The Blood of an Englishman (12 page)

“I'll try her. Do you know her address?”

“I think I still have it somewhere.” Alice left the room and returned shortly with a bulky address book. She turned the pages and then said, “Here she is. Number five, The Loaming. It's a little road that runs along the back of the high street.”

*   *   *

Feeling she might be getting somewhere at last, Agatha drove back to Winter Parva. At first, Agatha thought that Alice had made a mistake. The Loaming seemed to have nothing more than sheds, no doubt belonging to the shops on the high street. But right at the end, she found a small brick cottage.

Agatha knocked at the door. A dingy lace curtain on a window on the right twitched and then she could hear shuffling footsteps. The door was opened by a squat man in his pyjamas. He smelled strongly of beer. His sparse hair stood on end.

“Does Molly Kite live here?” asked Agatha.

“She's at work.”

“Where's work?”

“You the social?”

“I'm a private detective,” said Agatha, wishing for the hundredth time she had the power of the police.

“Works at Jacey's supermarket, her does,” he said and slammed the door.

Agatha shouted through the letter box, “Which Jacey's?” Jacey's was a chain of supermarkets.

A faint voice reached her ear. “Mircester.”

Agatha got back into her car and drove off, switching on the heater as she did so. As she drove up out of Winter Parva, she suddenly saw a small clump of snowdrops by the roadside and felt cheered. Surely the cold days must be coming to an end.

Jacey's was on the outskirts of Mircester. Agatha really meant to park her car as far away from the entrance as she could, as that way she could get some exercise, but the day was so cold, she slid into a space nearest the front doors.

Once more she wished she were a police officer. If she were, she could ask for the manager and demand that Molly be brought to her. Instead she headed for the customer services desk and asked to speak to Molly. She had to state her business and was told that Miss Kite would be on her break in half an hour. If Mrs. Raisin would take a seat, they would see whether she was willing to talk to her.

So Agatha sat on a chair by the entrance, suffering in the blasts of cold air that flooded in every time the automatic doors opened. A figure suddenly loomed over her and a cultured voice said, “I know you from somewhere.” Agatha looked up. A tall man stood there, holding a plastic bag of groceries. He had a square, pleasant face, thick grey hair and brown eyes. He was wearing a Barbour with a red scarf tucked in at the neck.

“I don't think so,” said Agatha cautiously.

“I know. I'm a friend of James Lacey. You were married to him, weren't you? I was a guest at your wedding.” His face crinkled up in an attractive smile. Agatha's spirits soared.

“I was thinking of going for a drink,” he said. “Feel like joining me, or are you waiting for someone?”

“Just resting,” said Agatha, consigning her appointment with Molly to the devil.

“There's a pub just along the road,” he said. “I'll drive us and then bring you back to your car.”

Damn this awful weather, thought Agatha. I'm sure my nose is red and these flat-heeled boots make me feel dumpy. He led the way to a Land Rover.

“Still detecting?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. What about you?” asked Agatha.

“I'm a farmer. Got a place not far from here.”

“I didn't think farmers would shop in supermarkets,” said Agatha. “I mean, when it comes to supplying local produce, they're not very loyal.”

“It's handy for a few things. Here we are.” He drove into the car park of a pub called The Dog and Duck.

He got out and went round and helped Agatha get down. Is he being a gentleman, she fretted, or does he think I am old? How old is he? Despite the grey hair, I think he's about my age.

The pub had a cheerful log fire. Agatha asked for a gin and tonic, saying that although she was driving, one wouldn't hurt. He found them a table near the fire and went to get her drink and a pint of beer for himself.

Before he sat down, he removed his coat. Agatha shrugged her own coat off, wishing, because she had been feeling so low, that she had not decided to wear old clothes. Her trousers were baggy at the knees.

“So,” he said, “what are you detecting?”

Agatha thought guiltily of Molly Kite, no doubt wondering what had happened to her.

“I'm trying again,” she said, “to find out who murdered these people in Winter Parva.”

“Any leads?”

