Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

with you.’
    ‘What troubles, Agatha?’ He reached across the table and took her hand.
    ‘It’s James,’ said Agatha. To her horror, her eyes filled with tears.
    Mr John’s thumb caressed the palm of her hand. ‘Tell me about it.’
    ‘He’s coming home, and I’ve missed him so much. I’ve been having an affair with Charles.’
    ‘The baronet?’
    ‘Yes, him. Charles is violently jealous. I tried to finish with him. He says he won’t go away. I’m frightened James will get to hear about it. I’d do anything – anything – to stop him finding out.’
    He asked more questions and the more Agatha began to build up a picture of a violent and jealous Charles, the more she began almost to believe it.
    But by the time she had moved through with Mr John to the lounge for coffee, she realized she had done all the talking. She drew out a packet of cigarettes.
    ‘That’s a filthy habit, Agatha. Do you mind if I ask you not to smoke?’
    ‘Yes, I mind very much,’ snapped Agatha.
    ‘You’re killing yourself.’
    ‘And so is everyone like you who drives a car that belts carcinogens into the air.’
    Agatha then hurriedly closed her handbag, which she had opened wide in her search for cigarettes. She hoped he had not seen the tape recorder. Anyway, he was surely not going to blackmail her tonight.
    He began to talk easily about how successful his business in Evesham had proved to be and that he was thinking of opening up another salon. ‘It’s war, hairdressing,’ he said with a laugh. ‘It’s like the theatre. You would never believe the rivalries and jealousies. And I’m thinking of starting up a beauty salon.’
    Agatha fumbled in her handbag and switched off the tape recorder. She felt heavy and sad. And her feet were killing her.
    At last she said, ‘It’s been nice. Do you mind if we go home?’ She signalled to the waiter and asked for the bill. ‘My treat, remember?’
    ‘You’re looking tired,’ he said, his blue eyes full of concern.
    He drove a silent Agatha home. He helped her out of the car and then said, ‘I would really like to see the inside of your cottage.’
    Agatha was wearily thinking of polite excuses when a wrathful voice behind her made her jump.
    ‘And just who the hell is this, Aggie!’

Chapter Three

    Charles stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his side. At first, Agatha was too taken aback to realize it was an act.
    ‘I’ve been out for dinner with John,’ she said. ‘Charles, may I introduce you? This is –’
    ‘I don’t want to meet scum like this.’ Charles seized her arm and jerked her towards him. Her clutch handbag went spinning and the contents spilled out over the road, exposed in the security lights which had come on in the front of Agatha’s cottage. Her little black tape recorder went flying across the cobbled surface of the road and landed at Mr John’s feet.
    He picked it up. Charles stood frozen, his hand on Agatha’s arm.
    ‘Yours, I think.’ Mr John held out the tape recorder to Agatha, who numbly took it. His eyes glittered with malice and amusement.
    Then he waved his hand and got into his car and roared off.
    Agatha rounded on Charles. ‘What the hell were you playing at?’ She stooped and began to gather up the contents of her bag.
    ‘I was just playing my part,’ said Charles mildly. ‘I went to the Red Lion and learned you were off with Mr John. So I decided to hang about until you came home and play the jealous lover.’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
    ‘I couldn’t. I didn’t know what you were up to. Why didn’t you phone me? I thought we were in this together.’
    ‘Oh, come into the house. I’m fed up. He saw the tape recorder, so he’s wise to us.’
    He followed her into the house and through to the kitchen. ‘Maybe not.’
    ‘Why not?’ demanded Agatha, angrily plugging in the kettle. ‘I saw the expression in his eyes when he handed me that tape recorder.’
    ‘Well, he knows you were in publicity. Lots of people carry those little tape recorders around. I sometimes carry one myself to remind me of appointments and things to do.’
    ‘A blackmailer is not going to think that,’ jeered Agatha.
    ‘We don’t know he’s a blackmailer. Make me a coffee while I think. Give me a cigarette.’
    ‘You don’t smoke.’
    ‘I only smoke other people’s. It’s a charitable gesture. It reduces their intake.’
    ‘And stops you spending the money yourself. Cheapskate! Oh, help yourself.