Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

she should get home.
    If he had asked her to stay with him, Agatha probably would have succumbed, but he only gathered her back into his arms as he said goodnight and again sent her senses spinning with one of those kisses, fuelling the hopelessly romantic side of Agatha to boiling point.
    She decided as she drove dreamily home that all her suspicions of him had been unfounded. What were they based on after all? One frightened village woman who had probably had a crush on him, had probably written him a silly love letter or something like that and her bad-tempered husband had found out.
    There was a message from Charles on her Call Minder but she did not want to phone him, did not want anything to burst the rosy bubble in which she floated. Mr John – no, John – stop calling him that silly hairdresser’s name – had said he had taken the liberty of making an appointment for her for the following day. Soon she would see him again.
    Agatha in love meant an Agatha who could not make up her mind what to wear. Although she started her preparations early the next day, she at last left in a rush, wearing a coat over a sweater and skirt and having torn off more dressy ensembles, feeling she looked as if she were trying too hard.
    She would need to steer him to a good interior decorator, she thought, looking round the salon in a proprietorial way. And no receptionist like the dreadful Josie, but no one too glamorous either.
    She was shampooed and with a dithering feeling of anticipation was led through to Mr John.
    ‘Agatha,’ he said, giving her a warm smile. He pressed her shoulders and then gripped them hard.
    She looked, startled, at his reflection in the mirror. Under the bruises, his face was an unhealthy red colour.
    ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered. He fled to the toilet. The tape deck was playing a selection of sixties pop. The Beatles were belting out ‘She’s got a ticket to ride’, filling the salon with noisy sound. The number finished and then Agatha and everyone else could hear retching sounds coming from the toilet.
    Agatha went through and knocked at the door and called, ‘What’s the matter?’
    Another bout of dreadful retching answered her. She was joined by the assistant, Garry.
    ‘He sounds terribly ill,’ said Agatha. She rattled the door handle.
    ‘John! John! Let me in.’
    She was answered by a loud tearing groan. Then crashing noises.
    ‘Break open the door!’ she shouted at Garry.
    The willowy Garry threw himself against it but succeeded only in hurting his shoulder.
    Agatha was joined by the other customers. Maggie was amongst them, she noticed.
    ‘Get me a screwdriver or chisel,’ said Agatha. ‘Quick. Josie, phone for an ambulance.’
    Garry went into the nether regions and came back with a tool-box. Agatha seized a chisel and stuck it into the door jamb at the lock and jerked it sideways. There was a splintering and cracking as the flimsy lock gave way.
    Mr John was lying on the floor. He was now stretched out, immobile, his eyes staring upwards. His pale grey eyes. God, even his eyes have changed colour, thought Agatha wildly.
    She knelt down and felt for his pulse, only finding a faint flutter. In the distance, she could hear the wail of the ambulance siren. Thank God, the hospital was quite near.
    She gagged at the smell. Vomit was everywhere.
    ‘Ambulance is here!’ shouted Josie. Everyone except Agatha rushed to the door. She stared helplessly down at John, wishing she knew first aid. And then she saw his keys had fallen out of his pocket. She scooped them up and put them in the pocket in her skirt.
    The ambulance men came in. They told everyone to stand clear. After what seemed to Agatha like an interminable wait he was carried out to the ambulance with a drip in his arm and an oxygen mask over his face.
    The police arrived and took notes. ‘Might be food poisoning, by the sound of it,’ said one.
    ‘Can I go home now?’ asked the woman called Maggie. Her face was paper-white. ‘I’ve had a terrible shock.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said one. ‘We’ll just take a note of your names and addresses and then you can go. But you can’t leave until then.’
    There were exclamations of dismay from some of the other customers who, although they were half-way through perms and tints, just wanted to leave as quickly as possible. Maggie sat down and began to cry.
    Agatha felt the keys burning a hole in her pocket. Why had she taken them?
    Because, she thought, her brain