“Still a lot of dead ends.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Agatha did. When she had finished, he said, “You should be careful. If George Southern was murdered because he knew the identity of the man who killed Bert Simple and he thought you were getting close, he might kill you.”

“Well, I'll need to find him before he finds me,” said Agatha.

“I must be getting back,” he said.

“Yes, your wife must be wondering what's happened to you,” said Agatha.

“Like you, I'm divorced. I live with my son. I was lucky to get custody. Do you work on Saturdays?”

“Not often.”

“Why don't you come and see the farm?”

“I'd like that.”

“I'll give you directions.”

Agatha wrote them down. She felt as if the long-awaited spring was blossoming inside her.

When he dropped her at the supermarket, she felt she would leave Molly Kite until later.

She forgot about the other men in her life and looked forward to Saturday. But some caution prompted her to call on her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, who had a good knowledge of people over quite a wide area.

But Mrs. Bloxby said she had never heard of Paul Newton, but that she would ask around. She looked unusually distracted so Agatha asked her if anything was bothering her.

“The bishop,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “He's back on the attack. Alf, he says, must do more to attract young people to the church. We are to have a pop group next Sunday. They call themselves The Charistmatic Christians. I have heard them. They are very loud. So we're back to that same old business—Jesus is your pal. Clap happy. No grandeur. No real spiritual belief. Nothing to be scared of which means nothing to respect.”

“I think that's silly,” said Agatha, who hated to see her friend worried. “I'll see what I can do. I mean, it'll drive away the regulars and no young person is going to bother coming.”

“On the contrary, they have quite a following. I suppose I am being dreadfully old-fashioned. Don't worry. The bishop will soon turn his attention elsewhere. Besides, it's kind of you to suggest it, but there really is nothing you can do.”

“One thing,” said Agatha before she left, “if Charles or James wants to know where I am, don't tell them.”

*   *   *

Saturday dawned, damp, cold and drizzly. Agatha wore a dark green cashmere trouser suit and moderately high-heeled boots. She wondered what it would be like to be a farmer's wife. It was a pity he had a son. Wrapped in a rosy dream where the son was saying, “Dad, it's time you put the past behind you and got married again,” Agatha followed the directions to the farm.

When she arrived in the farmyard, Paul came out to meet her. He was wearing a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing powerful arms.

“Come in and have a coffee,” he said, “and meet Luke, my son.”

Agatha followed him into an impeccably clean kitchen. A tall young man with a thatch of black hair and who looked very much like his father rose as Agatha and Paul entered.

“This is my son,” said Paul. “Luke, this is Mrs. Raisin.”

“Agatha, please.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” said Luke, rising to his feet. “I am never familiar with the aged.”

“Luke! A word with you,” said his father furiously.

They moved into another room. Agatha could hear raised voices but not what they were saying. What a bad beginning!

At last, Paul came back. “I'm sorry about that. My son is very possessive. Usually, it's the other way around. But we won't let it spoil our day. Tell you what, I'll put the coffee on and while it's percolating, I'll show you my Charolais. I'm very proud of them. They took first prize last year at the Moreton show.”

He glanced down at Agatha's boots. “You'd better borrow a pair of Wellingtons.”

“I'll be all right,” said Agatha. “My heels aren't very high.”

She followed him out of the farmhouse, across the yard, and to where a large barn stood. Agatha could feel the damp, clinging drizzle playing havoc with her make-up. Paul unfastened the door of the barn. “Go and take a look,” he said. “Aren't they beautiful?”

You can take the girl out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the girl, and city-born Agatha's bones were made of pavement. “What marvellous beasts!” she said, hoping she wasn't expected to get nearer to the great white animals. The only time Agatha felt comfortable with cattle was when they were neatly cut up into steaks.

At last, feeling his visitor had admired his prize cattle long enough, Paul led the way back to the farmhouse.

Clasping a mug of coffee, Agatha asked if he minded if she had a cigarette. “Go ahead,” he said. “I'll have one myself.”

Bless the man, thought Agatha, lighting up. I really must marry him.

