with a dowager’s hump and he walked painfully with the aid of a stick. His tragedy was that he had outlived his son, Charles, who had been killed in a motor accident when he was only twenty-one. Shortly after that, Harry’s wife had died of cancer. He was often quite hungry, his pension going on cigarettes and petrol for his ancient Ford. He was delighted with Agatha’s invitation, imagining a slap-up meal of turkey and all the trimmings.
Jake Turnbull was eighty-five, a stocky barrel-shaped farmer. He had a nasty temper, no wife and no friends. He usually spent Christmas getting thoroughly drunk. He was also a bit of a miser and delighted in the thought of free food and booze.
Freda Pinch was a spinster, or, as the politically correct would say, a single woman. Her surname was appropriate, because she had a pinched little face, thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a flat-chested figure. Although she was small in stature, she had very large feet and hands, making her look like the illustration of a witch in a children’s book. She was eighty-two years old. She did not like Agatha. Agatha was known to have men staying overnight, Disgraceful! But then, there was the thought of another bleak Christmas on her own. She decided to accept.
Simon Trent was eighty years old but looked as if he were in his sixties. His brown hair had only a few threads of grey in it, and he had a pleasant craggy face. He was tall, age having not shrunk his skeleton very much. He was a retired engineer. He was considered a useful man in the village because he did car repairs, often not charging anything at all. His wife had fallen in love with a plumber a long time ago and had run off and left him. After the divorce, Simon had not felt like getting married again. He knew of Agatha’s prowess as a detective and admired her. He decided to go to her Christmas dinner.
Len Leech read his invitation with a slow smile. That Raisin woman was considered a bit of a fast mover. She must have seen him around the village and set her sights on him. When he looked in the mirror, Len saw a handsome man. Others saw an eighty-five-year-old with dyed black hair, small black eyes set too close together and a wide fleshy mouth. He had a beer paunch and thick fingers like chipolata sausaages. Agatha would have been horrified if she could have seen the pornographic film that was already running inside Len’s head. Len was pleased to think that because Agatha in her early fifties was past childbearing age, he would not have to buy condoms. Never liked the things anyway. Like making love in your socks. Three wives had divorced him before getting round to producing children. His ego swelling like a bullfrog, he wrote a fulsome acceptance, beginning,
Dear lady
.
Roy Silver, Agatha’s friend and former employee from the days when she ran a London PR agency, arrived the following weekend. His appearance changed according to which client or clients he was representing, and his latest client was a pop band called Sod Off. They were trying to reinvent punk. His fine hair was dyed pink and green and gelled up into a crest. His jeans were ripped at the knee. And, to Agatha’s horror, he had two nose rings.
“What have you done to yourself?” cried Agatha. “You look like retro shit. And those nose piercings! What are you going to do when that ridiculous fashion dies? You’ll need to pay for plastic surgery to get the holes filled in.”
Roy shrugged. “It’s this village life, babes. You’ve gone all old-fashioned.” His sleeveless denim jacket revealed thin arms covered down to the wrists in swirling blue and red tattoos. “Don’t glare,” he said. “They peel off.”
“What will the villagers think?” mourned Agatha. “Don’t go outside this cottage without a bag over your head.”
“It’s not as bad as that.”
“Trust me. It is. Does that canary-coloured gel wash off?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a start. Go upstairs and have a shower and find
Jake Turnbull was eighty-five, a stocky barrel-shaped farmer. He had a nasty temper, no wife and no friends. He usually spent Christmas getting thoroughly drunk. He was also a bit of a miser and delighted in the thought of free food and booze.
Freda Pinch was a spinster, or, as the politically correct would say, a single woman. Her surname was appropriate, because she had a pinched little face, thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a flat-chested figure. Although she was small in stature, she had very large feet and hands, making her look like the illustration of a witch in a children’s book. She was eighty-two years old. She did not like Agatha. Agatha was known to have men staying overnight, Disgraceful! But then, there was the thought of another bleak Christmas on her own. She decided to accept.
Simon Trent was eighty years old but looked as if he were in his sixties. His brown hair had only a few threads of grey in it, and he had a pleasant craggy face. He was tall, age having not shrunk his skeleton very much. He was a retired engineer. He was considered a useful man in the village because he did car repairs, often not charging anything at all. His wife had fallen in love with a plumber a long time ago and had run off and left him. After the divorce, Simon had not felt like getting married again. He knew of Agatha’s prowess as a detective and admired her. He decided to go to her Christmas dinner.
Len Leech read his invitation with a slow smile. That Raisin woman was considered a bit of a fast mover. She must have seen him around the village and set her sights on him. When he looked in the mirror, Len saw a handsome man. Others saw an eighty-five-year-old with dyed black hair, small black eyes set too close together and a wide fleshy mouth. He had a beer paunch and thick fingers like chipolata sausaages. Agatha would have been horrified if she could have seen the pornographic film that was already running inside Len’s head. Len was pleased to think that because Agatha in her early fifties was past childbearing age, he would not have to buy condoms. Never liked the things anyway. Like making love in your socks. Three wives had divorced him before getting round to producing children. His ego swelling like a bullfrog, he wrote a fulsome acceptance, beginning,
Dear lady
.
Roy Silver, Agatha’s friend and former employee from the days when she ran a London PR agency, arrived the following weekend. His appearance changed according to which client or clients he was representing, and his latest client was a pop band called Sod Off. They were trying to reinvent punk. His fine hair was dyed pink and green and gelled up into a crest. His jeans were ripped at the knee. And, to Agatha’s horror, he had two nose rings.
“What have you done to yourself?” cried Agatha. “You look like retro shit. And those nose piercings! What are you going to do when that ridiculous fashion dies? You’ll need to pay for plastic surgery to get the holes filled in.”
Roy shrugged. “It’s this village life, babes. You’ve gone all old-fashioned.” His sleeveless denim jacket revealed thin arms covered down to the wrists in swirling blue and red tattoos. “Don’t glare,” he said. “They peel off.”
“What will the villagers think?” mourned Agatha. “Don’t go outside this cottage without a bag over your head.”
“It’s not as bad as that.”
“Trust me. It is. Does that canary-coloured gel wash off?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a start. Go upstairs and have a shower and find
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