Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

counsellor for Mrs Gore-Appleton’s charity, Help Our Homeless. Now here’s the interesting bit.
    ‘Jimmy always seemed to have a lot of money to flash around. How my detective, a Ms Iris Harris, found that out was because Jimmy liked to queen it in front of his old down-and-out cronies. Then, after a year of sobriety, he suddenly went downhill amazingly quickly and soon reappeared among the beggars, junkies, and general drop-outs of the London streets.
    ‘One down-and-out who has recently sobered up offered the information that Jimmy delighted in finding out things about people, and even in his lowest stage was not above blackmailing someone for a bottle of meths with some threat such as reporting them to the social security if he found out they had work and were still drawing the dole, that kind of thing.’
    Roy beamed about him triumphantly. ‘So you see, sweeties, this agile brain of mine came to the conclusion that if Jimmy could blackmail the poor, why not the rich while working with this Gore-Appleton female? Maybe he saw one of his pigeons in Mircester and the pigeon saw a likely opportunity of killing Jimmy and took it.’
    ‘It all seems too much of a coincidence,’ said James slowly. ‘Agatha here decides to get married in Mircester. Had it not been for that, Jimmy would never have come down to the Cotswolds. Why on earth should one of his victims suddenly appear as well?’
    Roy looked downcast. Then his face brightened. ‘Ah, but do you know where the health farm he went to is situated? At Ashton-le-Walls, ten miles outside Mircester.’
    ‘Yes, but people who go to health farms don’t usually come from the immediate neighbourhood, do they?’ asked Agatha. ‘I mean, they come from all over the country.’
    ‘Oh, you are such a pair of downers!’ said Roy petulantly. ‘And coincidences do happen in real life. Do you remember that Australian friend of mine, Aggie? The tourist from hell?’
    ‘Yes, I thought he was rather nice. Steve, that was his name.’
    ‘Anyway, him. I thought he was back in Australia, never to return. The other week I was in a pub and I got talking about Steve to this friend, about his dreary camcorder and his dreary guidebooks, and I was just saying I hoped I would never see him again when I felt these eyes drilling into the back of my head and I turned round and there was Steve! He flounced off but I can tell you, it gave me a turn, and it was in a pub in Fulham I’ve never been to before.’
    James turned to Agatha. ‘He’s at least given us something to go on. We should start off tomorrow by going up to London to try to find this Mrs Gore-Appleton.’
    Agatha brightened visibly at the thought of taking some action.
    The doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be Bill Wong,’ said James, getting to his feet.
    Agatha grabbed his sleeve. ‘Let’s not tell him anything about this, James. Let’s keep it to ourselves for a bit.’
    He looked about to protest and then slowly nodded. ‘All right, but no getting yourself into danger again, Agatha. You’ve been involved in some scary murders in the past.’
    Bill Wong came in and stopped short, surprised to see Roy.
    ‘I thought they would have killed you.’
    ‘Aggie and I are old friends,’ said Roy defensively. ‘I only wanted to give her Jimmy’s death certificate as a wedding present.’
    Bill gave a him a slanting cynical look. ‘If you say so.’
    Roy picked up the papers, which James had left on the table, and thrust them into his briefcase.
    ‘What’s that?’ asked Bill.
    ‘PR stuff,’ said Roy. ‘I came down here to get Agatha’s help.’
    Bill looked around at the three faces. There was a wary, almost hostile atmosphere in the room. He decided ruefully that James and Agatha must be under a great strain. He should have called before this.
    ‘I wish I had some good news for you,’ he said, ‘but we still cannot find out any reason why your late husband was murdered, Agatha. If it had been among the down-and-outs in London, then it might have been decided he had been killed for no greater reason than the bottle in his pocket. But here, in the Cotswolds?’
    ‘Haven’t the police in London been questioning his old cronies?’ asked James.
    ‘Of course. But that lot have only to see a police uniform to clam up, and they can smell a detective at a hundred paces. I wish I could go there myself and see what I could dig up. How’s the village taking it?’ said Bill, who lived in Mircester.
    ‘I gather