could be Jason’s father?”
“I don’t. I mean, what would he gain by it? He was in prison for fraud, not psychopathic killing.” He suddenly smiled at her. “I must say, you’re not what I expected from my wife’s description.”
“And what was that?”
“Never mind. 1 didn’t expect an attractive woman.”
Somewhere deep in Agatha’s treacherous stomach rumbled that old sexual buzz.
“Jason would inherit if Cassandra were killed.”
“And you mean the father would hope to get money from the son? Far-fetched, One does not think of a young daughter as dying. The whole thing’s weird. You know what I really think? I think there’s some mad sharpshooter in the neighbourhood who decided to use us for target practice.”
“And what about the threatening letter?”
“Same nutter, I suppose. Lots of class jealousy around.”
“You haven’t always lived at the manor, have you?”
“The manor-house belonged to the Felliet family for centuries, but they went broke and we bought it. The villagers went on as if the queen had been dethroned.”
“When did you buy the manor?”
“Only about eight years ago.”
“And where are the Felliets now?”
“That’ll be Sir George and his lady. Don’t really know.”
“And you are reconciled with your wife?”
“Well, in a way. We won’t be remarrying or anything like that. We rub along all right. Doing it to please Cassandra.”
“And you were in Paris at the time of the shooting?”
He grinned. “And plenty of witnesses to that fact. Tell you what, time’s getting on and I promised Catherine I’d be home for dinner. Why don’t you and I have a meal later in the week and then I really will have time to answer all your questions?”
“I would like that.” Agatha tried not to sound too eager. “I’ll give you my card.”
When he left, Agatha decided to go home and spend a quiet evening repairing her face and tinting the roots of her hair. She had thick brown hair but grey was beginning to show through.
Would he really phone? It wasn’t as if he was married. What should she wear?
She could hear faintly the warning voice of Mrs. Bloxby. “You are addicted to falling in love.” But Agatha’s mind blotted it out. It was so wonderful to have a man to dream about, the colourful dreams filling up that empty hole that had been in her head for so long. Without dreams, Agatha was left with Agatha, a person she did not like very much, although that was something she would never admit to herself.
Agatha fed her cats, microwaved herself a shepherd’s pie and then microwaved some chips to go with it. Then she went upstairs for a long soak in the bathtub before tackling her hair. It would be better, she thought, to have a hairdresser do the tinting, so she compromised by using a “brunette” shampoo, colour guaranteed to last through three washes.
She studied her face closely in the “fright” mirror, one of those magnifying ones, and seizing the tweezers, plucked two hairs from her upper lip.
Agatha was just wrapping herself in her dressing-gown when she heard someone moving about downstairs. She looked around for a weapon and then picked up a can of hair lacquer to spray in the intruder’s eyes. It was only when she reached the bottom of the stairs that she realized she could have phoned the police from the extension in the bedroom.
The bottom stair creaked beneath her feet.
“That you, Aggie?” called a lazy voice from the sitting-room.
Charles Fraith.
“You might have knocked!” raged Agatha. “You gave me a fright.”
“And you gave me the keys, remember?”
“No, I don’t. I’d forgotten you still had them.”
“I must say, you do look a picture, Aggie.”
Agatha realized her face was covered in cream and her hair wrapped up in a towel. She made to retreat and then shrugged. “You’ll just need to put up with it, Charles. Drink?”
Emma watched hungrily from the side window. She had seen Charles drive up. She waited
“I don’t. I mean, what would he gain by it? He was in prison for fraud, not psychopathic killing.” He suddenly smiled at her. “I must say, you’re not what I expected from my wife’s description.”
“And what was that?”
“Never mind. 1 didn’t expect an attractive woman.”
Somewhere deep in Agatha’s treacherous stomach rumbled that old sexual buzz.
“Jason would inherit if Cassandra were killed.”
“And you mean the father would hope to get money from the son? Far-fetched, One does not think of a young daughter as dying. The whole thing’s weird. You know what I really think? I think there’s some mad sharpshooter in the neighbourhood who decided to use us for target practice.”
“And what about the threatening letter?”
“Same nutter, I suppose. Lots of class jealousy around.”
“You haven’t always lived at the manor, have you?”
“The manor-house belonged to the Felliet family for centuries, but they went broke and we bought it. The villagers went on as if the queen had been dethroned.”
“When did you buy the manor?”
“Only about eight years ago.”
“And where are the Felliets now?”
“That’ll be Sir George and his lady. Don’t really know.”
“And you are reconciled with your wife?”
“Well, in a way. We won’t be remarrying or anything like that. We rub along all right. Doing it to please Cassandra.”
“And you were in Paris at the time of the shooting?”
He grinned. “And plenty of witnesses to that fact. Tell you what, time’s getting on and I promised Catherine I’d be home for dinner. Why don’t you and I have a meal later in the week and then I really will have time to answer all your questions?”
“I would like that.” Agatha tried not to sound too eager. “I’ll give you my card.”
When he left, Agatha decided to go home and spend a quiet evening repairing her face and tinting the roots of her hair. She had thick brown hair but grey was beginning to show through.
Would he really phone? It wasn’t as if he was married. What should she wear?
She could hear faintly the warning voice of Mrs. Bloxby. “You are addicted to falling in love.” But Agatha’s mind blotted it out. It was so wonderful to have a man to dream about, the colourful dreams filling up that empty hole that had been in her head for so long. Without dreams, Agatha was left with Agatha, a person she did not like very much, although that was something she would never admit to herself.
Agatha fed her cats, microwaved herself a shepherd’s pie and then microwaved some chips to go with it. Then she went upstairs for a long soak in the bathtub before tackling her hair. It would be better, she thought, to have a hairdresser do the tinting, so she compromised by using a “brunette” shampoo, colour guaranteed to last through three washes.
She studied her face closely in the “fright” mirror, one of those magnifying ones, and seizing the tweezers, plucked two hairs from her upper lip.
Agatha was just wrapping herself in her dressing-gown when she heard someone moving about downstairs. She looked around for a weapon and then picked up a can of hair lacquer to spray in the intruder’s eyes. It was only when she reached the bottom of the stairs that she realized she could have phoned the police from the extension in the bedroom.
The bottom stair creaked beneath her feet.
“That you, Aggie?” called a lazy voice from the sitting-room.
Charles Fraith.
“You might have knocked!” raged Agatha. “You gave me a fright.”
“And you gave me the keys, remember?”
“No, I don’t. I’d forgotten you still had them.”
“I must say, you do look a picture, Aggie.”
Agatha realized her face was covered in cream and her hair wrapped up in a towel. She made to retreat and then shrugged. “You’ll just need to put up with it, Charles. Drink?”
Emma watched hungrily from the side window. She had seen Charles drive up. She waited
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