“Well, she had one false identity. Probably planned to flee back to Glasgow and get another. I’m starving. Go and wash your hair and I’ll take you out for dinner.”
“Right. Don’t drink all that brandy.”
Agatha went up to the bathroom and took of her clothes and threw everything she had worn into the laundry basket. Then she switched on the shower and took a bottle of shampoo and stood under the jet and shampooed her hair vigorously.
Then she stepped out and towelled her hair. She threw that towel on the floor and then dried her face. Her head felt strangely cold. She looked in the mirror and then began to scream.
She had not locked the bathroom door. Charles came bounding up the stairs, crashed open the door and then burst out laughing.
Too distressed to bother about her nakedness, Agatha bent down and picked up the towel with which she had dried her hair. Clumps of wet hair fell out of it onto the bathroom floor.
“The bitch must have used a depilatory,” said Charles when he could.
Aware at last that she was stark-naked, Agatha wrapped a bath-towel about herself. “What on earth am I to do?” she wailed.
“Buy a wig. You’re not completely bald. You’ve got little bit of hair sticking up from your head. Gosh, you do look funny.”
“I’m not going out for dinner looking like this.”
“Nonsense. Just wrap a scarf around your head.”
“Go away, Charles, until I recover.”
Charles went off laughing. Agatha gloomily dried herself and dressed and wrapped a pink chiffon scarf around her head, turban-fashion.
As she went down the stairs, the doorbell rang. “ Masses of press out there,” said Charles cheerfully. “Want to go out and address them? Your moment of glory has come.”
“No,” said Agatha, shrinking back. “Not like this. Charles, I don’t want anyone to know what she did to me!”
“Why?”
“It’ll make me a laughing-stock. You talk to them. Leave me out of it.”
Charles shrugged and then went outside. Agatha could hear the sound of his light upper-class voice chatting away happily.
At last he came in. “That should keep them happy,” he said. “They’ve promised not to bother us again tonight.”
“Well, at least the police can’t take the glory away from me,” said Agatha. “It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow about how I solved the case. What about dinner?”
“If you’ll be all right, I think, on second thoughts, I’ll take my stuff and go home. The aunt is beginning to fret that I’m neglecting my duties on the estate.”
Agatha was disappointed. “If you must, you must. I could have done with a bit of company tonight.”
“I’ll phone you.” He went upstairs and reappeared a short time later carrying a suitcase.
He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Don’t worry. Your hair’ll soon grow in again. I’ll phone you.”
And then he was gone.
Agatha sat down and stared about her. The cats jumped on her lap and she stroked them. The doorbell rang sharply, making her jump.
The press. Perhaps she had been silly to leave it all to Charles. She checked in the mirror to make sure the pink scarf was in place and then opened the door.
“Oh.”
Mrs. Bloxby stood there. “I just heard about your catching the murderess. I wanted to make sure you had some company, otherwise I’ll stay with you.”
“Would you?” said Agatha, but peering around the vicar’s wife to make sure all the press had gone. “Charles has left.”
“That’s a bit cavalier of him, surely?”
“Oh, there’s no explaining Charles,” said Agatha wearily. “Do come in. I am glad to see you.”
Mrs. Bloxby put a large bag down on the hall floor. She crouched down and opened it and lifted out a casserole. “I didn’t think you would be in the mood to cook anything, so I brought a rabbit casserole.”
“How kind. Oh, you’re looking at my scarf. That hairdresser from hell shampooed my hair with depilatory.”
“Good heavens! How awful! Well, it’ll grow in again soon enough.”
“I hope James doesn’t reappear until it does.”
Mrs. Bloxby picked up the casserole and headed for the kitchen. “Still James, is it? I was sure you’d got over him.”
“It’s not as bad as it was,” said Agatha, unwinding the scarf from her head and following the vicar’s wife into the kitchen. “Just a sort of dull ache.”
Mrs. Bloxby lit the oven and placed the casserole in it. “Won’t be long,” she said, straightening up. “I’ve got potatoes and dumplings in it as well So how did you get on with the press?”
“I didn’t want them to see me like this,” said Agatha. “Do take off your coat and sit down. I’ll just open a bottle of wine. Yes, I felt I would be a laughing-stock, so I sent Charles out to speak to them.”
“Was that wise?”
“What do you mean?”
“It was your moment of glory. And with that chiffon scarf wrapped around your head like a turban, it looked all right.”
“I was so upset. I was recovering from the shock. Perhaps I should have spoken to them. I wonder if I can ask you a favour? Can you nip out in the morning and get me all the newspapers?”
“Gladly.”
They had a pleasant dinner. Agatha felt all the horrors receding and was almost tempted at one point to tell the vicar’s wife that she would be all right on her own, but the thought that the horror of it all might return as soon as she put her head on the pillow made her decide to let Mrs. Bloxby stay.
Agatha, to her amazement, slept heavily and did not awake until nine the following morning.
There was a note on the kitchen table from Mrs. Bloxby. “Sorry I had to dash back to the vicarage. Some local emergency. Hadn’t time to get the newspapers. Don’t worry about them. I would have a quiet day at home if I were you.”
“But I just have to see the newspapers,” said Agatha aloud, thinking that it must have been some pretty dire emergency to take the vicar’s wife away and make her not carry out her promise.
She decided she could not wait. The local post office stores only stocked a few newspapers and if one did not get there early, they were usually all sold out. Wrapping her scarf round her head in a turban, Agatha went out to her car and drove down to Morton-in-Marsh. She felt very famous. Her picture would be all over the newspapers. They hadn’t photographed her last night, but because of the murder of her husband, she knew they all had her photograph on file.
She bought all the newspapers and paid for them, not looking at the headlines, wanting to savour them when she got to her car.
The started with the Express. There was nothing on the front page. She flipped through it. Suddenly, there staring up at her was a large photograph of Charles with the headline,
“BARONET SOLVES HAIRDRESSING MURDER.”
She skimmed down the type. She was only mentioned as “a friend.” But they knew it was she who had solved the murder, for they had all been outside her cottage. She went through newspaper after newspaper with growing fury. Only two of them had actually mentioned her by name. They all said that the clever baronet had sent a woman friend in to lay a trap for Eve and then had alerted the police.
Agatha drove grimly back to her cottage and tried to get Charles on the phone, but his aunt said he had gone off travelling somewhere.
She walked along to the vicarage.
Mrs. Bloxby answered the door and gave her a shamefaced look. “You knew,” Agatha accused her. “That’s why you didn’t leave the newspapers for me.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bloxby on a sigh. “Come in. I cannot understand why most of them left your name out of it.”
“Charles,” said Agatha bitterly. “He took all the glory and they had a real-live sleuth baronet prepared to charm them, so they forgot about me. I was the one who solved it. Do you know the motive? Jealousy. Nothing but jealousy. Not because he was unfaithful to her. I never knew before that the world of hairdressing was so riven with hates and jealousies.”