Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

ideas.’ By the time Mrs Bloxby had finished outlining them, her husband was announcing a ladies’ choice, and to Agatha’s dismay, Mrs Hardy came up and tapped James on the shoulder and marched him off rather like a military policeman arresting a deserter.
    ‘I wish that woman would go back in her shell,’ muttered Agatha. She was beginning to have that old feeling of being a wallflower. Then she remembered it was a ladies’ choice and asked one of the farmers for a dance.
    Mrs Bloxby watched her and reflected that Agatha was looking almost pretty. Her eyes were too small and her figure, however slimmed down, always appeared a bit stocky, but she had excellent legs and her brown hair shone with health.
    Agatha began to forget about murder and enjoyed the evening. James asked her for the next dance and then they moved to the bar for some companionable drinks. Mrs Hardy was on her feet for every dance, her face flushed, her eyes shining.
    ‘Who would have thought that nasty old bat would turn out to be so nice, if you know what I mean,’ said Agatha.
    The village dance ended as usual at midnight. They said their goodnights, Agatha noticing that old Mrs Boggle, having collected the money, had cleared off, leaving all the coats unguarded.
    They walked home, Mrs Hardy hanging on to James’s arm, much to Agatha’s irritation, and saying what a good evening it had been. They were just rounding the corner of Lilac Lane when a dark figure detached itself from the thicker blackness of the bushes.
    In the dim light from the moon above, they saw with horror that a man was confronting them, a masked man who was holding a pistol.
    ‘This is a warning,’ he grated. ‘Bugger off. And just to make sure you know I mean business . . .’
    The pistol was lowered to point at Agatha’s legs.
    For one split second they stood paralysed, then Mrs Hardy’s foot shot out like that of a karate expert and she kicked the gun out of the man’s hand. He turned and fled. Mrs Hardy went plunging after him, but tripped and fell headlong, blocking James’s pursuit. He tripped over her and sprawled in the lane.
    Agatha found her voice and began to scream for help.
    More police interviews. Agatha, white and shaking, was somehow more upset to learn that the gun was a replica. Mrs Hardy was told she had been very brave but very foolish. It could have been a real gun.
    ‘Where did you learn to kick like that?’ asked Bill Wong.
    Mrs Hardy laughed. ‘From those Kung Fu films on television. I suppose it was a silly thing to do – it was just an accident that I managed to kick the gun out of his hand.’
    ‘Remember,’ cautioned Bill, ‘that if that gun had been real and had been loaded, it could have gone off.’
    ‘Well, I think she was very brave,’ said Agatha, clutching a cup of hot sweet tea.
    While James and Mrs Hardy were being questioned again – what had the man’s voice sounded like, what height, clothes? – Agatha began to think of Helen Warwick. They had gone to see Helen and then James’s house had been set on fire, and now this.
    There must be some connection.
    But when the police had left to join the milling hordes of other police combing the area – armed police, police with dogs, and police with helicopters – and when Mrs Hardy had finally gone to her cottage, Agatha broached her suspicions of Helen Warwick to James. He shrugged and said, ‘That’s ridiculous.’
    ‘It’s not ridiculous!’ cried Agatha.
    ‘You’ve had a bad fright,’ said James soothingly. ‘I’ve got to go to London tomorrow to see an old friend. I suggest you have a day in bed to recover. No, not another word. You’re not in a fit state to think properly.’
    Agatha awoke at nine to find the cottage empty and James’s car gone. She was suddenly angry. Damn it, she would go to London herself and ask Roy Silver if he had found out anything else from that detective.
    The doorbell rang. She ran to answer it, hoping James had come back. But it was the vicar’s wife who stood on the step.
    ‘Oh, Mrs Bloxby. Come in. I was just about to leave for London.’
    ‘I keep telling you to call me Margaret. And shouldn’t you be resting?’
    ‘Have they caught anyone?’ asked Agatha over her shoulder as she led the way through to the kitchen.
    ‘Not a sign. They’re still searching. The woods above the village are full of men and dogs. Was the man wearing gloves?’
    ‘I think so. Why?’
    ‘Well, fingerprints.’
    Agatha seized the