Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

was to be a meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society that evening. A good opportunity to show off her new hairstyle.
    Mrs Bloxby was hosting the society at the vicarage and because of the heat had set out chairs and tables in the vicarage garden.
    Agatha’s hair-style was much admired. ‘Where did you go?’ asked Mrs Friendly, a plump, cheerful woman who usually lived up to her name. She was a relative newcomer to the village and hailed as an antidote to that other relative newcomer, Mrs Darry, who was nibbling a piece of cake with rabbitlike concentration.
    ‘Mr John in Evesham,’ said Agatha.
    To her surprise, Mrs Friendly’s face creased up like that of a hurt baby. ‘I wouldn’t go there,’ she said, lowering her voice to a whisper.
    ‘Why?’ Agatha stared rudely at Mrs Friendly’s hair, which was a mousy brown and hanging in damp wisps round her hot face.
    ‘Nothing,’ muttered Mrs Friendly. ‘One hears stories.’
    ‘About Mr John?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What stories?’
    ‘Must talk to Mrs Bloxby.’ Mrs Friendly moved away.
    Agatha stared after her and then shrugged. She was joined by Miss Simms, Carsely’s unmarried mother and secretary of the society. ‘You look drop-dead gorgeous, Mrs Raisin.’ Agatha had long ago given up asking other members to call her by her first name. They all seemed to enjoy the old-fashioned formality of second names. Miss Simms was wearing a brief pair of shorts with a halter-top and her usual spiked heels. ‘Where did you go?’
    ‘Mr John in Evesham.’
    ‘Oh, I went there once to get my hair done. I was bridesmaid at my sister Glad’s wedding. He did it ever so pretty, but I didn’t like him.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Awful patronizing, he was. Gushed around the richer customers.’
    Agatha shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter what a hairdresser’s like, does it?’
    ‘To me it does. I mean to say, I don’t like anyone I don’t like touching me.’
    The meeting was called to order. They were to give one of their concerts over at Ancombe. Agatha’s heart sank. Ladies’ Society concerts were truly awful, long evenings of shrill singing and bad sketches.
    Mrs Darry piped up, her eyes gleaming in her ferrety face. She was wearing a tweed skirt, blouse and tweed jacket but seemed unaffected by the heat. ‘Why doesn’t Mrs Raisin ever volunteer to do anything?’
    ‘Why don’t you?’ snapped Agatha.
    ‘Because I am doing the teas.’
    ‘I have no talent,’ said Agatha.
    Mrs Darry gave a shrill laugh. ‘Neither do any of the others, but that doesn’t stop them.’
    ‘Really,’ protested Mrs Bloxby, ‘that was unkind.’
    Miss Simms, who had volunteered to do her impersonation of Cher, glared. ‘Jealous cow,’ she said.
    ‘I’ve a good mind to let you do the teas yourselves,’ said Mrs Darry.
    There was a silence. Then Agatha said, ‘I’ll do it.’
    ‘Good idea,’ said Miss Simms.
    Mrs Darry got to her feet. ‘Then if you don’t need my services, I’m going home.’
    She stalked out of the garden.
    Agatha bit her lip. She didn’t want to be bothered catering for a bunch of women in all this heat.
    The depression which had lifted because of her visit to the hairdresser came down around her again like a black cloud. This is your life, Agatha Raisin. Trapped in a Cotswold village, cut off from excitement, cut off from adventure, doing teas for a bunch of boring women.
    She trudged home afterwards. There did not seem to be a breath of air.
    She opened all the windows. She looked at the silent phone. Could anyone have rung when she was out? She dialled 1571 for the Call Minder. ‘You have one message,’ said the carefully elocuted voice of the computer. ‘Would you like to hear it?’
    ‘Of course I would, you silly bitch,’ growled Agatha.
    There was a silence and then the voice said primly, ‘I did not hear that. Would you like to hear your message?’
    There was a click and then the well-modulated tones of Sir Charles Fraith sounded down the line, ‘Hello, Aggie. Fancy dinner tomorrow?’
    Agatha brightened. Although she had been wary of Charles because of a one-night stand when they had both been in Cyprus, a night of sex which had seemed to mean very little to him, the thought of going out to dinner and showing off her new hair-style appealed greatly.
    She dialled his number and got his Call Minder and left a message asking him to call for her at eight o’clock the following evening.
    Her depression once more lifted, she went