Sprott, from her long legs to her blonde hair, Agatha departed into the realms of fantasy.
‘Have you forgotten our anniversary?’ she demanded. ‘I prepared a special dinner. I slaved all day over it, and what do I find? You sitting here having ghastly pub grub
with some tart.’
‘How dare you, you old bat?’ screeched Mary.
Agatha’s bearlike eyes bored into Mary’s. ‘Just get this straight, sweetie,’ she said. ‘This is my husband, so you keep your grubby little hands off him.’
Mary burst into tears, scrabbled for her handbag on the floor beside her chair, seized it, and fled the pub.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said James, his face grim. ‘No, not another word, Agatha. You’re a disgrace.’
The walkers, open-mouthed, watched them go.
‘Well,’ marvelled Kelvin, ‘if they’re no’ married, then I’m a Dutchman’s uncle.’
‘Poor bugger,’ said Jeffrey. ‘Let’s be nice to him on Saturday.’
Deborah heaved a tiny sigh of relief, excused herself, and slipped quietly out of the pub and went to phone Sir Charles.
Agatha had never seen James so angry. In vain she did try to say that she had simply been putting on an act. ‘And,’ raged James, ‘I am packing up and leaving.
I will not tolerate such behaviour.’ Agatha, now completely at a loss for words, followed him upstairs to the flat. As they entered, the phone was ringing. James answered it. It was Sir
Charles Fraith.
‘Congratulations to Agatha Raisin on a great performance,’ chuckled Sir Charles. ‘She’s turning out to be as good as you said she was.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded James sharply.
‘Deborah’s just called me. Those ramblers were talking in the pub about how you two didn’t look married and that they thought you were both police spies, and then our Agatha
turns up and puts on the best angry marital scene Deborah says she’s ever witnessed. Went down like a charm.’
‘Oh,’ said James, looking round in amazement at Agatha. ‘I didn’t realize . . . I mean, yes, she’s very good at it.’
‘Call me when you learn anything,’ said Sir Charles cheerfully. ‘I am still suspect numero uno.’
When James had said goodbye, he turned to Agatha and said in a mild voice, ‘I am so sorry, Agatha. I should have let you explain. I didn’t know you were acting. That was Sir Charles.
Deborah told him that the walkers didn’t think we were man and wife and were beginning to think we were police spies, but after your scene, they were convinced we were what we claimed to be.
You knew this, of course. I should have let you explain.’
‘Of course,’ said Agatha weakly. She waved her hand at the table. ‘I don’t suppose you want any dinner.’
‘On the contrary,’ he said cheerfully, ‘you didn’t give me time to get more than a few mouthfuls in the pub.’
‘Be back in a minute,’ said Agatha and scurried off to the bathroom, where she indulged in a hearty bout of tears caused by a mixture of shame and relief.
When she had served dinner, she was so sensible and composed that James was once more intrigued by the investigation. They both decided to try to find out from the walkers’ neighbours
anything they could about Jessica – had she been seen with any of them – or rowed with any of them – before the murder?
James said he would try Kelvin, and Agatha said she would check on Deborah.
‘Why Deborah?’ asked James.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Agatha, ‘she might have called us in to divert suspicion from herself.’
‘Seems a bit far-fetched, but I suppose we have to try everything.’
Later that night, Deborah sat in Burger King in the main street of Dembley with Sir Charles Fraith. He had suggested a late supper. Deborah looked around her and thought of all
the posh restaurants people ate in, hoping to dine alongside people like Charles.
But he listened with such interest when she talked of her work in the school and of the pupils. ‘That’s an odd
‘Have you forgotten our anniversary?’ she demanded. ‘I prepared a special dinner. I slaved all day over it, and what do I find? You sitting here having ghastly pub grub
with some tart.’
‘How dare you, you old bat?’ screeched Mary.
Agatha’s bearlike eyes bored into Mary’s. ‘Just get this straight, sweetie,’ she said. ‘This is my husband, so you keep your grubby little hands off him.’
Mary burst into tears, scrabbled for her handbag on the floor beside her chair, seized it, and fled the pub.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said James, his face grim. ‘No, not another word, Agatha. You’re a disgrace.’
The walkers, open-mouthed, watched them go.
‘Well,’ marvelled Kelvin, ‘if they’re no’ married, then I’m a Dutchman’s uncle.’
‘Poor bugger,’ said Jeffrey. ‘Let’s be nice to him on Saturday.’
Deborah heaved a tiny sigh of relief, excused herself, and slipped quietly out of the pub and went to phone Sir Charles.
Agatha had never seen James so angry. In vain she did try to say that she had simply been putting on an act. ‘And,’ raged James, ‘I am packing up and leaving.
I will not tolerate such behaviour.’ Agatha, now completely at a loss for words, followed him upstairs to the flat. As they entered, the phone was ringing. James answered it. It was Sir
Charles Fraith.
‘Congratulations to Agatha Raisin on a great performance,’ chuckled Sir Charles. ‘She’s turning out to be as good as you said she was.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded James sharply.
‘Deborah’s just called me. Those ramblers were talking in the pub about how you two didn’t look married and that they thought you were both police spies, and then our Agatha
turns up and puts on the best angry marital scene Deborah says she’s ever witnessed. Went down like a charm.’
‘Oh,’ said James, looking round in amazement at Agatha. ‘I didn’t realize . . . I mean, yes, she’s very good at it.’
‘Call me when you learn anything,’ said Sir Charles cheerfully. ‘I am still suspect numero uno.’
When James had said goodbye, he turned to Agatha and said in a mild voice, ‘I am so sorry, Agatha. I should have let you explain. I didn’t know you were acting. That was Sir Charles.
Deborah told him that the walkers didn’t think we were man and wife and were beginning to think we were police spies, but after your scene, they were convinced we were what we claimed to be.
You knew this, of course. I should have let you explain.’
‘Of course,’ said Agatha weakly. She waved her hand at the table. ‘I don’t suppose you want any dinner.’
‘On the contrary,’ he said cheerfully, ‘you didn’t give me time to get more than a few mouthfuls in the pub.’
‘Be back in a minute,’ said Agatha and scurried off to the bathroom, where she indulged in a hearty bout of tears caused by a mixture of shame and relief.
When she had served dinner, she was so sensible and composed that James was once more intrigued by the investigation. They both decided to try to find out from the walkers’ neighbours
anything they could about Jessica – had she been seen with any of them – or rowed with any of them – before the murder?
James said he would try Kelvin, and Agatha said she would check on Deborah.
‘Why Deborah?’ asked James.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Agatha, ‘she might have called us in to divert suspicion from herself.’
‘Seems a bit far-fetched, but I suppose we have to try everything.’
Later that night, Deborah sat in Burger King in the main street of Dembley with Sir Charles Fraith. He had suggested a late supper. Deborah looked around her and thought of all
the posh restaurants people ate in, hoping to dine alongside people like Charles.
But he listened with such interest when she talked of her work in the school and of the pupils. ‘That’s an odd
Similar Books
