Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

with pop groups, who hailed him as one of their own kind.
    When she went downstairs, Roy was lounging in front of the television set. ‘Aren’t you going to change?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘Nobody dresses up to go out for dinner these days,’ said Roy, flicking aimlessly through the channels with the remote control.
    ‘I do. So you do. Hop to it!’
    Grumbling, Roy went upstairs to change.
    The restaurant in Stratford-upon-Avon was crowded. They were given a corner table which commanded a good view of the rest of the customers.
    And then Agatha saw Charles. He was sitting with a blonde who had one of those rich-monkey-Chelsea faces. He was telling jokes and laughing uproariously. Agatha noticed with a certain sour pleasure that the girl looked bored.
    Roy, on an expense account or had Agatha been paying, would have ordered all the most expensive things on the menu, but as it was, he said he wasn’t feeling very hungry and would skip a starter and watched moodily as Agatha ate her way through quail and salad before going on to Steak Béarnaise while he himself had pasta as a main course. He ordered the house wine, saying with a false laugh, ‘I don’t see any point in ordering anything else. I find the house wine is usually just as good.’
    Oh, James, thought Agatha, you were never mean. I feel at this moment, if you walked in the door of this restaurant, I would forgive you anything.
    A young man approached Charles’s table and hailed his companion. She introduced the newcomer to Charles and asked Charles something. Charles gave a grumpy nod. A waiter was called, another chair brought and the newcomer joined Charles and his lady. She proceeded to sparkle at the newcomer and give him all her attention while Charles, after a few jocular remarks to which neither paid any attention, relapsed into a moody silence.
    ‘Revenge is mine,’ said Agatha.
    Roy looked at her, puzzled. ‘What?’
    ‘Nothing. Yes, I think we’ll go to Portsmouth tomorrow.’

Chapter Seven

    Agatha sat uneasily on the passenger side of her car as Roy hurtled down the motorways towards Portsmouth the following day. She had wanted to leave her cats in the cottage for the day, but Roy had pointed out that the murderer might come looking for her and destroy her cats in revenge, so Hodge and Boswell had been put in their cat boxes and taken round to the cleaner, Doris Simpson’s, for security.
    Agatha realized that all her hurt over Charles had dulled the fact that she might be at risk.
    ‘Portsmouth’s a big place,’ said Roy, ‘and there must be an awful lot of hairdressers.’
    ‘We can only ask around a few places,’ said Agatha. ‘Oh, rats!’
    ‘Rats what?’
    ‘I forgot to switch on the burglar alarm. I’m always doing that.’
    ‘Want to go back?’
    ‘Not now. We’ve already gone miles. Just need to hope everything will be safe.’
    ‘You know, I think it will be,’ said Roy, ‘now that I’ve had time to think about it.’
    ‘How come?’
    ‘Well, how’s our murderer supposed to know you’re ferreting around?’
    ‘Easy,’ said Agatha. ‘I think it’s one of the ones who were being blackmailed, or someone like Mrs Friendly’s husband or Maggie Henderson’s husband. Why did you really come to visit me, Roy?’
    ‘Told you. Had a few days off and wanted to see you.’
    ‘It’s just when you’ve turned up before it’s mostly been because your boss wants me to do some freelance work.’
    ‘Why do you always pin the worst motives on people?’ said Roy crossly. ‘Or is the idea of friendship so foreign to your twisted mind?’
    ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Agatha. ‘Couldn’t help wondering.’
    ‘Well, here comes Portsmouth. Park in the centre?’
    ‘Yes, John would have had somewhere right in the centre.’
    After several frustrating waits in traffic jams, Roy managed to find a place in a multi-storey car park near Queen Street.
    ‘Now what?’ he asked as they walked out into the morning bustle of shoppers.
    ‘Find a library or post office, find a business phone directory and start off at the nearest hair-dressing salon.’
    They hit gold at the first salon, called A Cut Above. The proprietress had known John Shaw-part. Her name was Mary Mulligan. ‘He had a place round the back of Queen Street,’ she said. ‘Called Mr John. He and his wife ran it a few years ago. Then the place caught fire. It was arson. The gossip was that they had done it themselves, but John got the money from the insurance.