Deborah sailed up the drive to Barfield House in her little car. Her heart was light. Sir Charles had told her that Gustav had been given the day off and that his aunt was in London.
Sir Charles answered the door. He was wearing an old open-necked shirt and jeans, making her glad that she wasn't too 'dressy'. She was wearing a pink silk blouse from Marks & Spencer and a short navy acrylic skirt with a slit at the back and white sandals.
She approved of the kitchen, which was large and modern. So much more cheerful than the dark-panelled rooms of the rest of the house.
Sir Charles, as he opened a bottle of wine and listened to her prattling away about her teaching job, eyed her thoughtfully. He intended getting her into bed after lunch but was beginning to wonder how she would react. Her thinness and whiteness still excited him. He liked her shy little voice, so different from the robust tones of the girls he usually dated. Her neck was thin and fragile-looking. It looked as if it could almost be snapped like a flower stalk, he thought. He said, "Any news about Jeffrey's murder?"
Deborah shook her head. "They've been questioning and questioning all of us. They've still got Alice."
"The big one? Why her?"
"She knew Jessica ages ago and lied about it."
Sir Charles looked at her shrewdly. "If the police still have her in for questioning, how do you know that?"
"There's one of the teachers at the school whose sister works at police headquarters. She told me."
"Do you think Alice did it, then?"
"She could have done," said Deborah. "She's got ever such a bad temper."
As they ate, Sir Charles wondered how he was going to get around to proposing that they go upstairs to bed. Perhaps he should suggest they have coffee in the drawing-room and get down to work on the sofa first.
He really loves me, thought Deborah with a fast-beating heart. I can tell by the look in his eyes.
Conversation was flagging toward the end of the meal and then Deborah said, "Can I go and powder my nose?"
He saw his chance. "Come upstairs and use my bathroom."
He led the way upstairs and along a corridor and opened a door. Deborah glanced quickly about his bedroom. She was disappointed that there wasn't a four-poster bed but a modern one. The room, like the rest of the rooms in the house, was dark because of the tiny panes of the mullioned windows.
"In here," said Sir Charles, opening a door off the bedroom.
Deborah went in and closed the door behind her. Sir Charles jerked open the drawer of a bedside table to check that the packet of condoms he had bought was still there and that Gustav had not found them and taken them away, an act which would have been perfectly in keeping with Gustav's character.
There were shuffling noises from the bathroom. Deborah was taking a long time. The rising wind outside gave a cheerless moan. Sir Charles shivered. His lust was ebbing fast. It all began to seem silly.
And then the bathroom door opened and Deborah stood there. She was wearing nothing more than a brief bra, a suspender belt and black stockings.
Sir Charles walked towards her, saying huskily, "Come to bed, Deborah."
"Is this as fast as you can go?" asked James.
"I'm going as fast as I can," wailed Agatha. "But that poxy tractor won't move, and I can't get past it." She pressed the horn and flashed her lights. The tractor driver raised two fingers. Just when Agatha was thinking she might drive straight into the back of him in a sheer fury, he turned off into a farm gate and Agatha roared past, relieving her feelings with another blast on the horn.
"But why would he kill Jeffrey?" she asked.
"He might have a thing about ramblers. If he's crazy like his father, he might not need a motive."
Agatha raced round a bend and screeched to a halt. A line of cars stretched out in front of her. She got out of the car and peered ahead. Some distance in front of the line of cars a truck was slewed across the road. A small Mini was crushed in a ditch.
"Bugger, an accident," said Agatha, getting back into the car. She beat the steering wheel with her hands in sheer frustration. Then she saw to her right an open farm gate. She set off, swinging the wheel. The car lurched crazily over a field of wheat.
"What are you doing?" shouted James. "The farmer will kill us."
"I'll compensate him," yelled Agatha. "Barfield is over this way. I'm going as the crow flies."
And with that the car plunged headlong into a ditch at the end of the field.
Agatha felt like bursting into tears. "Now what do we do?" she wailed.
James's face was grim and set. "We get out and ramble!"
Sir Charles and Deborah lay on their backs, immersed in their different thoughts. What a mistake, Sir Charles was thinking gloomily. That had been like making love to a corpse. Besides, she smelt like something off the burning-ghats of India. In the bathroom, Deborah had anointed her body with an aromatic oil from a new shop in Dembley called Planet Earth, which specialized in aromatherapy.
And then he was aware Deborah was speaking. "When we're married - and I hope you don't mind this, Charles dear - I would like to paint all that wood panelling white."
"Married?" croaked Sir Charles.
"Of course your aunt will need to find somewhere else to live. Can't have two women in one house. My mother says...my mother used to say, it never works. Isn't there a dower house or something?" asked Deborah with vague memories of Georgette Heyer novels.
Sir Charles swung his legs out of bed and began to struggle into his clothes.
"You should have a bath, darling," chided Deborah. She stretched and yawned. "Run one for me."
"Okay," said Sir Charles gloomily. He zipped up his trousers and padded on his bare feet into the bathroom and turned on the taps.
He turned round and let out a squawk of dismay. Deborah must have moved like lightning. She was standing behind him wearing his dressing-gown.
He turned away and stared down at the rushing water. "Look, Deborah," he said, "we've had a bit of a fling, that's all. I never said anything about marriage." He tried to laugh. "Not the marrying kind, me."
"But you've got to marry me!" Deborah sounded more surprised than angry.
"No, Deborah," he said firmly. "I am not marrying you or anyone. I said absolutely nothing to give you that impression. I would never have had sex with you if I thought you were going to jump to this mad conclusion."
"Mad?" Her voice was thin and brittle. "Mad?"
"We had a bit of fun, dear, let's leave it at that." He turned back to the bath. "Would you like some old-fashioned bath salts? Now, where did I put them?"
"Here, dear!" Deborah brought a glassy jar of rose-scented bath salts down on his head.
Agatha's tights were ripped and she had pulled off the sweater she had been wearing over a blouse and thrown it away because she was sweating so much. She had a blister on one heel and a stitch in her side. James had taken her hand as they raced together through crops of golden oil-seed rape and fields of blue flax flowers, wheat and turnips.
"Are you sure we're going the right way?" shouted James.
"Yes," shouted back Agatha, who enjoyed studying Ordnance Survey maps as a pastime. But one bit of the countryside was beginning to look so much like another that she could hardly believe it when at last at some distance across the fields she saw the bulk of Barfield House.
She plunged gamely on, forgetting about the blister on her heel and the stitch in her side. Deborah was in danger. She, Agatha, the great detective, had been called in to help Deborah, and help Deborah she must.
Deborah turned off the bath taps and looked down at the unconscious Sir Charles Fraith as he lay on his own bathroom floor. The air around smelt of roses.
She sat down on a bathroom chair and stared bleakly in front of her. It had all been for nothing. All of it. And yet her mind felt quite cold and set. She knew what she had to do.