London,’ said Agatha, scrabbling to her feet. ‘Like a coffee?’
‘Not coffee. I seem to have been drinking it all morning. Tea would be nice.’
‘Tea it is.’ Agatha led the way into the kitchen.
‘About the other night,’ he said, hovering in the kitchen doorway, ‘we didn’t have much of a chance to talk.’
‘Well, that’s pubs for you,’ said Agatha with seeming indifference. ‘You never end up talking to the person you go in with. Milk or lemon?’
‘Lemon, please. I’ve been thinking, this business about the vet. Did you go to the funeral?’
‘Yes. Lot of women there. Seems to have been popular with quite a lot of women, so he can’t have gone around putting down their cats unasked.’
‘Who was there from this village?’
‘Apart from me, his four remaining fans: your friend, Freda Huntingdon; Mrs Mason; Mrs Harriet Parr; and Miss Josephine Webster. Oh, and his ex-wife. Hey, that’s odd.’
‘What is?’
‘When I was supposed to be having dinner in Evesham that night I crashed and I phoned Paul’s house and this woman answered the phone saying she was his wife . . .’ Agatha broke off.
‘Well?’
‘Well, Paul Bladen told me afterwards that the woman who answered the phone was his sister, being silly or something. But no one else has mentioned his sister. I forgot to ask for her at the funeral.’
‘We could drive into Mircester and find out,’ he volunteered.
Agatha turned away quickly and fiddled with the kettle to hide the sudden look of rapture in her eyes. ‘Do you think it’s murder then?’ she asked.
He sighed. ‘No, I don’t. But it might be fun to go through the motions. I mean, ask people, just as if it were.’
‘I’ll get my coat.’ Agatha nipped smartly upstairs, gazing in the glass at her outfit of sweater and skirt. But there was no time to change, for if she did not hurry up, he might decide to call the whole thing off.
‘Just going to get some money,’ he called up the stairs.
Agatha cursed under her breath. What if he were waylaid in the short distance between her house and his? She went down the stairs and out of the door.
Freda Huntingdon was talking to him, laughing and holding that wretched yapping dog under her arm. Agatha clenched her hands into fists as they both disappeared into James’s cottage. She stood there in her own front garden, irresolute. What if he forgot about her? But he emerged with Freda after only a few moments. Freda was tucking a paperback into her pocket.
She waved goodbye to him and he walked towards Agatha. ‘Shall we take my car?’ he asked. ‘No need to take two.’
‘Mine will be fine,’ said Agatha. He climbed into the passenger seat. As Agatha drove past Freda, she turned and stared at them in surprise. Agatha gave a cheerful fanfare on the horn and drove fast round the corner out of the lane.
‘What did the merry widow want?’ she asked.
‘Freda? She had lent me a paperback and had come to collect it.’
Agatha would have chatted on merrily all the way to Mircester and probably would have driven James away again, but just at that moment she sensed there was a pimple growing on the end of her nose. She squinted down and the car veered wildly to the side of the road before she corrected the steering.
‘Are you all right?’ asked James. ‘Do you want me to drive?’
‘I’m fine.’ But Agatha sank into a worried silence. She could feel that pimple growing and growing, an itchy soreness on the end of her nose. Why should such a thing happen to her on this day of all days? This was what came of eating ‘healthy’ food, as recommended by Mrs Bloxby. Years of fast food had not produced one blemish. The only solution, Agatha decided, was when they reached Mircester, she would say she needed to buy something from the chemist’s – no gentleman would ask what – and then say she was dying for a drink.
She parked in the last space in the town’s main square. A woman who had been in the act
‘Not coffee. I seem to have been drinking it all morning. Tea would be nice.’
‘Tea it is.’ Agatha led the way into the kitchen.
‘About the other night,’ he said, hovering in the kitchen doorway, ‘we didn’t have much of a chance to talk.’
‘Well, that’s pubs for you,’ said Agatha with seeming indifference. ‘You never end up talking to the person you go in with. Milk or lemon?’
‘Lemon, please. I’ve been thinking, this business about the vet. Did you go to the funeral?’
‘Yes. Lot of women there. Seems to have been popular with quite a lot of women, so he can’t have gone around putting down their cats unasked.’
‘Who was there from this village?’
‘Apart from me, his four remaining fans: your friend, Freda Huntingdon; Mrs Mason; Mrs Harriet Parr; and Miss Josephine Webster. Oh, and his ex-wife. Hey, that’s odd.’
‘What is?’
‘When I was supposed to be having dinner in Evesham that night I crashed and I phoned Paul’s house and this woman answered the phone saying she was his wife . . .’ Agatha broke off.
‘Well?’
‘Well, Paul Bladen told me afterwards that the woman who answered the phone was his sister, being silly or something. But no one else has mentioned his sister. I forgot to ask for her at the funeral.’
‘We could drive into Mircester and find out,’ he volunteered.
Agatha turned away quickly and fiddled with the kettle to hide the sudden look of rapture in her eyes. ‘Do you think it’s murder then?’ she asked.
He sighed. ‘No, I don’t. But it might be fun to go through the motions. I mean, ask people, just as if it were.’
‘I’ll get my coat.’ Agatha nipped smartly upstairs, gazing in the glass at her outfit of sweater and skirt. But there was no time to change, for if she did not hurry up, he might decide to call the whole thing off.
‘Just going to get some money,’ he called up the stairs.
Agatha cursed under her breath. What if he were waylaid in the short distance between her house and his? She went down the stairs and out of the door.
Freda Huntingdon was talking to him, laughing and holding that wretched yapping dog under her arm. Agatha clenched her hands into fists as they both disappeared into James’s cottage. She stood there in her own front garden, irresolute. What if he forgot about her? But he emerged with Freda after only a few moments. Freda was tucking a paperback into her pocket.
She waved goodbye to him and he walked towards Agatha. ‘Shall we take my car?’ he asked. ‘No need to take two.’
‘Mine will be fine,’ said Agatha. He climbed into the passenger seat. As Agatha drove past Freda, she turned and stared at them in surprise. Agatha gave a cheerful fanfare on the horn and drove fast round the corner out of the lane.
‘What did the merry widow want?’ she asked.
‘Freda? She had lent me a paperback and had come to collect it.’
Agatha would have chatted on merrily all the way to Mircester and probably would have driven James away again, but just at that moment she sensed there was a pimple growing on the end of her nose. She squinted down and the car veered wildly to the side of the road before she corrected the steering.
‘Are you all right?’ asked James. ‘Do you want me to drive?’
‘I’m fine.’ But Agatha sank into a worried silence. She could feel that pimple growing and growing, an itchy soreness on the end of her nose. Why should such a thing happen to her on this day of all days? This was what came of eating ‘healthy’ food, as recommended by Mrs Bloxby. Years of fast food had not produced one blemish. The only solution, Agatha decided, was when they reached Mircester, she would say she needed to buy something from the chemist’s – no gentleman would ask what – and then say she was dying for a drink.
She parked in the last space in the town’s main square. A woman who had been in the act
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