"Oh, must you go? Just a little more sherry?"
"No, really. You're very kind."
"Who shall I say called?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Perth."
"And what else could we ask?" said James as they drove off. "We could hardly tell that poor neurotic house-cleaner that her husband has gone off to Spain with another woman."
"What now?" asked Agatha.
"Mr. Comfort, I think. Ashton-Le-Walls again, and wouldn't you know it. The fog is back."
"Are we going to tell this Mr. Comfort our real names?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Why did we waste time going to see Basil?"
"Well, we didn't go to see him because we know he's out of the country. I was going to ask the neighbours about him. Funny, I didn't think for a moment that he would be married."
"I suppose if we had been kind, we should have broken it to her," said Agatha slowly. "I think the police will check up and they'll tell her. Oh dear, all that cleaning and polishing in the name of love. He's probably spitting on the floor of his hotel room and leaving rings from his wineglasses on the bedside table."
"Just look at that bloody fog." James rubbed at the windscreen with a gloved hand. They had left the dual carriageway and were inching through the fog towards Ashton-Le-Walls.
"What are we going to ask him? Oh, look out!" screamed Agatha as a badger loomed up in the headlights. James braked and the badger shambled off into the hedge.
"I don't know," said James testily. "For God's sake." He had moved off again, only to brake savagely once more as a deer leaped through the fog in front of them. "Why don't those bloody animals stay warm and comfortable instead of wandering about on a filthy night like this? Mr. Comfort? We'll play it by ear. He may not even be home. Or we may find ourselves faced with the second Mrs. Comfort."
Geoffrey Comfort lived in a large manor-house on the outskirts of the village. "You'd never think there was all that amount of money in putting potatoes in plastic bags," marvelled Agatha. "I'm beginning to think I've spent my life in the wrong trade."
"Place looks deserted," muttered James, peering through the fog. "No, wait a bit. There's a chink of light through the downstairs curtains."
They parked the car and approached the house and rang the bell.
They waited and waited. "Probably left the light on because of burglars," Agatha was beginning, when the door suddenly opened and a middle-aged man stood there, peering at them. He was very fat and round, rather like a potato himself, one of those potatoes washed and bagged for the supermarkets. To add to the impression, his fat face was lightly tanned and he had two black moles on his face, like the eyes of a potato.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Comfort?"
"Yes."
"I am James Lacey and this is Mrs. Agatha Raisin."
"So?"
"Mrs. Raisin's husband was murdered recently. He stayed at a health farm at the same time as your wife."
"Fuck off!" The heavy door was slammed in their faces.
"What do we do now?" asked Agatha.
"We go to the nearest pub and eat and drink, that's what we do. We can't very well ring the bell again and demand he speaks to us."
A window opened and Mr. Comfort's round head ap peared. "And bugger off fast or I'll let the dog out."
"There's your answer. In the car, quick, Agatha."
They sped off, James swerving in the drive to avoid a pheasant. "What's that stupid bird doing awake? Why isn't it up in the trees with the rest of the birds? Why has the whol damned countryside turned suicidal?"
"I could do with a bucket of gin," said Agatha gloomily. "Pity you're driving."
"Never mind. I'll drink just short of any breathalyser test. I'm-more interested in food."
They found the village pub, called quaintly the Tapestry Arms. A menu was chalked up on a blackboard beside the bar James read it aloud. "Jumbo sausage and chips, curried chicken and chips, lasagne and chips, fish and chips, and ploughman's."
"Should we try somewhere else?"
"Not in this fog. Let's try a couple of ploughman's am hope for the best."
The ploughman's turned out to be rather dry French bread with a minuscule runny pat of butter and a wedge of Cheddar-type cheese which looked for all the world like an old-fashioned slab of carbolic soap.
Agatha's gin and tonic was warm, the pub having run out of ice.
Bands of fog lay across the room. Agatha thrust away her half-eaten food and lit a cigarette. "Don't glare at me, James. With all this fog about, my cigarette smoke won't make much difference."
"So you think the Hardy woman will accept your offer?" he asked.
"No, I don't. I think I'm going to have to pay her what she wants. I know it's silly and I know I could get somewhere else quite close, but I want my own place. Did you notice the garden when we were going in to her place? Weeds everywhere. Why do people live in the countryside if they don't like living things?" demanded Agatha piously. She wrinkled her nose at her warm gin and tipped it into a rubber plant which was standing on a shelf near her table.
"I gather you don't want to try another of those?"
"No, thank you. And I don't like warm beer either'. 'Then we may as well face a foggy journey home." They went outside. The fog had lifted and a fresh wind was blowing. A little moon raced through the clouds above their heads. A shower of beech-nuts fell on Agatha's head. "More nuts!"
"They're poisonous," said James. "Poisonous to sheep and cattle. Don't seem to affect the squirrels."
When they reached home, James said wearily, "I feel we are going round and round and not getting anywhere. The police have all the resources - to check histories, alibis, and bank accounts. Do you think it is really worth going to London tomorrow to see this secretary?"
"Of course." Agatha was now frightened that if they stopped their investigations, James would take off for foreign parts again. "You'll feel better about it all in the morning."
Helen Warwick was not at the Houses of Parliament but at her flat in a Victorian block in the Gloucester Road in Kensington. When she answered the door, Agatha could not believe at first that this lady could have been Sir Desmond's mistress. She was plump and placid, with light grey eyes and brown hair worn in an old-fashioned French pleat. She was wearing a tailored silk blouse and tweed skirt, sensible brogues, and no make-up. James judged her to be in her forties.
James explained, correctly this time, who they were and why they had come. "You'd better come in," she said.
The flat was large, rather dark, but very comfortable, with a fire burning brightly in the living-room. There was a large bowl of autumn leaves and chrysanthemums on a polished table by the window. The sofa and chairs had feather cushions. A good Victorian English landscape hung over the fireplace. It looked as if Miss Warwick had money and had probably always been well-off.
"I was shocked when I learned of Desmond's death," said Helen. "We were great friends. He was always so kind and courteous. I'm sorry his wife had to find out in such a dreadful way. What's all this about blackmail?"
So they told her all about Jimmy Raisin and Mrs. Gore-Appleton. "I remember them," said Helen. "No, they didn't try to blackmail me. I'm the sort that would have gone straight to the police and they probably knew that. I didn't like them one bit. How they found out my real identity I do not know."
"They probably looked in your handbag," said Agatha.
"And saw the different name on my credit cards? I suppose so. Horrible people. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I can almost pin-point the day they found out."
"Tell us about them," said Agatha eagerly. "Everyone else we've asked seems vague, even someone who slept with Jimmy."
"Let me see...would you both like coffee?"
"No, thank you," said James, anxious to hear what she had to say and frightened that if she went into the kitchen, she might change her mind about talking to them.