her hot pillow the pins bored into her head. At last she
rose and took all the pins out and went back to bed, tossing and turning all night in the suffocating heat. Thunder rolled and the rain came down about two in the morning but did nothing to freshen
the air.

When she rose in the morning, it was to find her hair was a disaster, damp with heat, and dishevelled with all the tossing about.

As soon as she knew the salon would be open, she phoned Mr John’s receptionist to see if she could have an appointment for that day. ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Raisin,’ said the
receptionist on a rather smug note. ‘Mr John is fully booked.’

‘Put him on.’

‘I beg your parding?’

‘I said let me talk to him . . . now!’

‘Oh, very well.’

‘Agatha!’ Mr John welcomed her like an old friend.

‘I’ve got a dinner date and my hair is a wreck. Could you possibly fit me in?’

‘I would like to help you out. Let me see. Give me the book, Josie.’

There was a rustling of pages and then he came back on the phone. ‘You had your hair washed yesterday, so what I could do is just put it in rollers and then pin it up, but it would need to
be five o’clock.’

Agatha thought quickly. She would have plenty of time to get her hair done, get back home and washed and changed in time for Charles. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘I’ll be
there.’

She then went up to the bedroom and swung open the doors of the wardrobe. What to wear? There was that little black dress she hadn’t worn since Cyprus. He had liked it. She tried it on. It
hung loose on her body. How odd, thought Agatha, that depression could do so effectively what all those diets and exercise had not. She had lost weight.

She decided to drive into Mircester and look for something new.

The steering-wheel of her car scorched her hands and she was up out of the village and speeding along the Fosse before the air-conditioning worked.

Mircester shimmered under ferocious heat. She was able to find a parking place without difficulty. A lot of people seemed to have decided to stay at home. Agatha put on her sunglasses and
squinted up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. She made her way to Harris Street off the main square, which boasted a line of expensive boutiques.

She went in and out of one hot shop after another until she felt she could not bear to try on another dress. Perhaps it would be better to settle for one of her old dresses. It might be a bit
loose but that would be all to the good, for any restaurant they went to would not have air-conditioning.

Agatha had just decided to forget about the whole thing when, looking along an alley which led off Harris Street and down to the abbey, she noticed the weekly market was in full swing. She would
buy some fresh vegetables for salad. Once she was in the market and heading for the vegetable stalls, she noticed several stalls full of brightly coloured clothes. In one of them, a dress caught
her eye. It was of fine scarlet cotton with a design of white lotus flowers. It had a cool, flowing line. Agatha fingered it. An Indian trader appeared at her elbow. ‘Nice dress,’ he
said.

Agatha hesitated and then asked, ‘How much?’

‘Fourteen pounds.’

Again Agatha hesitated. It was very cheap. It might wrinkle or even fall apart. She had been prepared to spend a couple of hundred pounds. ‘Tell you what,’ said the trader wearily,
‘you can have it for twelve.’

‘Okay, I’ll take it.’

He stuffed the dress in an old plastic bag.

‘Hot, isn’t it?’ Agatha handed over the money.

‘And don’t tell me I ought to be used to it,’ he said gloomily. ‘I was born in Birmingham.’

Agatha was about to say, ‘So was I,’ but then left the words unsaid. She was ashamed of her background.

She tried on the dress as soon as she got home. It was very attractive and, once she had added a thick gold necklace, looked quite expensive.

Now for Mr John.

Evesham seemed even hotter than Mircester. Agatha suddenly wished she had her old, simple hair-style which she could wash and arrange herself.

But there was Mr John, cool and handsome as ever. ‘Got a date?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Anyone special?’

Agatha could not resist bragging.

‘Actually, he’s a baronet.’

‘Very grand. Which baronet?’

‘Sir Charles Fraith.’

‘And how did you come to meet him?’

Agatha was about to say, ‘On a case,’ but she did not like the implication that such as Agatha Raisin could not know anyone with a title, so she said airily, ‘He’s in my
set.’

And hope that shuts you up, she thought.

‘Pity,’ he said.

‘What’s a pity?’

‘You’ll think this very forward of me, but I was thinking of asking you out myself.’

‘Why?’ asked Agatha in surprise.

‘You’re a very attractive woman.’

And a rich one, thought Agatha cynically. But then Mr John was so very handsome with his intense blue eyes and blond hair. If James came back and if James saw them going out together, perhaps he
would be jealous; perhaps he would be prompted into saying huskily, ‘I always loved you, Agatha.’

‘Sorry.’ Mr John dug a pin into the back of Agatha’s hair and her rosy dream burst like a brightly coloured soap bubble.

‘Perhaps some evening,’ said Agatha cautiously. ‘Let me think about it.’

But his invitation gave her a warm little glow, and he was a wizard at fashioning her hair into that elegant style.

Agatha made her way out to her car which she had parked on a double yellow line. ‘Look where that car’s parked!’ hissed a woman at her ear.

Agatha swung round. A dumpy, frumpy woman with thick glasses was glaring at her. Agatha shrugged, walked to her car and opened the door.

‘It’s yours!’ gasped the woman. ‘Don’t you know it’s illegal to park there?’

