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Chapter One

    THE weather was tropical. And this was England and this was Evesham in the Cotswolds. Agatha Raisin drove into the car-park at Merstow Green, turned off the air-conditioning, switched off the engine and braced herself to meet the wall of soupy heat which she knew would greet her the minute she stepped out of the car.

    Like many, she had decided that all the scares about the greenhouse effect were simply lies made up by eco-terrorists. But this August had seen clammy, sweaty days followed by monsoon thunderstorms at night. Most odd.

    Agatha groaned as she left her car and walked across to the parking-ticket machine. What a hell of a day to decide to get one's hair tinted!

    She returned to her car and pasted the ticket on the window and then bent down and squinted at herself in the driving-mirror. Her hair was still dark brown but now streaked with purple.

    Agatha had gone into a mild depression following her "last case." Mrs. Agatha Raisin fancied herself to be a detective to rival the fictional ones like Poirot and Lord Peter Wimsey. She was a stocky middle-aged woman with good legs, a round face and small bearlike eyes which looked suspiciously out at the world. Her hair had always been her pride, thick and brown and glossy.

    But only that week she had discovered grey hairs, nasty grey hairs appearing all over. She had bought one of those colour rinses but it had turned the grey purple. "Go to Mr. John," advised Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar's wife. "His place is in the High Street in Evesham. He's supposedto be very good. They say he's a wizard at tinting hair."

    So Agatha had made the appointment and here she was in Evesham, a town situated some ten miles from her home village of Carsely.

    The cynics say Evesham is famous for dole and asparagus. Situated beside the river Avon in the Vale of Evesham, the Garden of England, well-known for its nurseries, orchards, and, of course, asparagus, Evesham nonetheless can present itself to the visitor who comes to see its historical buildings as a down-at-heel town. Despite the increasing population, shops keep closing up and the boards over the windows are decorated with old Evesham scenes by local artists, so that sometimes it seems a town of pictures and thrift shops. Enormous fecund women trundle push-chairs with small children. The fashion they favour is leggings topped by a baggy blouse. As columnist and TV celebrity Ann Robinson said, she thought leggings came along with push-chairs and babies.

    Agatha sometimes thought that a lot of the clothes shops closed down because the buyers would not look out of the window at the size of the female population and stocked only up to size sixteen instead of up to size twenty-two.

    She walked over to the High Street, not even stopping to look at the magnificent bulk of the old churches. Agatha was not interested in history as was James Lacey, the love of her life, her neighbour, who was off once more on his travels, leaving his cottage deserted and Agatha depressed and with grey hairs on her head.

    The hairdresser's was simply called Mr. John. Mrs. Bloxby had urged Agatha to make sure she got Mr. John in person.

    And there it was, glittering in the heat of the High Street, a discreet shop frontage with MR. JOHN emblazoned in curly brass letters over the door.

    Agatha pushed open the door and went in. No air-conditioning, of course. This was Britain and there were too many recent memories of cold summers for shopkeepers to decide to put in air-conditioning.

    A receptionist marked off Agatha's name in the book and called to a thin, pimply girl to escort Agatha to the salon. Agatha began to wish she had not come. She trudged through to a room at the back and the girl said she would fetch Mr. John.

    Agatha gazed sullenly at her reflection in the mirror. She felt old and frumpy.

    Then suddenly behind her in the mirror, a vision appeared and a pleasant voice said, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Raisin. I'm Mr. John."

    Agatha blinked. Mr. John was tall and very, very handsome. He had thick blond hair and very bright blue eyes, startlingly blue, as blue as a kingfisher's wing. His face was lightly tanned.

    "Now what have we here," he said.

    "We have purple hair," snapped Agatha, feeling diminished in front of this handsome vision.

    "It's easily remedied. Would you also like me to style your hair?"

    Agatha, who usually kept her hair short, had let it grow quite long. She shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Why not?"

    "You're not local, are you?" Mr. John stirred the hair tint with strong, well-manicured hands.

    "No, I'm from London." Agatha had no intention of telling Mr. John or anyone about her childhood background in a Birmingham slum. "I had my own public relations business and sold up and took early retirement and moved to Carsely."

    "Pretty village."

    "Yes, very pleasant."

    "And does your husband like it?"

    "My husband is dead."

    His hands hovered above her head. "Raisin. Raisin? That name rings a bell."

    "It should do. He was murdered."

    "Ah, yes, I remember. How terrible for you."

    "I'm over it now. I hadn't seen him in years anyway."

    "Well, an attractive lady like yourself won't remain single for long."

    "I am sure you mean well and that's what you say to all your dreary customers," said Agatha tetchily, "but I am well aware of what I look like."

    "Ah, but I haven't done your hair before. By the time I've finished with you, you'll be fighting them off with clubs."

    Agatha suddenly laughed. "You're very sure of your skill."

    "I have every reason to be."

    "So if you're that good, why Evesham?"

    "Why not? I like Evesham. The people are nice. I am king here. I might be lost among the competition in London. There you are. Now, I'll set the timer. Sharon, a coffee and some magazines for Mrs. Raisin."

    A woman had entered and was sitting in the chair alongside Agatha. "Ready to have your colour done again, Maggie?" Mr. John greeted her.

    "If you think so," said Maggie, gazing up at him with adoring eyes.

    "Did your husband like the new style?"

    "He doesn't like anything about me." Maggie's voice had taken on a querulous moan. "Insults from morning to night. I tell you, John, if it weren't for you bucking me up, I'd kill myself."

    "There, now. You'll feel better when I've finished with you."

    As Agatha waited for the tint to take effect and more customers were dealt with, some by a couple of assistants, Agatha was amazed at the personal revelations that were poured into the hairdressers' ears.

