Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

and he had two black moles on his face, like the eyes of a potato.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Mr Comfort?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I am James Lacey and this is Mrs Agatha Raisin.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘Mrs Raisin’s husband was murdered recently. He stayed at a health farm at the same time as your wife.’
    ‘Fuck off!’ The heavy door was slammed in their faces.
    ‘What do we do now?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘We go to the nearest pub and eat and drink, that’s what we do. We can’t very well ring the bell again and demand he speaks to us.’
    A window opened and Mr Comfort’s round head appeared. ‘And bugger off fast or I’ll let the dog out.’
    ‘There’s your answer. In the car, quick, Agatha.’
    They sped off, James swerving in the drive to avoid a pheasant. ‘What’s that stupid bird doing awake? Why isn’t it up in the trees with the rest of the birds? Why has the whole damned countryside turned suicidal?’
    ‘I could do with a bucket of gin,’ said Agatha gloomily. ‘Pity you’re driving.’
    ‘Never mind. I’ll drink just short of any breathalyser test. I’m more interested in food.’
    They found the village pub, called quaintly the Tapestry Arms. A menu was chalked up on a blackboard beside the bar. James read it aloud. ‘Jumbo sausage and chips, curried chicken and chips, lasagne and chips, fish and chips, and ploughman’s.’
    ‘Should we try somewhere else?’
    ‘Not in this fog. Let’s try a couple of ploughman’s and hope for the best.’
    The ploughman’s turned out to be rather dry French bread with a minuscule runny pat of butter and a wedge of Cheddar-type cheese which looked for all the world like an old-fashioned slab of carbolic soap.
    Agatha’s gin and tonic was warm, the pub having run out of ice.
    Bands of fog lay across the room. Agatha thrust away her half-eaten food and lit a cigarette. ‘Don’t glare at me, James. With all this fog about, my cigarette smoke won’t make much difference.’
    ‘So you think the Hardy woman will accept your offer?’ he asked.
    ‘No, I don’t. I think I’m going to have to pay her what she wants. I know it’s silly and I know I could get somewhere else quite close, but I want my own place. Did you notice the garden when we were going into her place? Weeds everywhere. Why do people live in the countryside if they don’t like living things?’ demanded Agatha piously. She wrinkled her nose at her warm gin and tipped it into a rubber plant which was standing on a shelf near her table.
    ‘I gather you don’t want to try another of those?’
    ‘No, thank you. And I don’t like warm beer either.’
    ‘Then we may as well face a foggy journey home.’
    They went outside. The fog had lifted and a fresh wind was blowing. A little moon raced through the clouds above their heads. A shower of beech nuts fell on Agatha’s head. ‘More nuts!’
    ‘They’re poisonous,’ said James. ‘Poisonous to sheep and cattle. Don’t seem to affect the squirrels.’
    When they reached home, James said wearily, ‘I feel we are going round and round and not getting anywhere. The police have all the resources – to check histories, alibis and bank accounts. Do you think it is really worth going to London tomorrow to see this secretary?’
    ‘Of course.’ Agatha was now frightened that if they stopped their investigations, James would take off for foreign parts again. ‘You’ll feel better about it all in the morning.’
    Helen Warwick was not at the Houses of Parliament but at her flat in a Victorian block in Gloucester Road in Kensington. When she answered the door, Agatha could not believe at first that this lady could have been Sir Desmond’s mistress. She was plump and placid, with light grey eyes and brown hair worn in an old-fashioned French pleat. She was wearing a tailored silk blouse and tweed skirt, sensible brogues, and no make-up. James judged her to be in her forties.
    James explained, correctly this time, who they were and why they had come. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
    The flat was large, rather dark, but very comfortable, with a fire burning brightly in the living-room. There was a large bowl of autumn leaves and chrysanthemums on a polished table by the window. The sofa and chairs had feather cushions. A good Victorian English landscape hung over the fireplace. It looked as if Miss Warwick had money and had probably always been well off.
    ‘I was shocked when I learned of Desmond’s death,’ said Helen. ‘We were great