"Oh, her? Maybe we'll talk to her on the walk," said Agatha. "I mean, it'll begin to look odd if we call on another one of them."
"We didn't exactly call on Deborah or Kelvin," James pointed out. "Still, maybe you're right. We'll have a day off. Tell you what, we'll go to the movies and forget about the whole thing."
Agatha had quite decided the pursuit of James was hopeless and was so quiet and subdued for the rest of that day and evening that James enjoyed her company immensely. And that night he didn't even bother to put a chair under the handle of his bedroom door.
It was a subdued group of ramblers who set out from the Grapes that Saturday. Agatha was still without any romantic hopes and was wearing the trainers recommended by Alice. She felt they made her feet look enormous, but what did it all matter anyway? There was nothing to look forward to now at her age but an early grave.
Jeffrey Benson was suffering from total loss of ego. When he remembered the way he had cringed before his interrogators, he felt like bursting into tears. Then, when he had begged them for protection and they had told him in an almost fatherly way that he was of no account to anyone, he was just one of the saps the IRA had used, he had felt totally demoralized.
It was obvious that Alice and Gemma had had some sort of row because Gemma, wearing a brief pair of shorts and unsuitable, thin sandals, was talking animatedly to Mary Trapp while Alice lumbered behind, scowling. Peter and Terry were whispering together. James wondered how soon it would be before the ramblers connected him and Agatha with the sudden renewal of police interest and how the police had come by the new information. The one thing, he thought, that might save himself and Agatha from discovery was the walkers' lack of interest in anything other than their own immediate affairs. He looked down at Agatha, who was glooming along beside him, and decided it was time they reinforced the marital couple bit and said sharply to her, "What's the matter with you, dear? You look as if you've lost your last penny"
"Oh, shut up, pillock," snapped Agatha, correctly guessing what he was up to and glad of a way to release her pent-up frustrations. "It's a wonder you didn't ask that little tart from the library along."
"How dare you speak to me like that," said James. "Jeffrey's right. You need a punch in the mouth."
"What's that?" Mary Trapp swung around. "How dare you advocate violence against women, Jeffrey!"
"Ah'm sick o' this bickering," said Kelvin. He looked stonily at Agatha and James. "You two should keep your quarrels out o' public. There's nothing mair sickening than a marital row."
"How would you know, Kelvin?" jeered Alice. "You can't even get a girlfriend."
Kelvin stood stock-still, his face flaming. "Ah'm sick o' the lot of ye. Ah'm going home."
"Now, then," said Peter. "Birds in their little nests agree. Are we out for a nice walk, or aren't we?"
They all walked on in silence. But as they reached the outskirts of Dembley, rusting recession-hit factories on either side of them, the grey clouds above parted and the sun shone down. Spirits began to lift. Gemma began to sing 'One Man Went to Mow', and they all joined in.
By the time they reached the edge of the land across which they were to walk, they were all in a fairly good mood.
They consulted the map and the old book Jeffrey had found. "There should be signs," said Jeffrey. "But this is the way. Let's go."
They all climbed over a stile and along the edge of one field, but then they came up against a padlocked gate. Leaning on the other side of the gate was a large, brutal-looking man with a shotgun.
"Get off my land," he shouted. "Poxy ramblers. I'd shoot the lot of you."
"Who are you?" demanded Jeffrey, moving to the front of the group.
"My name is Harry Ratcliffe," said the farmer, "and you're on my land."
"You've got no right to order us off," said Jeffrey wrathfully. He brandished the map. "This is a legitimate right of way"
"Ah, to hell with you," said Ratcliffe. "Left-wing buggers. Why don't you go and get a job and cut your hair?"
Jeffrey could not bear one more humiliation. He thrust the map into Agatha's hands, vaulted over the gate, and aimed a punch at the farmer. The farmer blocked his arm and swung his fist, which landed with a smack on Jeffrey's nose.
"Let that be a lesson to you," shouted Ratcliffe. "I'm going for my dogs."
He strode off. James climbed over the gate and knelt beside Jeffrey. He mopped at the blood with his handkerchief and felt gingerly along the bridge of Jeffrey's nose. "You're lucky," he said. "Nothing broken. We'd best get you back before he turns the dogs on us. You'll feel better after a drink and then we'll go to the police." The injured Jeffrey was tenderly helped back over the gate. Fussing over him, they led their injured leader from the field.
They have a point, thought Agatha in surprise; some of these landowners are right bastards. She almost forgot about the murder. The attack on Jeffrey had drawn them all together wonderfully. By the time they were seated in the Grapes, the old Agatha had surfaced and was explaining how she would consult a lawyer and make sure the right of way was opened up.
Jeffrey, recovered after James had bought him two double brandies, said he did not want to go to the police, but he was grateful to Agatha for volunteering to make life hot for Ratcliffe. They all proceeded to drink quite a lot and everything was going merrily until Deborah was overheard asking Agatha what she should wear to dinner at Barfield House.
Mary Trapp rounded on her. "Never tell me you're going there! That's the enemy."
Deborah blushed painfully. "Sir Charles is all right," she said defensively. "He's not like Ratcliffe!"
"You are betraying your class," said Alice ponderously.
"Wear a pretty blouse and skirt," said James, addressing Deborah.
She looked at him in surprise. "But I bought a black velvet dinner gown from the thrift shop."
"Too overdressed," said James. "When in doubt, dress down, not up."
"You never were one of us, Deborah," said Jeffrey. "Trust you to go over to the other side."
Deborah did not say anything. She simply walked out of the pub. She was not going to let anything take the gloss off the forthcoming evening.
They watched her go and then fell to berating Ratcliffe over again until cheerfulness was restored.
James and Agatha walked companionably home. "We'll get changed and go out for dinner," said James, and all Agatha's hopes flooded back into her tipsy brain and she startled James by accompanying him out to the hotel dining-room in a short black dress with a very low neckline indeed, very high heels, and very much make-up.
It was a good thing, thought James, that he had not advised Agatha to dress down. Dressing down for the evening was obviously a foreign idea to Agatha Raisin!
Seven
Deborah drove out to Barfield House wearing the black velvet dinner gown. She had consulted the buyer in Dembley's most expensive dress shop and the buyer had said a dinner gown was de rigueur. The stultifying gentility of the buyer had impressed Deborah no end.
She was also clutching a silver sequinned evening bag.
Deborah was unlucky. It could easily have been formal dress and then her dinner gown, although a bit over the top for a young woman and more suitable for a dowager, would have fitted in with the scenery, but as the guests were simply some old friends Sir Charles had staying for the weekend, the dress was informal. She found that out as soon as she entered the drawing-room. Certainly the men were wearing collar and tie, but the women were in summer dresses. Deborah stood awkwardly in the doorway, feeling like a child widow.
Sir Charles sailed up and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. "You're looking very slinky," he said, and just when Deborah was beginning to feel better, he added, "Like that woman in The Addams Family."