Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

afternoon, although Agatha was sure that the day was probably full of free appointments.
    Agatha felt she should tell someone what she was about to do . . . well, just in case. If she told Bill, he would order her not to go. But if she told Charles, perhaps he could phone the police.
    She dialled Charles’s number. Fortunately he answered the phone himself. He listened carefully and to her relief did not tell her she was behaving like an idiot.
    ‘Tell you what, Aggie,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve got a friend in the village who’s a TV sound man. I’ll see if I can get him and bring him over. He’ll put a mike on you and then we’ll wait across the road with the headphones on and if there is even a glimmer that she’s the one we want, I’ll call the police.’
    ‘Don’t be long,’ urged Agatha.
    She waited impatiently and, as the hands of the clock crept around to two in the afternoon, was beginning to wonder if she should go ahead without them. But suddenly Charles’s car drove up, and Charles got out followed by a tall thin man.
    ‘Right, Aggie,’ said Charles when she had let them in, ‘Brian here will just fix you up and then you can get off.’
    Agatha was wearing a trouser suit. The sound pack was clipped on to the waistband of her trousers and the small mike fastened on her collar. ‘She might see that little black thing,’ said Charles. ‘Have you got a brooch or something?’
    Agatha went up to her jewel box and found a gaudy piece of costume jewellery. ‘That’s quite horrible,’ commented Charles, ‘but it will stop her noticing the microphone.’
    They all set off in Charles’s car.
    ‘I never thought about this,’ exclaimed Agatha suddenly. ‘How can I start accusing her of murder in front of her staff?’
    ‘Try anyway,’ said Charles. ‘Say you want a quiet word with her.’
    ‘Okay, I’ll try.’
    Agatha was feeling nervous on two counts. First, if Eve were the murderess, then she might be in real danger. And second, if Eve were not, Agatha felt she would make a terrible fool of herself in front of this sound man.
    They parked and then walked along the High Street. ‘Now,’ said Charles, ‘we’ll wait across the street in this doorway. Go to it, Aggie, and best of luck.’
    The day was sunny and pleasantly warm. People came and went in the High Street with their amiable, non-threatening Evesham faces. Agatha suddenly felt silly. In the clear sunshine, her idea began to seem mad. All that would happen would be that she would end up with a truly dreadful hair-style.
    Agatha pushed open the door and went in.
    Josie was painting her nails and did not look up. ‘I’ve an appointment,’ snarled Agatha. ‘Jump to it!’
    Josie gave a stage sigh and said, ‘Follow me,’ and, waving her painted nails in the air to dry them, led Agatha through to the wash-basins. Eve was sitting reading a magazine. There were no other customers.
    ‘That’s all right, Josie,’ said Eve, putting down her magazine. ‘You can take the rest of the day off. I’ll attend to Mrs Raisin. Would you like a coffee first, Mrs Raisin?’
    ‘No, thank you.’ Agatha did not want to risk getting coffee laced with ricin.
    Josie went off. Eve unhitched a gown and held it out to Agatha.
    ‘I’d like a word with you first . . . Mrs Shaw-part,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Who’s she?’
    ‘You are the wife of the hairdresser who was murdered, aren’t you?’ demanded Agatha.
    Eve looked at her in bewilderment. ‘I never even knew John Shawpart,’ she said. ‘I had a hairdressing establishment in Worcester and moved here. Whatever gave you such an odd idea?’
    ‘Despite the colour of your hair,’ pursued Agatha, although she was beginning to feel stupid and acutely conscious of Brian and Charles listening in, ‘you fit the description given me of Mrs Shawpart. Your husband divorced you and collected all the insurance from your salon when it burned down. You were jealous of his success.’
    Eve looked at her wearily. ‘You are talking absolute rubbish. Wait a minute.’
    She went away and came back with a business card. ‘That was the business I had last year and I was in business in Worcester for ten years. Ask anyone.’
    Agatha dismally looked down at the business card. It said, ‘Eve’s Hairdressing,’ with an address in the Foregate in Worcester.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.
    ‘Well, we all make mistakes. Come over to the wash-basin. What on earth gave you such a mad idea?’
    Agatha