in front of her. She was wearing a fox coat over a red suit. No mourning weeds for her.
But the graveside service was so moving and so dignified that Agatha thought there was a lot to be said for staking your claim to your six-by-four in a country churchyard. When the service was over, she muttered a goodbye to Mrs Mason and set out in pursuit of the vet’s ex-wife, catching up with her at the lych gate.
‘My name is Agatha Raisin,’ she said. ‘I gather you are poor Mr Bladen’s wife.’
‘I was,’ said Mrs Bladen a trifle impatiently. ‘It is really very cold, Mrs Raisin, and I am anxious to get home.’
‘My car is just outside. Can I drop you somewhere?’
‘No, I have my own car.’
‘I wonder if we could have a talk?’ said Agatha eagerly.
A look of dislike came into Mrs Bladen’s eyes. ‘My life seems to have been plagued by women wanting to talk to me after my husband had dumped them. It is just as well he is dead.’
She stalked off.
I seem to be getting snubbed all round, thought Agatha. But there’s one thing for sure: our vet was a philanderer. If only I could prove it wasn’t an accident, that it was murder, then they’d all sit up and take notice!
Carsely had frequent power cuts, some lasting days, some only a few seconds.
James Lacey pressed Agatha’s doorbell the following day. He did not know there was one of the brief power cuts because one could not usually hear the bell ringing from outside.
He glanced down at the front lawn. There was a lot of moss on it. He wondered if Agatha knew how to treat it. He bent down for a closer look. Agatha, who thought she had heard someone outside, put her eye to the spyhole, but not seeing anyone, retreated to the kitchen. James Lacey straightened up and pressed the bell again. By this time the power had come back on but Agatha had found crumbs on the carpet and had plugged in the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen at the back.
James retreated, feeling baffled. He remembered all the times he had pretended to be out when Agatha had called.
He went into his own cottage, made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He switched on his new computer and then stared bleakly at the screen waiting for it to boot up, before finding the right file and flicking his written words up on to the green screen. There it was. ‘Chapter Two’. If only he had written just one sentence. Why had he decided to write military history anyway? Just because he was a retired soldier did not necessarily mean he was confined to military subjects. Besides, why had he chosen the Peninsular Wars? Was there anything to add more than what had been already written? Oh, dear, how long the day seemed. It had been fun going to see Pendlebury. Of course it had been an accident. And yet there was that bump on the back of the head.
It might be more fun to write mystery stories. Say, for example, the vet had been murdered, how would one go about finding out what had really happened? Well, the first step would be to find out why he was murdered, for the why would surely lead to the who .
If Agatha had answered her door to him and not looked as if she were avoiding him, he might have dropped the subject. Had he really wanted to write military history, he still might have dropped it. He gave an exclamation of disgust, switched off the machine and went out again. There would be no harm in trying Agatha’s door again. He had obviously been mistaken when he had thought she was pursuing him. And he had invited her for a drink, not Freda Huntingdon. It was not his fault that Agatha had suddenly decided to leave with that farmer.
It was a fine spring day, light and airy, smelling of growing things. This time, Agatha’s front door was open. He went in, calling, ‘Agatha,’ and nearly fell over her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the hall, playing with her cats.
‘Am I seeing things, or have you two of them?’ he asked.
‘The new one’s a stray I picked up in
But the graveside service was so moving and so dignified that Agatha thought there was a lot to be said for staking your claim to your six-by-four in a country churchyard. When the service was over, she muttered a goodbye to Mrs Mason and set out in pursuit of the vet’s ex-wife, catching up with her at the lych gate.
‘My name is Agatha Raisin,’ she said. ‘I gather you are poor Mr Bladen’s wife.’
‘I was,’ said Mrs Bladen a trifle impatiently. ‘It is really very cold, Mrs Raisin, and I am anxious to get home.’
‘My car is just outside. Can I drop you somewhere?’
‘No, I have my own car.’
‘I wonder if we could have a talk?’ said Agatha eagerly.
A look of dislike came into Mrs Bladen’s eyes. ‘My life seems to have been plagued by women wanting to talk to me after my husband had dumped them. It is just as well he is dead.’
She stalked off.
I seem to be getting snubbed all round, thought Agatha. But there’s one thing for sure: our vet was a philanderer. If only I could prove it wasn’t an accident, that it was murder, then they’d all sit up and take notice!
Carsely had frequent power cuts, some lasting days, some only a few seconds.
James Lacey pressed Agatha’s doorbell the following day. He did not know there was one of the brief power cuts because one could not usually hear the bell ringing from outside.
He glanced down at the front lawn. There was a lot of moss on it. He wondered if Agatha knew how to treat it. He bent down for a closer look. Agatha, who thought she had heard someone outside, put her eye to the spyhole, but not seeing anyone, retreated to the kitchen. James Lacey straightened up and pressed the bell again. By this time the power had come back on but Agatha had found crumbs on the carpet and had plugged in the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen at the back.
James retreated, feeling baffled. He remembered all the times he had pretended to be out when Agatha had called.
He went into his own cottage, made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He switched on his new computer and then stared bleakly at the screen waiting for it to boot up, before finding the right file and flicking his written words up on to the green screen. There it was. ‘Chapter Two’. If only he had written just one sentence. Why had he decided to write military history anyway? Just because he was a retired soldier did not necessarily mean he was confined to military subjects. Besides, why had he chosen the Peninsular Wars? Was there anything to add more than what had been already written? Oh, dear, how long the day seemed. It had been fun going to see Pendlebury. Of course it had been an accident. And yet there was that bump on the back of the head.
It might be more fun to write mystery stories. Say, for example, the vet had been murdered, how would one go about finding out what had really happened? Well, the first step would be to find out why he was murdered, for the why would surely lead to the who .
If Agatha had answered her door to him and not looked as if she were avoiding him, he might have dropped the subject. Had he really wanted to write military history, he still might have dropped it. He gave an exclamation of disgust, switched off the machine and went out again. There would be no harm in trying Agatha’s door again. He had obviously been mistaken when he had thought she was pursuing him. And he had invited her for a drink, not Freda Huntingdon. It was not his fault that Agatha had suddenly decided to leave with that farmer.
It was a fine spring day, light and airy, smelling of growing things. This time, Agatha’s front door was open. He went in, calling, ‘Agatha,’ and nearly fell over her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the hall, playing with her cats.
‘Am I seeing things, or have you two of them?’ he asked.
‘The new one’s a stray I picked up in
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