“Why I phoned,” Agatha pressed on, “is I wondered when we’re going to take that trip to Portsmouth?”
“Can’t.”
“Why? Do you think it’s a waste of time?”
“No, not that. The most wonderful thing has happened. There’s this girl here. Fantastic. I’m in love.”
“In that case,” said Agatha evenly, “I won’t keep you.”
She hung up and sat down on a chair beside the phone and stared miserably into space.
The silence of the cottage suddenly seemed oppressive. And she was alone. And out there was the maniac who had killed Mrs. Dairy so brutally. No one wanted Agatha Raisin, except perhaps some murderer who wanted to silence her. There had been a murder committed in Carsely, home of that famous detective, Agatha Raisin, and yet not a reporter had called. But then the police had claimed the credit before. Still, Agatha Raisin had found the body. They probably hadn’t told the press that.
She slowly dialled Roy’s number. “I’m sorry I was so rude,” she said when he answered. “You are most welcome if you want to come.”
“I’ll be on the train that gets in around eleven-thirty in the morning.”
“Is that Great Western or Thames Turbo?”
“Don’t ask me, sweetie. I was born in the days of British Rail. Why?”
“It’s just the trains sometimes get cancelled. If you get stuck, take the train to Oxford and I’ll pick you up there.”
“Righto. See you.”
Agatha put down the phone, suddenly grateful for Roy and his thick skin. And if he had a few days free, then perhaps he might like to go to Portsmouth with her. She marvelled at the insensitivity of Charles. How on earth could you bed one woman and then tell her soon afterwards that you were in love with another?
She remembered when she was a little girl going out to play with a gang of boys who had turned nasty and thrown stones at her. She had run home to her mother, blood streaming down her face. “I told you not to play with the wrong children,” her mother had raged. “Now, see what happens?”
And I’ve never learned my lesson, thought Agatha sadly. I’ve been playing with the wrong children all my life.
It was a blustery day with red leaves swirling down into the station car-park when Roy’s train cruised in, miraculously on time. Great fluffy clouds sailed across a pale blue sky.
Roy kissed the air on either side of Agatha’s face, making mwaa, mwaa sounds.
“Lovely to see you, Aggie.” Agatha experienced a pang. Charles also called her Aggie.
“You’re looking well,” lied Agatha, privately thinking that Roy looked as seedy and unhealthy as ever with his lank hair, white, pinched face, too-tight jeans and bomber jacket.
“I’ll be healthier after a bit of country air. Tell me how you’re getting on with the hairdresser murder.”
As she drove him back to Carsely, Agatha outlined everything she had discovered, but left Charles’s name out of it. She ended up by saying, “Don’t feel like a trip to Portsmouth, do you? I feel if I dug into his past I might find something.”
“Give me a day to relax and then maybe we’ll go for it.”
“How’s business?”
“Business is very good. In fact, I’ve got another rise. There’s a new restaurant in Stratford called the Gold Duck. I took the liberty of booking us a table for dinner.”
At Agatha’s cottage, Roy took his bag up to the spare room and then joined Agatha in the kitchen.
“So how’s James?”
“I haven’t heard. He’s abroad somewhere.”
“No reason to let yourself go to seed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Grey hairs coming through.”
Agatha gave a squawk of alarm and ran up to the bathroom. She peered at the roots of her hair. Her hair grew quickly. Her old colour was beginning to show, along with unmistakably grey hairs.
She ran downstairs again. “I can’t bear it. I’ve got to get my hair done again. God, I’m spending all my days at the hairdresser’s! Now, who did Garry, say everyone was going to? Thomas Oliver, that’s it. You’ll need to amuse yourself, Roy.”
She phoned and was told there had been a cancellation and they could take her in half an hour’s time.
“See you,” she gabbled at Roy and ran out to her car.
…
The hairdresser’s seemed a slicker establishment than either Eve’s’s or Mr. John’s. There was a friendly atmosphere. She was told to take a seat and that Marie, the owner, would be with her soon. Agatha looked about her curiously. It was very busy, a good sign.
Then Marie Steele joined her. She was an attractive blonde with a friendly smile. “I’ve brought a chart of colours,” she said, opening it on Agatha’s lap. “Do you want your hair the same shade?”
“Yes,” said Agatha. “I’d like it to look as natural as possible.”
“Perhaps this? Or maybe you’d like a little warm touch of auburn?”
Agatha thought of Charles, of James, of lost love. “Wouldn’t it look too false?” she asked cautiously.
“You’ll look great. I’ll tell Lucy which colour to mix and then I’ll blow-dry your hair myself.”
Lucy, a slim, elegant girl who looked like a model, soon arranged Agatha in a chair in the back salon and deftly began to tint her roots. Agatha felt soothed for the first time in days. The gossip of the hairdresser’s surrounded her. Mort, who, it transpired, was Iranian by birth, was chattering non-stop. Gus, a Sicilian, was making his customer laugh; Kevin, a beautiful young man, was washing hair and bringing coffee; and the efficient Marie was here, there and everywhere.
At last Agatha had her hair shampooed and was led through to Marie.
“Now, how do you like it?” asked Marie, raising the hair-drier.
“Sort of smooth. I wear it in a smooth bob.”
“Right. You’ll find that tinge of auburn works great.”
She worked busily. The hairdresser’s was thinning out. Apart from Agatha, there was only one other customer left.
Finally Agatha looked with delight at her gleaming hair. “Oh, that’s very good,” she said with relief.
“Your hair’s in very good condition,” said Marie, sitting down beside her. “Are you from Evesham?”
“No, Carsely.”
“Raisin! That’s it! I knew I’d heard that name. Oh, dear, your husband was murdered.”
“Yes, but I’m over that now.”
“And you were there when John Shawpart died?”
“It was awful.”
“It must have been.”
“You don’t expect murder and mayhem at a hairdresser’s,” said Agatha.
Marie laughed. “I don’t know about that. There’s times I could have committed murder myself.”
“Awkward customers?”
“No, other hairdressers. It’s a bit like the theatre. Lots of rivalries and jealousies. I had most of my staff poached by a rival last year, and just before Christmas. I was so down, I didn’t feel like going on. But I’ve got a great team now.”
“I see that,” said Agatha. “I’ll make another appointment.”
She paid and left, scurrying to the sanctuary of her car in case the wind messed any of the glory of her auburn hair.
“That’s better,” said Roy when she arrived home. “I put your cats in the garden. Have you fed them?”
“Yes. Any phone calls?”
“That aristo friend of yours.”
“Charles?”
“Yes, him.”
“What did he want?”
“Didn’t say. Why not call him?”
“Later,” mumbled Agatha.
“So, do we go detecting?”
“Maybe, if you’re fit, I’ll drive to Portsmouth tomorrow. I spent so long at the hairdresser’s, there’s not much of the day left. I’ll have a bath and change, have a drink and watch some television and then we’ll be off. What time did you book the table for?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Agatha forced herself to make up and dress with care, just as if she were about to go out with a glamorous man and not Roy, whom she had first employed as an office boy all those years ago. He was a good public relations officer, particularly with pop groups, who hailed him as one of their own kind.