Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

but she did not like the implication that such as Agatha Raisin could not know anyone with a title, so she said airily, ‘He’s in my set.’
    And hope that shuts you up, she thought.
    ‘Pity,’ he said.
    ‘What’s a pity?’
    ‘You’ll think this very forward of me, but I was thinking of asking you out myself.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Agatha in surprise.
    ‘You’re a very attractive woman.’
    And a rich one, thought Agatha cynically. But then Mr John was so very handsome with his intense blue eyes and blond hair. If James came back and if James saw them going out together, perhaps he would be jealous; perhaps he would be prompted into saying huskily, ‘I always loved you, Agatha.’
    ‘Sorry.’ Mr John dug a pin into the back of Agatha’s hair and her rosy dream burst like a brightly coloured soap bubble.
    ‘Perhaps some evening,’ said Agatha cautiously. ‘Let me think about it.’
    But his invitation gave her a warm little glow, and he was a wizard at fashioning her hair into that elegant style.
    Agatha made her way out to her car which she had parked on a double yellow line. ‘Look where that car’s parked!’ hissed a woman at her ear.
    Agatha swung round. A dumpy, frumpy woman with thick glasses was glaring at her. Agatha shrugged, walked to her car and opened the door.
    ‘It’s yours!’ gasped the woman. ‘Don’t you know it’s illegal to park there?’
    Agatha turned and faced her. ‘I am not obstructing the traffic or getting in anyone’s way,’ she said evenly. ‘Nor am I responsible for the mad parking arrangements of Evesham or for the stupid one-way system. But I wonder where someone like you gets off on this hot day abusing motorists. Go home, have a cup of tea, put your feet up. Get a life!’
    And deaf to the insults that began to pour about her ears, Agatha got in and drove off.
    Charles arrived promptly at eight o’clock. He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. ‘Like the hair, Aggie. And the dress. In fact, I bought a dress like that in the market in Mircester this afternoon for my aunt. She was grumbling about not having anything cool to wear.’
    ‘I bought this one in Harrods,’ lied Agatha. ‘The one in the market must have been a cheap copy.’ But her pleasure in her appearance had diminished. ‘Where are we eating?’
    ‘I thought we would go to the Little Chef.’
    ‘I am not being taken out to a Little Chef. You are cheap, Charles.’
    ‘I like the food,’ he said defensively. ‘I suppose you want foreign muck. Well, give me a whisky while I think of something.’
    Agatha poured him a whisky and he settled in a chair cradling his glass between small, well-manicured hands. He was a slight, fair-haired man. Agatha had never known his age. He had mild, sensitive features and she had originally thought he might be only in his late thirties. But she had later decided he was probably in his mid-forties. He was wearing a shirt open at the neck and had slung his jacket over a chair.
    ‘I know,’ he said. ‘The Jolly Roger at Ancombe, that new pub.’
    ‘I haven’t been there and I don’t like the sound of it.’
    ‘Friend of mine went the other week. Said the food was good. Besides, they’ve got a garden with tables. By the way, I saw that detective friend of yours in Mircester; what’s his name, Chinese chap?’
    ‘Bill Wong. But he’s on holiday!’
    ‘I suppose he’s taking it at home. Had a girl on his arm.’
    And he hasn’t phoned me, thought Agatha. Bill had been her first friend, the old, tougher Agatha, driven by career and ambition, never having had any time before to make friends. She could feel the old black edges of that depression hovering on the horizon of her mind.
    They set out for Ancombe and parked outside the Jolly Roger, formerly called the Green Man. Inside it was everything that shouted poor food to Agatha – fishing nets, murals of pirates, and waiters and barmen dressed in striped tops and knee-breeches with plastic ‘silver’ buckles. Charles led the way through to the garden, which was at least a fraction cooler than the inside. A roguish waiter who introduced himself as Henry handed them two large, gaudily coloured menus.
    ‘Oh, shit,’ grumbled Agatha. ‘Listen to this. Captain Hook’s scrumptious potato dip. And what about Barbary Coast Chicken with sizzling Long John corn fritters?’
    Henry the waiter was hovering. ‘Do you remember when they were called hens, and chickens were the fluffy little yellow