Agatha managed a watery smile. "Doesn't seem to work with the Boggles."
"Oh, them, well...There is always an exception. But surely James's interest in Helen Warwick is simply to do with the case?"
"James has quite dreadful taste in women," said Agatha gloomily. "Remember Mary Fortune?" Mary Fortune, a divorcee who had been murdered, had enjoyed a brief affair with James before her death.
"You were away then," pointed out Mrs. Bloxby. "Have there been any reporters, asking questions?"
"About the attempted shooting? No. I think the police want the press out of their hair and that they have somehow managed to keep it quiet for the moment. The villagers are tired of the press as well, so none of them is going to phone up a newspaper. I'll go to London and see if Roy Silver has found out anything. I've something in mind. I may stay the night. I'd best leave a note for James."
"Hadn't you better stick around? The police will surely be back to see you."
"They can talk to the Hardy woman. I want a change of scene anyway."
"I do feel you should take care, Agatha. Someone appears to be more afraid of your investigations than they are of the police."
"I'm beginning to think that someone is mad. Look, it was a man who held us up last night. Mrs. Comfort said something about Mrs. Gore-Appleton looking like a man. Perhaps there never was a Mrs. Gore-Appleton. Perhaps there was a Mr. Gore-Appleton. Perhaps some man pretended to be a woman as part of that charity scam."
"I still think you should stay here and rest, Agatha."
"No, I'm going. I'll feel better once I'm out of the village." But Agatha forgot to leave a note for James.
But once she reached London, Agatha found herself driving towards Kensington, to the Gloucester Road. She had to reassure herself that James had really gone to see a friend and that the friend wasn't Helen Warwick. As she drove along the Gloucester Road towards the block of flats, she kept looking at the parked cars. Of course, James could be parked anywhere. It was difficult to find a parking-place in Kensington at the best of times. His car could be tucked away in Cromwell Gardens or Emperor's Gate or somewhere she could not see it. But suddenly, there it was, on a meter, a few yards from Helen's building. And as a final nail in Agatha's coffin, there, just leaving the flats, came James and Helen, laughing and talking like old friends. The car behind Agatha, who had been driving at about five miles an hour, hooted impatiently. Agatha speeded up. She longed to turn the car around, catch up with them and hurl abuse at James from the window.
But she drove along Palace Gate instead, made a left at Kensington Gardens and headed over to the City.
Roy was in his office. He backed away behind his desk when he saw the grim look on Agatha's face. "What have you been up to, sweetie?"
Agatha told him all about the fire, the attempted shooting, and their investigations. Roy visibly relaxed, assuming that all this mayhem was the reason for Agatha's angry face and not anything to do with himself.
"Perhaps it's that Hardy woman after all," he said when Agatha had finished. "She turned up out of nowhere to live in Carsely. What if she's really Mrs. Gore-Appleton? I mean, coincidences happen the whole time. Lots of people move to the Cotswolds and find themselves living next to someone they've been trying to avoid all their lives. So how's this? She takes your cottage. The fact that your name is Raisin and you're probably Jimmy's wife amuses her. It's not all that usual a name. She knows about your proposed wedding to James but thinks you must be divorced. Jimmy may not even have mentioned you. Then, in his fumbling, drunken wanderings, he runs into her, recognizes her as his old buddy and tries to put the screws on her. She bumps him off. Then she goes to that cinema in Mircester and there, in the cinema, she sees Miss Purvey and, what is worse, Miss Purvey sees her, so Miss Purvey must be silenced...
"Now she's running scared. She tries to burn the pair of you to death, but some neighbour starts screaming, 'Fire!' and she sees your light upstairs and hears you shouting, 'James!' or something and decides, as you are not going to die, she'd better start heaving buckets of earth around to make sure she's not suspected. Then she thinks up a scheme to throw you off the scent. She hires some actor or villain to stage that hold-up and give you a fright and at the same time she can figure as the heroine of the piece, and who's going to suspect a heroine?"
"That's very clever, Roy, and I wish it could stand up, but the fact is James and I went into her cottage - I've still got the keys - and we went through her papers and she is exactly who she says she is."
"Damn."
"Your detective seems to have a touch with the down-and-outs that the police lack."
"The problem with Iris is that she's very busy at the moment. She's overworked. She's got at least a couple of battered wives on her books."
"See if you can get her. I'll pay her." Agatha walked to the window and stared out unseeing at the jumble of City roofs and spires.
Then she swung round. "I know, we'll go and see what we can find out."
"We, Paleface? I've a job to do here, remember?"
The door opened and Bunty, Agatha's former secretary, popped her head round the door. "Oh, hallo, Mrs. R. Roy, Mr. Wilson wants to see you."
"I'll wait for you," said Agatha.
Roy went off, straightening his garish tie and wondering whether it was too gaudy for a rising young executive.
Mr. Wilson surveyed Roy for a few moments and then said, "You've got the Raisin woman there."
"Just dropped by for a chat."
"That one never drops by for a chat. What does she want? To wring your neck for having buggered up her love-life?"
"No, she wants my help. She's crazy. She wants us to go among the down-and-outs and find out more about her husband's background."
"Then do it."
"What?"
"I said, do it. Agatha Raisin may be the nastiest, most ball-breaking woman I have ever come across, but she's the best PR in the business and I would like her on the payroll. I want you to be very nice to her. I want you to point out to her that since she retired, her life has been nothing but stress and murder down in that village. Hint that there's a good amount of money to be made. Put her in your debt."
"But I've got a meeting with Allied Soaps this afternoon."
"Patterson can take that. Off with you, and keep the old girl sweet."
Roy trailed miserably back to his office. Allied Soaps was an important account and Patterson would dearly like to get his hands on it. Life just wasn't fair.
He opened the door of his office and pinned a resolute smile on his face. "Guess what? I've got a slow day, so we can go."
Agatha looked at him suspiciously. "What did Wilson want with you? Not trying to get me back on the payroll?"
"No, no." Roy knew that if he told Agatha that was the only reason he was going to help her, it would alienate her for all time.
"Well, we'd better get some old clothes and look the part."
"Do we have to dress up?"
"Don't worry. I'll go and find the right stuff. See you back here in about an hour."
Some time later, two shabby individuals stood outside Ped-mans in Cheapside and tried to flag down a cab. Agatha had gone to an Oxfam shop for the clothes they were now wearing. Roy was dressed in jeans which Agatha had ripped at the knees for him, a denim shirt, and an old tweed jacket. Agatha was wearing a long floral skirt and two lumpy cardigans over j a blouse and carrying various plastic bags. Both stank of j methylated spirits, Agatha having doused their clothes liberally in the stuff. She had also dirtied their faces.
"This is no good," said Roy as the third empty cab sailed by them without stopping. Agatha went back into Pedmans and hailed the commissionaire.
"What d'ye want?" he growled.