Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

turned away from the camera. ‘Damn, I wish we could see her face,’ muttered James. ‘I bet that’s Mrs Gore-Appleton.’
    ‘Let me see those other photos again.’ Iris bent her head and went through them. ‘There,’ she said triumphantly. ‘That’s the same woman.’
    James found himself looking at a hard-faced blonde with a thin, aggressive face.
    And then, as he stared down at that face, he found himself becoming sure he had seen it before. Agatha had changed amazingly from the days of her youth. People changed. Women changed in middle age, often put on weight.
    And suddenly he knew who it was. Let the blonde hair grow out and put on a few stone and you had Mrs Hardy. Yes, the mouth was the same, and the same hard eyes.
    ‘Oh, my God,’ he said, ‘and I’ve told her to look after Agatha.’
    ‘Who?’ screeched Roy.
    ‘Mrs Hardy. That’s Mrs Hardy, our next-door neighbour.’
    ‘I told Agatha it was probably her all along,’ said Roy.
    James phoned home. No reply. Then he phoned Mrs Hardy. The engaged signal. Beginning to sweat, he phoned Bill Wong and talked urgently.

Chapter Nine

    Agatha finally decided that if she had a bath and dressed, she might feel better. She soaked for a long time in the bath and then, returning to her room, dressed in a warm sweater and slacks, looking forward to the day when she could return to her cottage and blast the central heating as much as she wanted. James had his central heating system on a timer so that the radiators pushed out two hours’ heat in the morning and two in the evening, which Agatha thought mean.
    The phone rang. It was Mrs Hardy. James had said Agatha was ill. Did she want food made or anything?
    Agatha was suddenly anxious to get out of the house, even for a short while. ‘I’d like a cup of coffee,’ she said. ‘Be along in a minute.’
    She let the cats in from the garden, fed them and, putting her cigarettes in her handbag, went out and headed for next door.
    It was only when she was inside and ensconced in the kitchen that Agatha regretted having come. All Mrs Hardy’s remarks about the village and the villagers came back into her mind. Also, Agatha began to suspect that Mrs Hardy found her not only an object of pity but slightly amusing. There was a mocking glint in Mrs Hardy’s eye when she looked at Agatha, although her voice was kind as she gave her a cup of coffee and said, ‘Here. That’s some of the good Brazilian stuff from Drury’s. You look truly awful. Are you sure you should be out of bed?’
    ‘Yes, I actually feel better than I look,’ said Agatha. She cast a proprietorial look about the kitchen. Soon the whole cottage would be hers again.
    ‘What’s Mr Lacey doing in London?’ asked Mrs Hardy.
    ‘Oh, he’s not in London. He’s at police headquarters in Mircester. He left me a note.’
    ‘That’s odd. He phoned me and told me to look after you. I did the 1471 dialling thing as soon as he had hung up. It was a London number.’
    ‘Maybe he decided to go on from there,’ said Agatha.
    The phone in the living-room rang out. ‘Excuse me.’ Mrs Hardy went to answer it. Agatha heard her say, ‘No, I haven’t seen her today.’ The phone was replaced. It promptly rang again. Agatha realized with surprise that Mrs Hardy must have answered it for in the quiet of the cottage she could hear a little tinny voice yapping from the other end and yet Mrs Hardy said nothing in reply. When Mrs Hardy came into the kitchen, Agatha said, ‘There’s someone on the line. I can hear the voice from here.’
    ‘Oh, it’s one of those nuisance calls. Heavy breathing and all.’ Mrs Hardy went back and slammed down the receiver and then took the phone off the hook.
    ‘I’ve just remembered,’ said Mrs Hardy. ‘I have to go out. But stay there and finish your coffee while I go upstairs and get some things.’
    Agatha nodded and sipped her coffee. Finally, feeling bored, she got up and looked in the kitchen cupboards in a nosy sort of way. Then she slid open the drawers. In one were some photographs. She flipped through them idly and then stared at amazement. She was looking down at the face of her husband, sitting next to a hard-faced blonde woman, somewhere in France at an outdoor café.
    And then as she looked closer she remembered something about this Mrs Gore-Appleton having taken Jimmy to the south of France. The face looked familiar. Those eyes with the mocking look, that hard mouth.
    She slowly closed the