"Oh, that's ridiculous," said Deborah. She suddenly wanted to go home. Charles might be calling her. In her mind, it was no longer Sir Charles. She was unnerved by the conversation about the 'Laceys'. What if they were challenged by the group and confessed that it was she who had brought the vipers into their midst? A thin film of sweat formed on her upper lip. Kelvin thumped another drink down in front of her and she groaned inwardly. As soon as she had finished it, she would make her escape.
Agatha stood outside the library. But it was firmly closed for the night. Where could James be? She turned and looked about her. There was a pub across the road called the Grapes. She registered in her mind that that was where they were to gather on the Saturday for their ramble and then wondered if James had gone there for a drink.
She walked across the road to the pub and pushed open the door of the lounge bar. The first sight that met her eyes was that of James sitting with a pretty blonde. Both were eating steak-and-kidney pie. The blonde threw back her head and laughed at something James was saying. Her short skirt had ridden right up. Black rage boiled up in Agatha. She was to reflect ruefully afterwards that she must have gone insane. For in that moment, she became Mrs Lacey.
"What the hell do you think you're doing here, James?" she demanded in a loud voice. There was a silence in the pub.
"Oh, hello, dear," said James, his face flaming. "This is Miss Sprott, the librarian. Miss Sprott, my wife."
Determined to get revenge on James and hating every inch of Mary 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 bunch you've got in with," remarked Sir Charles.
"Oh, you mean the Dembley Walkers. It's something to do."
"Are you going out this Saturday?"
"Yes, I have to keep an eye on our detectives."
"Pity. I've got people at the weekend and wanted to ask you over."
Deborah spilled some coffee from her polystyrene cup. Damn the walkers. Should she say she would drop going with them? Would that look too eager? Would...?
"Of course, if you're all through by the evening, you can come for dinner," she realized he was saying.
"What time?"
"Oh, eight or eight thirty."
"Thanks awfully"
"My pleasure. Only hope you don't find it a bore. Gosh, I'm tired. Have you got your car?"
"No, I live quite close by"
"Then I'll walk you home."
Dembley was an old market town which no longer boasted a market but sometimes on calm evenings still held a flavour of the old days. The market hall with its splendid arches and clock tower now housed an Italian restaurant and an auction room. The beautiful seventeenth-century house opposite had a garish neon sign in one window flashing out Chinese take-away. Concrete blocks of shops nearly obscured the view of the thirteenth-century church. White-faced youths leaned against lamp-posts at street corners and jeered at the world in a tired way, their speech liberally sprinkled with obscenities.
As they passed one group, a thin teenager shouted out, "Getting your leg over tonight, guv?" and the rest sniggered.
To Deborah's horror, Sir Charles stopped dead in his tracks. "Why did you say that?" he demanded, addressing the teenager.
The boy looked at his shoes and muttered, "Sod off."
Sir Charles stared at him curiously. Then he turned to Deborah and took her arm. "It's not that they suffer from material poverty," he said. "It's a poverty of the mind, wouldn't you say?"
Deborah, head down, murmured, "Oh, ignore them. They might have knives."
Sir Charles turned back. "Have you got knives?" he asked.
For some reason, his simple, almost childlike curiosity appeared to embarrass the youths more than a stream of insults would have done.
Muttering, they slid off, still in a group, used to being in a gang since they were toddlers, frightened to break away from each other and become vulnerable individuals.
"Here's where I live," said Deborah, stopping in front of a dark doorway between a dress shop and an off-licence. "Would you...would you like to come up for a cup of coffee?"