Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham (7 page)

She suddenly wished she had not come. The door swung open on the chain.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Mr John’s voice. ‘Come in.’

He unlatched the chain and stood back. The hallway was in darkness. He led the way into a sitting-room and switched on a lamp and turned around.

Agatha let out an exclamation. His face was black with bruises.

‘What on earth happened to you?’ she asked. ‘Car accident?’

‘Yes, last night. Some drunken youth ran into me and I hit the windscreen.’

‘Didn’t you have an air bag? Or didn’t you have your seat-belt on?’

‘I don’t have one of those models with an air bag. I’d just started to drive off, so I didn’t have a seat-belt on.’

‘What did the police say?’

‘I didn’t bother reporting it. I mean, what could they do? I didn’t get the number of the other car.’

‘But you have to report it to the police! The insurance –’

‘Oh, just leave it. I don’t want to talk about it. What do you want?’

Agatha had planned to be flirtatious, but confronted with his black-and-blue face, she did not quite know how to begin.

‘I heard you were ill,’ she began, ‘and was concerned about you.’

‘That was nice of you.’ He rallied himself with an effort. ‘Can I offer you something? Tea? Something stronger?’

‘No, don’t trouble. How long have you lived here?’

‘Why?’

Agatha blinked. ‘Just wondered. Here.’ She fumbled in her handbag. ‘Just a silly little present I got you.’ She handed him the Asprey’s box.

He opened it and stared down at the heavy gold cuff-links nestling in their little bed of velvet.

Suddenly his face and manner were transformed. ‘How beautiful. And how very, very generous. I don’t know what to say.’

He came across to her and bent down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Now, we really must have a drink to celebrate. No, we must. I insist.’

He went out and returned after a few moments carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He expertly popped the cork, filled the glasses and handed one to Agatha.

Agatha raised her glass. ‘Here’s to friendship,’ she said.

‘Oh, I’ll drink to that. I do need a friend.’ His voice had a ring of sincerity for the first time. I wonder if I’ve been mistaken about him, thought Agatha.

He sat down and held his tulip glass in one slender hand. ‘You were asking how long I had lived here? About a year. I had been working in Portsmouth and I wanted a change of scene. I saw
in the
Hairdresser’s Journal
that this business in Evesham was going for sale. When I first came to Evesham, I looked the place over. It seemed neither go-ahead, nor sophisticated. But
there was something about the sheer laziness of the place which got to me. And I knew there were a lot of rich people in the surrounding villages. Well, the business took off almost from the
beginning. Although I am thinking of moving on. I get restless after I’ve been in the same place for a bit.’

Agatha glanced around her at the heavy furniture, and the dark wallpaper decorated with uninspiring scenes of the Cotswolds, those sort of scenes, peculiarly lifeless, painted by local artists
as if they had meticulously copied photographs.

‘Did you take this place furnished?’

‘Yes, I rent it. Not my taste. So how’s your muddled love life, Agatha?’

She manufactured a world-weary shrug. ‘That scene Charles threw was the last straw. I’m weary of James.’ She looked down at the floor and wished she could blush to order.
‘I kept thinking about you, instead.’

‘I’ve been thinking about you as well,’ he said. ‘We could make a great team.’

She looked at him in surprise.

He put his glass down and leaned forward. ‘You wondered why I didn’t move to London. Well, I’ve been thinking about it. One of my customers told me about how successful you
were at organizing things and about your public relations job. Oh, I know you told me, but it was only later I thought of it. I’ve enough money put by to take a lease on a place in the centre
of town, Knightsbridge, Sloane Street, somewhere near Harrods. With my hairdressing skills and your public relations skills, I could be another Vidal Sassoon.’

If only I could believe he was not a blackmailer, thought Agatha quickly. But string him along anyway.

‘Do you know, that could be very exciting. I miss London. And it would get me out of the mess I’ve made for myself down here. When do we start?’

‘It’ll take some time to wind things up in Evesham. We could think about starting next year.’

He can’t have thought that tape recorder meant anything, Agatha decided. She stood up. ‘I really must be going. I’m sorry about your accident. When are you back at
work?’

