Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

. . . ever. Geddit?’
    She slammed the phone down and said to Agatha, ‘Get out of here.’
    And Agatha went, gladly.
    James was too curious about this new information to be angry with Agatha. In fact, he seemed to find her story about the desk and the manufactured faint amusing.
    ‘Roy Silver phoned when you were out,’ he said. ‘That secretary, Helen Warwick, the one Derrington was having the affair with, is back. I have the address. Want to go up to London today?’
    ‘Can we leave it till tomorrow?’ pleaded Agatha. ‘I’ve got to go to Cheltenham with the awful Hardy woman and sort out the house sale.’
    ‘Are you driving her or is she driving you?’
    ‘Neither. She’s meeting me there.’
    ‘Do you want me to come with you in case she tries to put the price up again?’
    ‘She wouldn’t!’
    ‘She might. She’s a tough customer.’
    ‘I hate her,’ said Agatha passionately. ‘I hate her almost as much as I hate that Maddie Hurd. What Bill ever saw in her is beyond me. What a bitch! And we’ve got Basil to check out.’
    ‘You go and see to getting your home back and we’ll drive over to Mircester afterwards and see what we can find out about Basil.’
    ‘And there’s the husband, Geoffrey Comfort of the Potato Plus. What is Potato Plus anyway?’
    ‘It’s a small factory where they put potatoes in plastic bags for the supermarkets. But his home number is in the book. Guess where he lives?’
    ‘Here? Carsely?’
    ‘No, Ashton-le-Walls, same place as the late Miss Purvey. Off you go.’
    Agatha found Mrs Hardy waiting for her in the lawyer’s office in Montpelier Terrace in Cheltenham.
    Agatha had paid £110,000 for the cottage and had sold it to Mrs Hardy for £120,000. Mrs Hardy was asking £130,000, a ridiculous price, thought Agatha, now that the market had slumped.
    Agatha was about to sign the papers when the price of £150,000 seemed to leap off the page at her.
    ‘What’s this?’ she snapped.
    ‘The price?’ The lawyer smiled. ‘Mrs Hardy said that was the price agreed on.’
    ‘What the hell are the pair of you up to?’ snarled Agatha. She rounded on the lawyer. ‘You agreed to the price of one hundred and thirty thousand on the phone!’
    ‘Well, Mrs Hardy seems to think one hundred and fifty thousand a fair price.’
    Agatha gathered up her handbag and gloves. ‘You can get stuffed, the pair of you. I’ll tell you what my figure is now – one hundred and ten thousand pounds. Take it or leave it.’
    She marched out of the office.
    Oh, my home, she mourned as she got in her car. I’d better give it up. I’d better find another cottage in another village and get away from James entirely and get my life back. The world is full of other men.
    But when she walked into James’s cottage and he looked up and smiled at her, she felt her heart turn over and wondered if she would ever really be free of the feelings she had for him.
    She told him what had happened and James said mildly, ‘There are other cottages, you know. Let’s have an early dinner and go to Mircester.’
    The Loanings, where Basil Morton lived, was a builder’s development, rather like the one where the Wong family had their house. It was like a council estate, the only difference that Agatha could see being that the houses were slightly larger and the gardens well tended.
    They rang the doorbell, not expecting a reply, but using it as a preliminary to calling on the neighbours and asking where their ‘friend’, Basil, had got to. To their surprise, the door was answered by a thin, dark-haired woman. At first they thought she was a girl because she was wearing a short navy skirt and white blouse, almost like a school uniform, and her hair was braided into two plaits. But when she switched on the overhead light over the door, they saw the fine wrinkles around her eyes and judged her to be in her late thirties.
    ‘May we speak to Mr Morton?’ asked James.
    ‘Basil’s away abroad on business. He’s often away.’ Loneliness shone in the dark eyes. ‘Won’t you come in?’
    They followed her into a living-room, which was almost frightening in its sterile cleanliness. There were no books or magazines lying about. ‘How long have you lived here?’ asked Agatha, looking around her.
    ‘Ten years.’
    And not a scuff-mark or stain or wear anywhere, marvelled Agatha. Can’t be any children.
    ‘Sherry?’
    ‘Yes, please.’
    ‘Then please sit down.’
    She knelt down in front of a