When they arrived at Agatha’s cottage, Alice said hurriedly, ‘Please don’t tell anyone I discussed the case with you. I could get into the most awful trouble.’
‘Not a word,’ promised Agatha. ‘Thank goodness the snow’s stopped and they’ve gritted the road.’
Agatha tried to find out more about Gary Beech but was held back by having to attend to the cases where she was being paid for her detective work.
Some of the work involved a lot of standing around in the cold and watching houses for signs of erring spouses. Agatha hated divorce cases, but the country was in a deep recession and she just had to be grateful for any work.
The weather continued to be bitterly cold. People were beginning to wonder if all this global warming was some trick of the nanny state to bully them into fines for not separating their rubbish, for having to employ a chimney sweep every three months, and wondering how soon it would be before spy planes flew over their houses to check their carbon footprints.
The villagers of Carsely, united in misery, had marched on the Town Hall in Mircester to protest against the frequent power cuts.
Agatha decided to buy a generator, thinking it would be simple to install. The contractor was a lugubrious man who seemed to see fire and disaster all about.
Agatha’s suggestion that he put the generator in the kitchen caused him to raise his red mottled hands in horror. ‘Can’t do that, love,’ he said. ‘The gases that come out o’ that there petrol machine are lethal. Needs to be outside the house. But ’er can’t be getting wet. You’ll need a liddle hut for ’er.’
But at last a carpenter had finished building a little shed outside the kitchen door and the contractor had departed, after leaving Agatha with a handbook in six languages, the size of a Bible.
Returning home after a cold day’s work two weeks after the murder of Gary Beech, Agatha found the electricity was off again. She carefully followed the instructions, the generator roared into life and the electricity came on.
She was relaxing in front of the television set with a large gin and tonic in one hand and a cigarette in the other when her doorbell rang.
When Agatha opened the door, she found the vicar’s wife there, and behind her, two elderly couples.
‘May we come in, Mrs Raisin?’
‘Of course,’ said Agatha. ‘What’s up?’
‘This is Mr and Mrs Friend and Mr and Mrs Terence. They do not have money for fuel, and they are too old to cope with this biting cold. Could you possibly give them shelter until the power comes on?’
Agatha wanted to scream, ‘No!’ But the calm eyes of the vicar’s wife were fastened on her face.
‘All right,’ she said reluctantly.
‘I’ll phone you as soon as the power comes on,’ said Mrs Bloxby, ‘and then I’ll come and pick them up.’
When she had left, Agatha helped the elderly people out of their coats and wraps and settled them in the living room. She asked them if they had eaten, and they said yes, they had. She then asked them if they would like something to drink, and they all murmured in agreement. Being old, they all needed frequent trips upstairs to the bathroom. The Terences were all right, but the Friends needed assistance up the stairs. To exhausted Agatha, it seemed as if she had just got one of them settled when the other would pipe up that he or she had to go to the ‘you-know-what’.
And as the hours passed, the generator continued to chug away. Agatha kept opening the front door and gazing anxiously down the street to see if the lights had come on again in the village. The contractor had warned her that the wiring could not take the load of both generator and restored power or ‘the house will burn to ashes’.
Mrs Bloxby phoned. ‘This is terrible,’ she said. ‘I keep phoning the electricity company and they say, “Power will be restored momentarily”, but nothing happens. How are they?’
Agatha walked with her new cordless telephone to the living-room door. ‘They’ve all fallen asleep. Look, I’ll give it a little longer.’ As she replaced the receiver, the lights came on. She rushed to switch off the generator.
Mrs Bloxby phoned back. ‘I’m on my way.’
Agatha woke her sleeping guests. Mr Friend struggled to his feet. ‘I hope you never find who murdered that copper,’ he said.
‘Why?’ asked Agatha.
‘He was going to get me up in the court and do me for flashing.’
‘What! How did that happen?’
‘I was out for a walk with the missus, and I had to pee. Went behind a bush. No one about, or so I thought. That damn Beech, he came out of nowhere and charged me with exposing myself. Me! I’ve been a churchgoer all me life. The shame of it. I could ha’ murdered the man meself.’
‘Did you go to court?’ asked Agatha.
‘No, but it got in the local paper, and mud sticks. I’m telling you, missus, I don’t know how the police are going to find the murderer because there’s so many wanted him dead.’
Chapter Three
Agatha overslept. As soon as she poked her nose over the duvet, she felt the room was cold. She switched on the bedside lamp and nothing happened.
She struggled out of bed and picked out her warmest clothes. Clumping downstairs later in a pair of fleece-lined suede boots, she wondered if she would ever wear high heels again. Nothing more depressing than flat-heeled footwear.
She did not want to switch on the generator, for the thought of operating the machine gave her a stab of techno fear.
Agatha phoned the electricity company and gave them a blast of abuse that didn’t bring the power on but made her feel much better.
The radio in the car informed her that salt was being imported from abroad. Agatha wondered how they could spare it, as the European continent was pretty much snowed up.
Her office was in an old building in a narrow winding street near the abbey. She pounded up the stairs to the first floor and swung open the frosted glass door of the office.
Toni, Patrick Mulligan and Phil Marshall were all talking excitedly as Agatha came in.
‘What’s up?’ demanded Agatha, taking off her coat.
‘We’ve got a client,’ said Toni, ‘and you’ll never guess who it is.’
‘Enlighten me,’ said Agatha crossly, irritated with herself for being late.
‘Gary Beech’s ex-wife,’ said Toni. ‘She’s employing us to find out who murdered her ex-husband.’
‘And you didn’t even phone me? You let her get out of the office before I arrived?’
Phil smoothed his silver hair and said quietly, ‘She’s waiting for you at her home address. We thought we’d wait until you arrived.’
‘And why aren’t you all out working?’
‘It’s such good news,’ said Patrick, looking more like a tired bloodhound than ever. ‘Toni wanted us all to wait until we told you. Gary’s wife is now a Mrs Richards, married to a supermarket owner. She’s prepared to pay a lot.’
Agatha felt mean and petty. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It was good of all of you to wait for me. Do you know why she wants to find the murderer of her ex? If she divorced him, she can’t care that much about who killed him.’
‘Get this,’ said Toni excitedly. ‘He divorced her!’
‘Give me the address and I’ll get round there,’ said Agatha, putting on her coat.
Mrs Richards lived in a large villa in the better part of town. Snow began to fall again in feathery flakes, swirling hypnotically in front of Agatha’s eyes as she drove up the short drive and parked her car.
I should have asked how much she’s paying, thought Agatha. She rang the bell and listened to the dulcet tones of the Westminster chimes.