‘Couple of days.’

‘I’ll make an appointment when I know you’re going to be there.’

He surveyed her. ‘Garry did that to you, didn’t he?’ She nodded. ‘You see, that’s the trouble. It’s so hard to get assistants with any flair. Good
hairdressers are born, not made.’

He walked with her to the door. ‘When you come in for that appointment, we’ll fix up a date for dinner.’ He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
‘We’re going to be a great partnership. I’m good at raising money, so funds won’t be any problem.’

‘I’ve got some money of my own. I could help you.’

He swept her into his arms and kissed her passionately. ‘What did I ever do before I met you,’ he said huskily.

Well, well, well, thought Agatha shakily as she made her way to her car. Perhaps I really was mistaken in him. He is rather a dish.

She decided to drive into Evesham and buy some groceries in case Charles wanted to come to dinner. She was tired of eating out.

The villa was on the corner of a side road. She drove round into the side road to make a three-point turn and so drive back into town. It was then she noticed Mr John’s car at the side of
the house, gleaming, unmarked.

Surely he could not have got it repaired so quickly. Did some jealous husband beat him up? Someone he had been blackmailing?

But that kiss still burned on Agatha’s lips and she found she was becoming inclined to think that there was nothing wrong with him, except perhaps that he was a bit of a philanderer.

As she drove back into town and to Tesco’s supermarket, she began to feel the first surge of excitement about his idea of starting a salon in London. She was a shrewd enough businesswoman
to make certain it prospered. He certainly was talented, more talented than London hairdressers Agatha had gone to. She had only said that bit about putting her money into his business to get him
on the hook and allay his suspicions that she was on to him.

But what if he was genuine? She could get out of Carsely and back into an exciting, busy life. James would return and find her gone. With work to do, she would not have time to think of him.

She drifted around the supermarket wondering what to get for dinner. Then she reflected it was silly to waste money on expensive food for Charles, who would probably prefer sausage, egg and
chips to anything else.

She queued and paid for her groceries, all the time thinking of the hairdressing project as escape.

It was only when she finally entered her cottage and began to unpack her groceries that Agatha’s common sense began to reassert itself. Mr John surely got women on the hook by being
charming to them. And yet . . . and yet . . . If he had reason to suspect she was on to him, why offer her a business proposition where she would be working closely with him? He had not asked for
any money. She had offered it. She phoned Charles and asked him for dinner, telling him she would let him know her news when he arrived.

The sad fact was that Agatha had become addicted to the state of being in love and was all too ready to transfer that love to someone, anyone, other than James Lacey.

Charles arrived just as the first crack of lightning split the sky overhead. ‘Let’s hope the weather’s broken at last,’ he said.

‘Do you mind if we eat in the kitchen?’ said Agatha.

‘Not at all. What delicacies are you going to microwave for me?’

‘Sausage, egg and chips, all fried.’

‘Good. I’d like a bit of fried bread as well.’

‘You’ve got it. Go and make yourself a drink and get me a gin and tonic while I fry. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.’

Agatha turned to the stove. There was another great crack of thunder and then all the lights went out.

‘Blast!’ she shouted to Charles, who was at the drinks trolley in the living-room. ‘I’ll light candles. Don’t fall over anything.’

She fumbled in the kitchen drawer for the candles she kept in readiness to cope with Carsely’s many power cuts. Charles came in holding a branch of candles he had taken from the
dining-room table. ‘If you’re all right, I’ll go back and get the drinks.’

‘Wait a bit. I’ve got a big torch in this cupboard under the sink.’ Agatha found it and handed it to him.

He put the candles with the others on the kitchen table and retreated with the torch.

‘Thank God this is a gas cooker,’ muttered Agatha.

When dinner was cooked, they sat down to eat it in candle-light.

‘Now,’ said Charles, ‘what happened?’

Agatha told him about her visit, about the hairdresser’s bruised face, about the business offer and how she had found the car, unmarked, at the side of the house.

‘So it does look as if someone might have beaten him up. Good,’ remarked Charles.

Agatha said, ‘I’ve been wondering if we’ve been wrong . . . about the blackmailing, I mean. Maybe he’s just a ladies’ man.’