*   *   *

At that moment, Mrs. Bloxby was facing Toni Gilmour. The vicar's wife was incapable of lying, but she said, “I cannot tell you where Mrs. Raisin is. She really did not want anyone to know.”

“I've tried her mobile, but it's switched off,” said Toni, “and I really think she'll want to hear my news.”

Mrs. Bloxby remembered that she had only been instructed not to tell Charles or James where Agatha was.

“Is it really important?” she asked.

“Very.”

“Mrs. Raisin is visiting a farmer called Paul Newton. I know his farm is in the Mircester area but that's all.”

*   *   *

Agatha was back in the farm kitchen, feeling tired and miserable. Her boots were muddy and the rain had suddenly changed from a drizzle to a downpour, washing off what was left of her make-up. She felt she had walked miles and miles, looking at rain-sodden fields lying under a lowering sky.

Luke crashed into the kitchen. “Sit down,” ordered his father. “I'm just about to serve lunch.”

Shrugging on his coat, Luke said, “I'm going to the pub.”

“I'm sorry about my son's manners,” said Paul as the farm door slammed behind Luke.

But the door crashed open again. “Dad!” cried Luke. “Someone absolutely gorgeous has just driven up.”

There came a tentative knock at the open door and then Toni walked in. She was wearing a long scarlet padded coat and her blond hair was tied up on top of her head.

“I'm sorry to butt in, Agatha,” she said. “But I felt the news couldn't wait.”

“This is my assistant, Toni Gilmour,” said Agatha. “Toni, Paul Newton and his son, Luke.”

“We were just about to have lunch,” said Paul. “Do stay and join us, Miss Gilmour. My son is just leaving so you can have his meal.”

“Actually, it's too wet out,” said Luke. “I've decided to stay.”

Paul switched off the gas on the cooker. “Luke, let's leave Agatha to have a private talk.”

When they walked into the other room, Agatha said, “What's so steaming important that it couldn't wait? Snakes and bastards! What a day!”

“It's just this,” said Toni, sitting down beside Agatha. She handed her a newspaper cutting. “This was in the morning's paper.”

Agatha grabbed the paper and began to read. Then she let out a low whistle and briefly forgot about Paul. The announcement in the paper was that Gwen and John were engaged to be married.

“A concrete motive at last,” said Agatha.

“I wondered if you would like me to go and see John Hale. I can catch him in his dressing room before tonight's show. I'll be tactful.”

“Good idea.”

Toni grinned. “I won't stay for lunch. Is this the latest?”

“I thought so,” said Agatha, “but I'm beginning to think I loathe farms. Anyway, I wish I could get rid of the son.”

Toni went to the door of the other room and called, “Goodbye.”

Luke came shooting out. “Can't you stay?”

“Got to go.”

“I was going to go to the pub. Why don't we both go and leave the olds alone?”

“All right,” said Toni as Paul walked back into the kitchen. “I'll call you, Agatha, and let you know how I get on.”

When they had left, Paul asked what it was all about, serving up a lunch of roast chicken while Agatha gave him the news.

After lunch, Agatha asked if she could use the bathroom and he showed her upstairs to a large one off what he said was his bedroom.

Feeling better after carefully repairing her make-up and brushing her hair until it shone, Agatha left the bathroom and was immediately seized in Paul's arms.

He kissed her so passionately that Agatha responded until she felt a warning bell at the back of her brain and pulled free.

“That was sudden,” she said breathlessly.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I got carried away. Let's take things slowly then.”

Does this farm need money? jeered a nasty little voice in Agatha's head.

She threw a nervous look at the bed. “Let's go back to the kitchen,” she said.

They had only drunk mineral water with their meal. To Agatha's relief, Paul suggested they have brandy. I hope I'm not becoming a drunk, thought Agatha, but I feel I've had a shock.

“I didn't know you fancied me that much,” she said.

“I do. Very much,” said Paul. “When you've finished your brandy, why don't you go home and think things over? If you want to see me again, phone me.”