Agatha turned and faced her. ‘I am not obstructing the traffic or getting in anyone’s way,’ she said evenly. ‘Nor am I responsible for the mad parking arrangements of
Evesham or for the stupid one-way system. But I wonder where someone like you gets off on this hot day abusing motorists. Go home, have a cup of tea, put your feet up. Get a life!’

And deaf to the insults that began to pour about her ears, Agatha got in and drove off.

Charles arrived promptly at eight o’clock. He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. ‘Like the hair, Aggie. And the dress. In fact, I bought a dress like that in the
market in Mircester this afternoon for my aunt. She was grumbling about not having anything cool to wear.’

‘I bought this one in Harrods,’ lied Agatha. ‘The one in the market must have been a cheap copy.’ But her pleasure in her appearance had diminished. ‘Where are we
eating?’

‘I thought we would go to the Little Chef.’

‘I am not being taken out to a Little Chef. You
are
cheap, Charles.’

‘I like the food,’ he said defensively. ‘I suppose you want foreign muck. Well, give me a whisky while I think of something.’

Agatha poured him a whisky and he settled in a chair cradling his glass between small, well-manicured hands. He was a slight, fair-haired man. Agatha had never known his age. He had mild,
sensitive features and she had originally thought he might be only in his late thirties. But she had later decided he was probably in his mid-forties. He was wearing a shirt open at the neck and
had slung his jacket over a chair.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘The Jolly Roger at Ancombe, that new pub.’

‘I haven’t been there and I don’t like the sound of it.’

‘Friend of mine went the other week. Said the food was good. Besides, they’ve got a garden with tables. By the way, I saw that detective friend of yours in Mircester; what’s
his name, Chinese chap?’

‘Bill Wong. But he’s on holiday!’

‘I suppose he’s taking it at home. Had a girl on his arm.’

And he hasn’t phoned me, thought Agatha. Bill had been her first friend, the old, tougher Agatha, driven by career and ambition, never having had any time before to make friends. She could
feel the old black edges of that depression hovering on the horizon of her mind.

They set out for Ancombe and parked outside the Jolly Roger, formerly called the Green Man. Inside it was everything that shouted poor food to Agatha – fishing nets, murals of pirates, and
waiters and barmen dressed in striped tops and knee-breeches with plastic ‘silver’ buckles. Charles led the way through to the garden, which was at least a fraction cooler than the
inside. A roguish waiter who introduced himself as Henry handed them two large, gaudily coloured menus.

‘Oh, shit,’ grumbled Agatha. ‘Listen to this. Captain Hook’s scrumptious potato dip. And what about Barbary Coast Chicken with sizzling Long John corn
fritters?’

Henry the waiter was hovering. ‘Do you remember when they were called hens, and chickens were the fluffy little yellow things?’ asked Agatha.

‘And now all mutton is lamb, dear,’ said Henry with a giggle.

Agatha eyed him with disfavour. ‘Just shove off and stop twitching and grinning and we’ll call you when we’re ready.’

‘Well,
really
, I never did.’ Henry tossed his head.

‘The fact that you haven’t lost your virginity is nothing to do with me. Go away.’

‘You’ve hurt his feelings, Aggie,’ said Charles equably.

‘Don’t care,’ muttered Agatha. Bill hadn’t even bothered to phone her. ‘What are you having?’

‘I’ll have the all-day breakfast. The Dead-Eye Dick Special, and I hope it comes with lots of chips.’

‘No starter? Oh well, I’ll have a ham salad.’

‘They can’t have anything described simply as ham salad.’

‘It’s described as South Sea Roast pig, sliced and on a bed of crunchy salad with Hard Tack croutons.’

‘Oh. Wine?’

‘Why not?’

Charles signalled to the waiter, ordered their meals and a carafe of house wine.

‘No vintage for me?’ asked Agatha.

‘I wouldn’t bother in a place like this.’

‘So why did you bring me to a place like this?’

‘God, you’re sour this evening, Agatha. Am I to assume that James is not around?’

‘No, he’s away somewhere.’

‘And didn’t even say goodbye? Yes, I can see by the look on your face.’

‘Men are so immature.’

‘That’s what you women always throw at us.’

‘Well, it’s true.’

‘It’s a necessary part of the masculine make-up. It enables us to dream greater dreams and bring them about. Have you ever wondered why all the great inventors are men?’

‘Because women never had a chance.’

‘Wrong. Women are pragmatic. They have to be to bring up children. I shall illustrate what I mean with a story.’ He rested his chin on his hands and gazed dreamily across at her.

‘A chap goes to Cambridge University. The girls there terrify him and they’re only interested in rugger-buggers anyway and he’s the academic type. So he falls in love with a
fluffy little barmaid, and gets her pregnant and marries her. He gets a first in physics but he has to support his new family, so he takes a job in an insurance office and there he is, up to his
neck in a mortgage and car payments and the wife has twins. A few years pass and he begins to spend every weekend down in the garden shed. Wife begins to whine and complain. “We never see
you. Sharon and Tracey are missing their dad. What are you
doing
?” At last he tells her. He’s building a time machine. Then the shit hits the fan. Will this pay the bills? she
rages at him. The Joneses next door have a new deep freeze. When are they going to get one? And so on. So he locks himself into his shed and hammers away while she screams outside.