Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

sideboard which shone and gleamed from frequent polishing and took out a crystal decanter, then three crystal glasses and a small silver tray. She put the tray on the carpet and placed glasses and decanter on it.
    ‘Allow me.’ James carried the tray and its contents to a low coffee table, which also shone and gleamed like glass.
    How terrifying, thought Agatha. Doesn’t she ever spill anything?
    The woman poured out three glasses of what turned out to be very sweet sherry, probably British sherry, thought James, wrinkling his nose as he sniffed it.
    ‘Did you want to see Basil about business?’
    ‘No, Mrs . . . er . . . Morton?’
    ‘That’s me.’
    ‘We just wanted to talk to him about a personal matter,’ said James.
    ‘He’s gone abroad. Spain. He often travels.’
    ‘What is his business, Mrs Morton?’
    ‘Bathrooms. Morton’s Bathrooms, that’s the company.’
    ‘Why Spain?’
    ‘He buys tiles there,’ she said vaguely. ‘To be honest, I don’t really know anything about the business. I have so much to do here, and I’m so tired when Basil gets home that I usually fall asleep.’
    ‘Do you work at home?’ asked James.
    She gave a little laugh and one thin hand waved to take in the gleaming living-room. ‘Housekeeping. It never ends. You must find that, Mrs . . .?’
    ‘Call me Agatha. I get a woman to clean. I’m not very good at housekeeping.’
    ‘Oh, but you’ve got to keep on top of it. It’s the least one can do for a hard-working husband. I like my Basil to have his little nest to come home to . . . when he does come home,’ she added wistfully.
    James drained his glass with a little grimace and signalled with his eyes to Agatha.
    ‘Well, we must be on our way, Mrs Morton. We have other calls to make.’
    ‘Oh, must you go? Just a little more sherry?’
    ‘No, really. You’re very kind.’
    ‘Who shall I say called?’
    ‘Mr and Mrs Perth.’
    ‘And what else could we ask?’ said James as they drove off. ‘We could hardly tell that poor neurotic house-cleaner that her husband has gone off to Spain with another woman.’
    ‘What now?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Mr Comfort, I think. Ashton-le-Walls again, and wouldn’t you know it. The fog is back.’
    ‘Are we going to tell this Mr Comfort our real names?’
    ‘Yes, I think so.’
    ‘Why did we waste time going to see Basil?’
    ‘Well, we didn’t go to see him because we know he’s out of the country. I was going to ask the neighbours about him. Funny, I didn’t think for a moment that he would be married.’
    ‘I suppose if we had been kind, we should have broken it to her,’ said Agatha slowly. ‘I think the police will check up and they’ll tell her. Oh dear, all that cleaning and polishing in the name of love. He’s probably spitting on the floor of his hotel room and leaving rings from his wineglasses on the bedside table.’
    ‘Just look at that bloody fog.’ James rubbed at the windscreen with a gloved hand. They had left the dual carriageway and were inching through the fog towards Ashton-le-Walls.
    ‘What are we going to ask him? Oh, look out!’ screamed Agatha as a badger loomed up in the headlights. James braked and the badger shambled off into the hedge.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said James testily. ‘For God’s sake.’ He had moved off again, only to brake savagely once more as a deer leaped through the fog in front of them. ‘Why don’t those bloody animals stay warm and comfortable instead of wandering about on a filthy night like this? Mr Comfort? We’ll play it by ear. He may not even be home. Or we may find ourselves faced with the second Mrs Comfort.’
    Geoffrey Comfort lived in a large manor house on the outskirts of the village. ‘You’d never think there was all that amount of money in putting potatoes in plastic bags,’ marvelled Agatha. ‘I’m beginning to think I’ve spent my life in the wrong trade.’
    ‘Place looks deserted,’ muttered James, peering through the fog. ‘No, wait a bit. There’s a chink of light through the downstairs curtains.’
    They parked the car and approached the house and rang the bell.
    They waited and waited. ‘Probably left the light on because of burglars,’ Agatha was beginning, when the door suddenly opened and a middle-aged man stood there, peering at them. He was very fat and round, rather like a potato himself, one of those potatoes washed and bagged for the supermarkets. To add to the impression, his fat face was lightly tanned