‘A successful one, too, by the look in your eyes. Agatha, he’s after your money.’

‘I offered it. All he was doing was offering me a job.’

‘Which you wouldn’t dream of accepting.’

‘It might be a good idea. I mean, I’m
rotting
here in Carsely.’

‘When you talked about your life in London, I always got the impression you were rotting there without knowing it. You’ve got friends here. Something always seems to be happening to
you.’

‘I could do it for a bit. See how it works. I wouldn’t sell up here till I was sure.’

‘Aggie, he
has
got to you, you silly old thing.’

Agatha winced at that ‘old’ but said defensively, ‘In any case I mean to string him along. It’s a good way of getting to know him better. Then I can be sure.’

‘I think that’s a damn dangerous thing to do.’

‘Why? If he does try to blackmail me, then I’ll go straight to the police.’

‘Aggie, blackmailers create violence. You’ve gone potty.’

But Agatha had begun to build a dream up in her head of being back working in London. Why not go for Bond Street? Start with a splash. Big party. Get all the celebs. She could practically smell
the petrol fumes of Bond Street, the scent from the perfume counter at Fenwick’s, the glowing pictures in the art galleries, the glittering jewels in Asprey’s window.

And perhaps, just perhaps, if he kissed her again like that, the bright pictures of James would fade and die.

‘If you don’t want to know any more about it . . .’ she began huffily.

‘Oh, I do. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need my help soon. Listen to that storm, Aggie. You’re surely not going to send me home tonight.’

‘You can sleep here . . . in the spare room.’

The phone rang. Agatha picked up the kitchen extension. It was Mr John, his voice warm and concerned. ‘I just wanted to know you were all right.’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Why?’

‘This terrible storm. There are trees down everywhere. Have you electricity?’

‘No, but I’ve a gas cooker and candles.’

‘I’m very excited about our business project and would like to talk some more about it. Why don’t you drop over here tomorrow afternoon at three, say?’

‘Yes, I’d like that. Get off!’ Charles had crept up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded the hairdresser sharply. ‘Who’s there?’

‘No one,’ said Agatha. ‘Just a mosquito. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.’

She swung round on Charles. ‘What did you do that for? That was John.’

‘I guessed as much. You are getting into deep water, Aggie.’

‘I’m not,’ she protested huffily. She took a Sarah Lee apple pie out of the freezer and put it in the oven. ‘I should have put that on earlier,’ she said.
‘Let’s go and relax.’

As they went into the living-room, all the lights came on again. ‘Good,’ said Charles, ‘we can watch telly.’

He switched it on and flicked the channels until he came across a rerun of
Hill Street Blues
and settled down happily to watch.

‘You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to see that,’ said Agatha crossly. ‘And it is my television set.’

‘Shh!’

So they watched
Hill Street Blues
and then there was a Barbra Streisand movie and Charles was addicted to Barbra Streisand. While he watched, Agatha let dreams of a new life curl around
her brain rather like the smoke which was beginning to curl under the kitchen door. She had forgotten about the apple pie and it was only as smoke began to drift between them and the television set
that she realized with a squawk of alarm what had happened. She ran to the kitchen and switched off the oven and opened the door and windows. Sweet cool air drifted in. She walked out into the
garden. The rain had stopped and a little chilly moon sailed overhead through ragged clouds. She stood breathing in the fresh air until all the smoke had cleared from the kitchen. The pie when she
removed it was a blackened mess. She threw it into the wastebin and then began to diligently clean the surfaces of the kitchen.

By the time she had finished cleaning, the movie had ended and Charles was watching
Star Trek, The Next Generation
, an early one, to judge from the beardless and baby-faced Commander
Riker.

‘Charles,’ said Agatha crossly. ‘It’s late and the storm’s over. You can go home.’

‘I haven’t got Sky Television and I haven’t seen this one.’

‘Home, Charles.’

He left grumbling. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he said, ‘but you don’t deserve my concern.’

The next day was almost chilly and the residents of Carsely, like the rest of the British Isles who had been bitching for weeks about the heat, began to bitch instead about the
cold.