you go out of the gate.”
Agatha parked outside The Oaks. It was lunch-time and she was hungry. She hated to admit it, but she missed her usually lazy life.
She missed her cats and her talks with Mrs. Bloxby. She even missed the evenings with the ladies’ society. She and Emma had been working every evening as well as every day. Agatha sighed as she pushed open the door of the pub. Thank God for Emma. She had turned out to be a good friend and a hard worker.
Emma went into the office and sat down and eased her long feet out of her shoes. “Rough day?” said Miss Simms.
“Too much walking in the heat,” sighed Emma. “But I found that missing girl. I’ll give you the notes to type up after lunch.”
“I think I’ll nip out and get something,” said Miss Simms. She slid her long legs out from behind the desk. How can she go around in heels like that without her ankles swelling? wondered Emma. “Can I get you something?” asked Miss Simms.
“A ham sandwich, thank you.”
“Brown or white?”
“Brown.”
“Lettuce?”
“Yes, but no mayonnaise.” “Okey-dokey. See ya.”
Emma massaged her feet. She looked forward to telling Agatha about her latest success. Agatha was so grateful. Emma felt guilty now about having given the newspaper that malicious call. Agatha deserved loyalty.
The door opened and a man breezed in. He was in his late forties and impeccably tailored. He had small neat features and fair hair.
“Aggie here?” he asked, looking around.
“No, Mrs. Raisin is out on a case.”
“I’m Charles Fraith.”
“Oh, you’re the one who recommended us to Mrs. Laggat-Brown.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Emma Comfrey. I work with Agatha. I’m a detective.” Charles smiled. “You look a worn-out one. What about a spot of lunch?”
“I’ve just sent out for a sandwich.”
“Forget it. Come on.”
Over lunch, Charles listened while Emma told him all about the agency, rather stressing her successes and minimizing those of Agatha. Then she told this sympathetic listener the story of her life and bored Charles murmured, “How amazing,” and, “Really!”
By the end of the lunch, Emma Comfrey was deeply in love with Sir Charles Fraith.
Agatha always marvelled that some of these tucked-away village pubs managed to survive. This one had a good few customers, and like most pubs these days, was set up with tables for eating.
She ordered fish and chips and when the waitress brought them asked her if a Mr. Harrison Peterson had been in the pub recently. “The police were asking that,” said the buxom girl, leaning a hip against the table and ignoring the signalling hands of some of the other diners. “I tole them, he come in here two days, I think, afore the big party.”
“Do you have rooms? I mean, does anyone know if he stayed in the village?”
“No, we don’t let rooms, and besides, what with them big cars everyone’s got, he could have come down from London.”
“Jess!” shouted the landlord from behind the bar. “Customers!”
Jess moved away. Agatha ate her fish and chips and wondered what to do. The police would have conducted a door-to-door search. She decided to take a break and go home and see her cats and call on Mrs. Bloxby.
The cats looked singularly uninterested when she came in the door. Agatha sighed. Every time she left them alone for any length of time, the cats seemed to transfer their affections to her cleaner, Doris Simpson. The weather was still warm. She let the cats out into the garden. Then she closed the house up again and made her way along the dusty cobbled streets to the vicarage.
Agatha’s hand hovered over the bell. The vicar always looked at her as if she were an unwelcome visitor. She walked round to the gate that led to the vicarage garden and saw Mrs. Bloxby deadheading roses. Agatha noticed with a pang that her friend looked tired. Her gentle face had lines Agatha had not noticed before and her slim figure drooped.
She unlatched
Agatha parked outside The Oaks. It was lunch-time and she was hungry. She hated to admit it, but she missed her usually lazy life.
She missed her cats and her talks with Mrs. Bloxby. She even missed the evenings with the ladies’ society. She and Emma had been working every evening as well as every day. Agatha sighed as she pushed open the door of the pub. Thank God for Emma. She had turned out to be a good friend and a hard worker.
Emma went into the office and sat down and eased her long feet out of her shoes. “Rough day?” said Miss Simms.
“Too much walking in the heat,” sighed Emma. “But I found that missing girl. I’ll give you the notes to type up after lunch.”
“I think I’ll nip out and get something,” said Miss Simms. She slid her long legs out from behind the desk. How can she go around in heels like that without her ankles swelling? wondered Emma. “Can I get you something?” asked Miss Simms.
“A ham sandwich, thank you.”
“Brown or white?”
“Brown.”
“Lettuce?”
“Yes, but no mayonnaise.” “Okey-dokey. See ya.”
Emma massaged her feet. She looked forward to telling Agatha about her latest success. Agatha was so grateful. Emma felt guilty now about having given the newspaper that malicious call. Agatha deserved loyalty.
The door opened and a man breezed in. He was in his late forties and impeccably tailored. He had small neat features and fair hair.
“Aggie here?” he asked, looking around.
“No, Mrs. Raisin is out on a case.”
“I’m Charles Fraith.”
“Oh, you’re the one who recommended us to Mrs. Laggat-Brown.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Emma Comfrey. I work with Agatha. I’m a detective.” Charles smiled. “You look a worn-out one. What about a spot of lunch?”
“I’ve just sent out for a sandwich.”
“Forget it. Come on.”
Over lunch, Charles listened while Emma told him all about the agency, rather stressing her successes and minimizing those of Agatha. Then she told this sympathetic listener the story of her life and bored Charles murmured, “How amazing,” and, “Really!”
By the end of the lunch, Emma Comfrey was deeply in love with Sir Charles Fraith.
Agatha always marvelled that some of these tucked-away village pubs managed to survive. This one had a good few customers, and like most pubs these days, was set up with tables for eating.
She ordered fish and chips and when the waitress brought them asked her if a Mr. Harrison Peterson had been in the pub recently. “The police were asking that,” said the buxom girl, leaning a hip against the table and ignoring the signalling hands of some of the other diners. “I tole them, he come in here two days, I think, afore the big party.”
“Do you have rooms? I mean, does anyone know if he stayed in the village?”
“No, we don’t let rooms, and besides, what with them big cars everyone’s got, he could have come down from London.”
“Jess!” shouted the landlord from behind the bar. “Customers!”
Jess moved away. Agatha ate her fish and chips and wondered what to do. The police would have conducted a door-to-door search. She decided to take a break and go home and see her cats and call on Mrs. Bloxby.
The cats looked singularly uninterested when she came in the door. Agatha sighed. Every time she left them alone for any length of time, the cats seemed to transfer their affections to her cleaner, Doris Simpson. The weather was still warm. She let the cats out into the garden. Then she closed the house up again and made her way along the dusty cobbled streets to the vicarage.
Agatha’s hand hovered over the bell. The vicar always looked at her as if she were an unwelcome visitor. She walked round to the gate that led to the vicarage garden and saw Mrs. Bloxby deadheading roses. Agatha noticed with a pang that her friend looked tired. Her gentle face had lines Agatha had not noticed before and her slim figure drooped.
She unlatched
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