"He can't do that!"
"No, but Mr Lacey said with so many nice places around, it wasn't worth the trouble making a fuss. Miss Simms, she told Cater what to do with his shotgun and where to put it, and with the vicar and his wife listening and all. I didn't know where to look."
"Rambling," said Agatha thoughtfully. "Now there's a thing." This was Friday. On Sunday she would see James again if she did not run him to earth before then.
Roy Silver walked into Mr Wilson's office the following morning, wondering why he had been summoned to work on a Saturday.
Mr Wilson, the boss of Pedmans, was sitting with a copy of the Daily Bugle spread on his desk in front of him.
"Seen the paper this morning?" he asked.
"The Daily Bugle? No, not yet."
"Our Mrs Raisin has turned up trumps again. Lovely piece about Jeff Loon, worth thousands in free publicity. My God, if she can promote a pillock like Jeff Loon, she can promote anything. He was your account and we turned it over to Mrs Raisin when you weren't getting anywhere with it."
"Well, no one wanted to know," said Roy defensively.
Mr Wilson looked at Roy over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.
"I'm not blaming you. I don't think anyone else in PR could have pulled off a coup like this." He leaned back in his chair. "I thought you and Mrs Raisin were best friends."
"So we are."
"I noticed you seemed to avoid her while she was here. I overheard her asking you to go for a drink with her after work one day, and then you came out with the lamest of excuses."
"Must have heard the wrong thing. I adore Aggie."
"You see, I want you to get close to that woman. I want you to talk to her about money, lots of money. I'll even make her a partner. She can choose her own accounts. She doesn't like me. If there's any affection left between you..."
"Lots," said Roy fervently.
"Okay, get down there. Take your time. Don't rush her. Look for a way to get her back."
"Maybe next weekend?"
"No time like the present."
"Of course, of course. I'll go now."
Roy rushed off home to pack a weekend bag and then took a taxi to Paddington. He had not phoned Agatha, fearing she would suggest another weekend or put him off altogether. If he just arrived on the doorstep, so he reasoned, she could hardly turn him away.
Had James Lacey been in the Red Lion that Saturday evening, which is where Roy finally ran Agatha to earth, then she might have told Roy to get lost. But the thought of seeing James again on the Sunday was filling her with nervous anticipation. To have even the weedy Roy along might mean she would not be tempted to monopolize him. So she ungraciously said, "I am surprised an ex-friend should be so anxious to stay with me, but I suppose I'll have to put up with you putting up with me. Prepare for an energetic day tomorrow. In fact, it'll probably bore the pants off you and serve you right. Tomorrow morning we go to church, and after that we join the Carsely Ramblers for a long and healthy walk."
"Just what I need," said Roy, smiling ingratiatingly. "Ready for another drink, Aggie?"
Two
Sir Charles Fraith sat at his desk in his study and looked again at the letter from the Dembley Walkers. It was signed by a Ms Jessica Tartinck and was militant, to say the least. "You aristocrats think you own the countryside," went one sentence. "But we do," murmured Sir Charles. "I own this land, anyway." He looked at it again. It claimed that there was an old right of way across his land. He spread out the maps of his property. There was a thin dotted line marking the right of way. He had never even noticed it before. They could use it all right, but with one exception. At one point it went right through a field of oil-seed rape. These old rights of way had originally been paths to the school or the church or work, as far back as the Middle Ages. They were not really intended for suburbanites to clump across in serious boots.
Sir Charles was a baronet who lived in a large Victorian mansion which commanded one thousand acres of good arable land. Although in his mid-thirties, he was still unmarried. He was a small neat man with fine fair hair and a mild, sensitive face. In him occasionally warred three characters. There was the bluff squire type, on the hearty side, given to rather obvious jokes and puns; then there was the clever intellectual who never talked about his first in history from Cambridge; and then there was the withdrawn character who really trusted no one and did not like anyone to get too close to him.
He lived with a faded aunt, his late mother's sister, a Mrs Tassy who, although absent-minded, acted as hostess for him at house parties and saw to little else. The running of the household fell on the shoulders of his late father's butler, Gustav. Gustav still styled himself 'butler', but in these days of dwindling servants Gustav was really a sort of houseman, doing light cooking when required, ordering in the groceries and wine, and helping out sometimes in the garden, or with the housework if one of the cleaners who came in from the village fell ill. He was no old retainer but was in his early fifties and kept his country of origin a well-guarded secret. He had a clever, mobile face, a male dancer's figure, and small black eyes.
He came into the room quietly and began to make up the fire, for the day had turned chilly.
Sir Charles held out the letter. "What do you think of this, Gustav?"
Gustav took out a pair of spectacles and scanned the letter. "Screw the silly bitch," he said.
"Probably not screwable, Gustav. Can't offend them or they'll put in a complaint under the 1980 Highways Act, and you know what a trouble that will cause. Best to send back the soft answer, hey? Tell you what, I'll tell them this time to walk round the edge of the field and invite them for tea."
"Got more to do with my time than serve tea to a bunch of Commie bastards," said Gustav.
"You'll do as you're told," said Sir Charles mildly.
He rolled up the maps and proceeded to write a polite letter to Ms Jessica Tartinck.
The Carsely Ramblers gathered outside Harvey's, the post office/general stores, on Sunday.
At first Agatha had only eyes for James. "Back again," he said mildly.
"Thank you for looking after my garden," said Agatha, suddenly wishing Roy weren't glued to her side.
"Not at all." He turned away and addressed the small group. There were Mrs Mason, the chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies' Society; Miss Simms, the society's secretary; Mrs Bloxby, the vicar's wife; Mr and Mrs Harvey from the stores; Jack Page, a local farmer, and two of his teenage children; and, horror upon horrors, that elderly and constantly complaining couple, Mr and Mrs Boggle. Although the sun was shining, the day was unseasonably cold, and grey clouds were piling up in the west.
"Now, as it is so cold," said James, raising his voice, "we will walk up to Lord Pendlebury's estate by the back road. There is a pretty walk round the edge of the fields that we haven't been on yet. Nothing too strenuous. Are you sure you are up to this, Mr and Mrs Boggle?"
"Course," said Mrs Boggle truculently. "Us'll probably do better than this young whipper-snapper here." She jerked a thumb at Roy.
James set off. Agatha wanted to run forward and walk with him but felt suddenly shy. He was as handsome as ever with his thick greying hair, tanned face and blue eyes. She fell into step beside Mrs Bloxby.
"Nice to see you back," said the vicar's wife. "It's been a dreary winter. Horrible weather. Nothing dramatic, just rain and more rain."
"You don't notice the changing seasons much in the City," said Agatha. "Just look at the weight I've put on! Taking taxis everywhere and eating expensive food."