Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

alienate her for all time.
    ‘Well, we’d better get some old clothes and look the part.’
    ‘Do we have to dress up?’
    ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go and find the right stuff. See you back here in about an hour.’
    Some time later, two shabby individuals stood outside Pedmans in Cheapside and tried to flag down a cab. Agatha had gone to an Oxfam shop for the clothes they were now wearing. Roy was dressed in jeans which Agatha had ripped at the knees for him, a denim shirt, and an old tweed jacket. Agatha was wearing a long floral skirt and two lumpy cardigans over a blouse and carrying various plastic bags. Both stank of methylated spirits, Agatha having doused their clothes liberally in the stuff. She had also dirtied their faces. ‘This is no good,’ said Roy as the third empty cab sailed by them without stopping. Agatha went back into Pedmans and hailed the commissionaire.
    ‘What d’ye want?’ he growled.
    ‘It’s me, Agatha Raisin,’ she snapped. ‘Get out there and find a cab for me.’
    The commissionaire, who loathed Agatha, stared down at her, a smile breaking across his face. So the old bag had fallen on hard times. Let her find her own bloody cab.
    ‘Shove off,’ he said. ‘We don’t want the likes of you in here.’
    Agatha opened her mouth to blast him, but a quiet voice behind the commissionaire said, ‘Jock, get Mrs Raisin a cab, and hop to it.’
    Mr Wilson stood there. ‘Going off to a fancy dress party, Mrs Raisin?’
    ‘That’s it,’ said Agatha.
    Jock ran out into the street and flagged down a cab, and with his face averted held the door open for Agatha and Roy. Agatha pressed something into his hand. He touched his hat. The cab rolled off. Jock opened his hand. A penny! He hurled it into the gutter and stumped back inside.
    ‘You haven’t brought your handbag?’ asked Roy.
    ‘No, I left it with your secretary. It’s in her desk. You left your wallet, I hope?’
    ‘Yes, but who’s paying for this cab?’
    ‘You are!’
    ‘But I left all my money behind!’
    ‘So did I. I mean, I’ve got about a pound in change, but that won’t pay for this cab to Waterloo.’
    ‘What are we going to do?’ wailed Roy. ‘Of all the stupid –’
    ‘Let’s just hope it’s not one of those cabs where they lock the doors.’ The cab slowed and stopped at traffic lights.
    ‘Now!’ said Agatha.
    She wrenched open the door and, followed by Roy, dived out into the street, pursued by the outraged howls of the cabby.
    ‘You can still run,’ panted Roy when they finally came to a halt.
    Agatha clutched her side. ‘I’ve got a pain. I really must get back into condition.’
    They started to walk, an aroma of methylated spirits floating out from them. ‘I think we had better do some begging,’ said Agatha, stopping in the middle of London Bridge.
    ‘We don’t look appealing enough. We need a dog or a child.’
    ‘We haven’t got one. Can’t you sing or something?’
    ‘Nobody would hear a note with this traffic noise. Beggars who get money are either pathetic or threatening.’
    ‘Okay.’ Agatha stepped in front of a businessman and held out her hand. ‘Money for food,’ she said. ‘Or else.’
    He stopped and looked her up and down.
    ‘Or else what?’
    ‘Or else I’ll hit you with my bottle.’
    ‘Get lost, or I’ll call the police, you scum. It’s layabouts like you that are bringing this country to its knees. You’re too old to work, but you should get your son to support you.’
    Roy giggled maliciously.
    The businessman appealed to the passers-by. ‘Can you believe this? They’re demanding money with menaces.’
    ‘Come on, Aggie,’ pleaded Roy, getting frightened, as a crowd started to collect.
    ‘Police!’ a woman started to shout. ‘Police!’
    They took to their heels and ran again, thumping their way over the bridge until they had left the crowd behind.
    ‘All this running, birdbrain,’ snarled Agatha. ‘We should have run back to the office and got some money.’
    ‘Not far now,’ said Roy. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
    Dusk was falling. The roar of the going-home traffic drummed in their ears. Agatha thought of James and wondered what he was doing.
    James was feeling guilty. He had taken Helen Warwick out for lunch and then gone back to her flat at her suggestion for coffee. She had a day off, she had explained. Life was quiet when the House wasn’t sitting.
    Perhaps because she had really nothing more to tell him than she had