Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

dead man. He came between us, James.’
    ‘You put him there, Agatha. If you had found out his existence, we could have dealt with it.’
    Agatha gave a small dry sob.
    James took one hand off the steering wheel and gave her a quick hug. ‘You need to give me time,’ he said, and Agatha’s heart suddenly rocketed with hope, like another pheasant which flew up at their approach and sailed over a hedge.
    They received a setback after they had made their statements at police headquarters and gone in search of Mrs Gloria Comfort. They learned from neighbours that she had moved to one of the outlying villages. No one knew her new address but one of the neighbours remembered the house had been sold by Whitney and Dobster, estate agents.
    At the estate agents’, they found to their relief that the man who had organized the sale of Mrs Comfort’s house in Mircester was still working there and cheerfully accepted their story that they were old friends trying to get in touch with her. He produced an address in Ancombe.
    ‘Well!’ exclaimed Agatha outside the estate agents’ office. ‘That’s very close to Carsely, and to the scene of Jimmy’s murder, too. Do you think the police will have been there before us?’
    ‘Don’t know. They always have such a lot of red tape to get through and we don’t.’
    Agatha suddenly hesitated. ‘They’ll be furious if they arrive and find us there.’
    ‘It’s getting late. They’ve either been there or they’re getting there tomorrow.’
    Ancombe was one of those Cotswold villages about the size of Broad Campden that seemed too perfect to be true. Very small but with an old church in the centre, thatched cottages, beautiful gardens, and everything with a manicured air.
    Mrs Gloria Comfort lived in one of the prettiest of the thatched cottages under the shadow of the church. There was no answer to the door. ‘Let’s try round the back,’ said James. ‘I can hear some noises coming from there.’
    ‘Probably writhing in her death agonies,’ said Agatha gloomily.
    They walked up the narrow path which led to the back garden. A plump blonde woman was weeding a flowerbed. ‘Excuse me,’ began James, and she rose and turned around.
    Her hair was gloriously bleached blonde, not a dark root showing, but her middle-aged face was puffy and her eyes held that glittering look caused by a film of moisture, the sign of a heavy drinker. She was dressed unsuitably for gardening in a sort of Lady Tart outfit of tightly tailored tweed jacket and skirt, frilly white blouse, pearls and high heels.
    ‘Mrs Comfort?’ said James.
    ‘Are you collecting for something?’
    ‘No, I am James Lacey and this is Agatha Raisin.’
    ‘Oh, dear, you’re the wife of that man who was murdered. You’d better come indoors.’ She teetered across the lawn, her spiked heels making holes in the green turf. ‘Good for the lawn,’ she remarked. ‘It aerates it.’
    Indoors was in keeping with her dress. Everything was amazingly vulgar. Awful ruched curtains at the windows, fake horse brasses, fake old masters on the walls, and a padded white leather bar in one corner of the living-room. Mrs Comfort headed straight for the bar. ‘Drink?’
    Agatha said she would have a gin and tonic, and James, a whisky.
    ‘Now,’ Mrs Comfort said, perching on the very edge of an overstuffed sofa, ‘what’s this all about?’
    ‘You were at the health farm at the same time as Jimmy,’ began Agatha. ‘We’re interested in who he talked to. We’re also very interested in the woman who accompanied him, a Mrs Gore-Appleton.’
    Mrs Comfort took a strong pull of the very dark liquid in her glass. Then she said, ‘It’s hard to remember. It all seems so long ago. Jimmy Raisin was hailed as one of the successes. He arrived looking like a wreck, and by the end of the first week he looked like a different man. I can’t tell you anything about Mrs Gore-Appleton. I didn’t talk to her much except for the odd remark about the weather and how awful it was to feel so hungry – that sort of thing. I can’t really be of much help to you, I’m afraid.’
    James said, ‘Have the police been to see you yet?’
    ‘No. Why should they want to see me? Oh, because of Mr Raisin being murdered.’
    ‘It’s not as simple as that. You may not have noticed in the newspapers today because of all the world news, but a certain Miss Purvey was murdered in Mircester.’
    ‘Purvey? Purvey! She was there at the health farm.