In the morning, after breakfast, Agatha found that Mary and Jennifer wanted to join the shopping expedition. She led them through to the lounge. "We'd better prepare a plan of action first," she said. "Are you game?"
They all nodded. "Well, for a start, you've all got old-fashioned hair-styles," said Agatha, "but fortunately you all seem to have strong, healthy hair that will take tinting. I think I need to start off with taking you all to a good hairdresser and getting you all styled. Then a beautician. Face and skin are important."
"You can't do anything about wrinkles," said Jennifer.
"Oh, yes, you can," said Agatha, "and I'm not talking face-lift. Do you know of a good hairdresser? I mean, one you haven't gone to?"
"We all just go to Sally's in the High Street."
"I'll ask the manager." Agatha went through to the office. Mr. Martin listened to her request and said, "There's a retired couple in Wyckhadden. He was a hairdresser and she was a beautician. They still do some work privately."
"I don't know ..." began Agatha doubtfully.
"He used to be Jerome of Bond Street."
"Good heavens," said Agatha faintly. "I forget how old I am myself. I used to go to Jerome. He was very good. Can you give me his number?"
Supplied with the number, Agatha phoned up. Jerome was delighted to hear from her. She could bring her ladies along and he and his wife would get to work.
In all her crusading zeal, Agatha had quite forgotten about the murder. By the end of the morning, Daisy's hair was a shining honey-blonde and her wrinkles had been smoothed out with a collagen treatment. Jennifer had a short smart bob and her moustache had been removed and her eyebrows shaped. Mary had a pretty arrangement of soft curls and a smoother face.
Chattering happily, they all had lunch in a restaurant on the promenade and then Agatha led them round the shops. "I hope you all can afford this," she said guiltily.
They all said yes, they could. Agatha's mind returned to murder. Jennifer had paid for all her purchases from a wallet bulging with cash while the rest used credit cards, and Jennifer was a powerful woman. And as her mind returned to thoughts of murder, so did the craving for a cigarette return with force. "No, not pink, Daisy," she said as Daisy held up a blouse for her inspection. "Blue, maybe. And you need a different size of bra."
"What's up with the one I've got on?"
"It's too tight. It's giving you bulges where you shouldn't have bulges."
I mean it's not as if I gave up smoking, Agatha argued with herself. It gave me up, so to speak. I didn't sign the pledge. Just one puff would be heaven. Well, maybe later.
"Somehow the idea of Scrabble seems a bit flat," said Jennifer in her deep voice. "But I suppose that's all we've got on the cards tonight."
But when they returned to the hotel, it was to find that the colonel had taken the liberty of booking seats for them all at a local production of Gilbert and Sullivan's Mikado and had arranged an early dinner.
This is like a girl's dormitory, thought Agatha amused as Daisy and Mary and Jennifer called in at her room to ask her to vet what they were wearing.
They all went downstairs together. "By George, ladies, you've youthed," said old Harry, his eyes twinkling.
"That blue suits you, Daisy," said the colonel, "and your hair's pretty." Daisy's eyes shone and she squeezed Agatha's arm.
The theatre was an old-fashioned one bedecked with plaster gilt cherubs and a large chandelier.
The colonel, who had been carrying a large box of chocolates, passed it along, and there was much fumbling for spectacles as they tried to read the chart of flavours.
Agatha had never seen a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta and feared it would all prove to be a bit arty-farty, but from the overture on, she was riveted. In that evening, for a brief time, she became the child she had never really been. It was a novelty to her to have the capacity of sheer enjoyment. Pleasure for Agatha had always been bitter-sweet, always had a this-won't-last feeling. But that evening, the glory of escapism and warmth and security seemed to go on forever.
As they filed out after the performance, the colonel could be heard saying to Daisy, "The Lord High Executioner could have been better," but Agatha could find no fault with the performance.
They went to a nearby pub for drinks. The colonel told an amusing story about a Gilbert and Sullivan performance in the army. Jennifer made them laugh by saying she had once played Buttercup in Pirates of Penzance and had forgotten all the words and so had tried to make them up.
It was only when Agatha was undressing for bed that she suddenly thought it curious that not one of them had mentioned the murder, or was curious about the murder. Maybe they considered it bad form. Maybe their elderly brains had already forgotten about the whole thing.
But in the following week, as she went places with her new-found friends, she, too, discovered that, for the first time, she wasn't much interested in finding out who had murdered Francie, largely because she was convinced the culprit was the son-in-law and the police with the aid of forensic would soon arrest him. And Jimmy had not called, not once.
James Lacey was shopping in Mircester when he ran into Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. Bill was looking round and chubby, a sure sign he had no love in his life. When Bill was smitten by some girl, he always slimmed down,
"I see Agatha's got herself involved in another murder," said Bill. "Heard from her?"
"No," said James. "Have you?"
"Not a word. I thought she would have been on the phone asking me to help. Why don't you go down there and see her?"
"I can't manage. I'm thinking of going abroad again. Friends of mine have a villa in Greece and they've invited me over."
Poor Agatha, thought Bill. James was hardly the impassioned lover.
When he got back to police headquarters, he got a telephone call from Baronet, Sir Charles Fraith. "What's our Aggie been up to?" demanded Charles.
"I only know what I've read in the papers," said Bill. "Then I gather Wyckhadden police have been checking up on her background."
"If you're speaking to her, give her my love."
"Why don't you go and see her?"
"Shooting season. Got a big house party. Can't get away."
Poor Agatha, thought Bill again. I hope she isn't too lonely.
Agatha was taking a brisk walk along the pier ten days after the murder when she saw the tall, slim figure of the colonel in front her and quickened her steps to catch up with him.
"Fine morning," said Agatha. It had turned quite mild for mid-winter, one of those milky grey days when all colour seemed to have been bleached out of the sea and the sky, and even the sea-gulls were silent.
"Morning, Agatha," said the colonel. "All set for the dance tonight? More our style."
He pointed to a poster advertising OLD-TYME DANCING. "Yes, we've all got new gowns to dazzle you," said Agatha. "Colonel, why do none of you ever talk about that dreadful murder?"
"Not the sort of thing one talks about," said the colonel. "Nasty business. Best forgotten."
"You went to Francie, didn't you?"
"My liver had been playing up and my quack couldn't seem to come up with anything sensible. Kept telling me to stop drinking. May as well be dead in that case. Went to Francie. She gave me some powders. Haven't had any trouble since."
Agatha thought that as the colonel did not drink very much, and had probably received a bad health scare to slow down his drinking, it was probably due to that rather than Francie's powders that he hadn't had any more trouble.
"What did you make of her? Francie, I mean."
"All right. I'd expected a lot of mumbo-jumbo. But she seemed a sensible sort of woman. I'm surprised her daughter's moved in and set up in business so quickly."