"So," said Mrs Bloxby happily two days later, "I am delighted that you and James are getting married in our church. It will be quite an event for the village. But I was saying to Alf the other day that for some reason I thought you were separated from your husband, not divorced." Alf Bloxby was the vicar.
Again, that stab of fear in Agatha's stomach, but she decided to ignore it and said, "Jimmy's been dead for years." Then she began to worry. Would the vicar expect to see the death certificate? She would need to try to find out what had happened to Jimmy. The wedding was set in three months' time. She and James were seeing an estate agent that very afternoon to put Agatha's cottage on the market. She had come such a long way from the days when she had worked as a waitress to support a drunken and increasingly violent husband. The vicarage sitting-room was calm and quiet, with shadows from the sun-dappled leaves in the old garden outside flitting across the walls. Carsely belonged to another world. She refused to think about Jimmy. She was marrying James, and no one was going to stop her.
Bill Wong called that evening just as Agatha was getting ready to go out for dinner with James.
"I saw the announcement of your wedding in the local paper," said Bill. "Congratulations. Have you had a divorce?"
"I don't need a divorce," snapped Agatha. "My husband's dead."
"Agatha, I'm pretty sure you told me you had left him years ago and you didn't know whether he was alive or dead."
"Just because you're a policeman doesn't mean you've got total recall," said Agatha. "You're going to be invited to the wedding, of course."
Bill leaned forward, his features solemn. "Agatha, I'm your friend and I know you well and I know what you feel for James Lacey. Take my advice and get on to a detective agency and get them to trace your husband and find out where he is."
"Are you deaf?" shouted Agatha. "I've told you. He's dead. I'm marrying James Lacey and I'll kill anyone who tries to stop me!"
The next morning, Roy Silver dropped in for a chat with Bunty.
"Haven't you any work to do?" asked Bunty.
"Loads," said Roy cheerfully. "Reluctant to get started, that's all."
"I called on your friend, Agatha Raisin, a few days ago," said Bunty.
"How is the old bat?"
"She wasn't very well. But her fiance entertained me."
"Her what? I phoned her last night and she said nothing about the engagement."
"Fact. One James Lacey, quite a dish, too. It was in the local paper yesterday. My ma phoned me with the news."
"Well, well," said Roy thoughtfully and drifted off to his own office.
He sat behind his desk and stared into space. He had phoned Agatha at the urging of Mr Wilson, his boss, who wanted Agatha back. Agatha had been rude and dismissive, had told Roy not to call her again, had told him she was tired of his creepy sycophantic ways, and a few other hard words.
He remembered when he used to work for Agatha's PR firm, Agatha once telling him over a drink that she had walked out on her husband, that she did not know where he was. Of course, that had been some time ago, and maybe Agatha had either heard of her husband's death or divorced him. Still...
What a lovely way it would be to pay Agatha back if by any chance she had lied to James and intended to commit bigamy. Would do no harm to find out. He pulled forward the Yellow Pages and began to run his thumb down a list of detective agencies.
The Dembley Walkers trudged out over the countryside. "You know, ah've been thinkin'," said Kelvin, "thon Laceys were an odd couple. Ah think they were working for the police."
"What makes you think that?" asked Mary Trapp.
"It was odd the way they surfaced among us shortly after Jessica's murder and then, when Deborah was arrested, they disappeared."
"I thought that," said Alice. "I'll tell you another thing: that flat they were in in Sheep Street was the property of Sir Charles."
"I could have told you from day one they weren't one of us," said Peter.
"So why didn't you?" jeered Kelvin.
Before Peter could retaliate, a gamekeeper surfaced and told them in no uncertain terms that they were in danger of disturbing the young pheasants. Happily they drew together to meet the challenge. Pheasants were for the rich, the land belonged to all; come the revolution, lackeys like him would be hanging from the nearest lamp-post; and the mysterious Laceys were forgotten.