    She covertly watched Mr. John as he moved about, admiring his athletic body and his blond hair, and oh, those blue, blue eyes.

    Agatha began to feel alive for the first time in weeks.

    The timer rang and she was escorted through to a hand-basin and the tint was washed out. Then back to Mr. John, who began to put her hair up in rollers.

    "I thought it would be a blow-dry."

    "I'm going to put your hair up ... Agatha. It is Agatha, isn't it?"

    A less glorious-looking hairdresser would have been told sharply that it was Mrs. Raisin. Agatha nodded.

    "You'll love it."

    "I've never had my hair up before. I've always had it short."

    He clicked his tongue. "Ladies who don't think as much of themselves as they should, always get their hair cut short. Show me a woman with her hair cut to the bone and I'll show you an example of really low self-worth. Tell you what, if you don't like it, I'll take it down again and cut it."

    Agatha reluctantly gave her approval although she could feel sweat trickling down her body. How did Mr. John keep so cool?

    She was just beginning to feel she had been under the hot drier for hours when she was rescued and taken back to Mr. John.

    As he worked busily away, Agatha looked in delight as her new appearance emerged. Her hair was glossy and brown once more, but swept up in a French pleat and then arranged around her square face in a way that made it looked thinner. She forgot about the heat. She smiled up at Mr. John in sheer gratitude.

    It was only when she was walking back down the High Street, squinting in shop windows to admire her reflection, that she realized she had not made another appointment. But Agatha had mostly done her own hair, getting it cut in London on her occasional visits.

    Once home, she opened all the doors and windows to try to let in some fresh air. Her two cats darted out into the garden and then promptly lay down on the grass, lethargic in the sun.

    She looked at her silent phone. To add to her depression, it never seemed to ring. Her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong was on holiday; Sir Charles Fraith, with whom she had been involved on a couple of cases, was abroad somewhere; James Lacey was God only knew where; and even Roy Silver, her former employee, had not troubled to ring.

    Then she remembered there was to be a meeting of the Carsely Ladies' Society that evening. A good opportunity to show off her new hair-style.

    Mrs. Bloxby was hosting the society at the vicarage and because of the heat had set out chairs and tables in the vicarage garden.

    Agatha's hair-style was much admired. "Where did you go?" asked Mrs. Friendly, a plump, cheerful woman who usually lived up to her name. She was a relative newcomer to the village and hailed as an antidote to that other relative newcomer, Mrs. Darry, who was nibbling a piece of cake with rabbitlike concentration.

    "Mr. John in Evesham," said Agatha.

    To her surprise, Mrs. Friendly's face creased up like that of a hurt baby. "I wouldn't go there," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

    "Why?" Agatha stared rudely at Mrs. Friendly's hair, which was a mousy brown and hanging in damp wisps round her hot face.

    "Nothing," muttered Mr. Friendly. "One hears stories."

    "About Mr. John?"

    "Yes."

    "What stories?"

    "Must talk to Mrs. Bloxby." Mrs. Friendly moved away.

    Agatha stared after her and then shrugged. She was joined by Miss Simms, Carsely's unmarried mother and secretary of the society. "You look drop-dead gorgeous, Mrs. Raisin." Agatha had long ago given up asking other members to call her by her first name. They all seemed to enjoy the old-fashioned formality of second names. Miss Simms was wearing a brief pair of shorts with a halter-top and her usual spiked heels. "Where did you go?"

    "Mr. John in Evesham."

    "Oh, I went there once to get my hair done. I was bridesmaid at my sister Glad's wedding. He did it ever so pretty, but I didn't like him."

    "Why?"

    "Awful patronizing, he was. Gushed around the richer customers."

    Agatha shrugged. "It doesn't really matter what a hairdresser's like, does it?"

    "To me it does. I mean to say, I don't like anyone I don't like touching me."

    The meeting was called to order. They were to give one of their concerts over at Ancombe. Agatha's heart sank. Ladies' Society concerts were truly awful, long evenings of shrill singing and bad sketches.

    Mrs. Darry piped up, her eyes gleaming in her ferrety face. She was wearing a tweed skirt, blouse and tweed jacket but seemed unaffected by the heat. "Why doesn't Mrs. Raisin ever volunteer to do anything?"

    "Why don't you?" snapped Agatha.

    "Because I am doing the teas."

    "I have no talent," said Agatha.

    Mrs. Darry gave a shrill laugh. "Neither do any of the others, but that doesn't stop them."

    "Really," protested Mrs. Bloxby, "that was unkind."

    Miss Simms, who had volunteered to do her impersonation of Cher, glared. "Jealous cow," she said.

    "I've a good mind to let you do the teas yourselves," said Mrs. Darry.

    There was a silence. Then Agatha said, "I'll do it."

    "Good idea," said Miss Simms.

    Mrs. Darry got to her feet. "Then if you don't need my services, I'm going home."

    She stalked out of the garden.

    Agatha bit her lip. She didn't want to be bothered catering for a bunch of women in all this heat.

    The depression which had lifted because of her visit to the hairdresser came down around her again like a black cloud. This is your life, Agatha Raisin. Trapped in a Cotswold village, cut off from excitement, cut off from adventure, doing teas for a bunch of boring women.

    She trudged home afterwards. There did not seem to be a breath of air.

    She opened all the windows. She looked at the silent phone. Could anyone have rung when she was out? She dialled 1571 for the Call Minder. "You have one message," said the carefully elocuted voice of the computer. "Would you like to hear it?"

    "Of course I would, you silly bitch," growled Agatha.

    There was a silence and then the voice said primly, "I did not hear that. Would you like to hear your message?"

    "YES."

    There was a click and then the well-modulated tones of Sir Charles Fraith sounded down the line, "Hullo, Aggie. Fancy dinner tomorrow?"

    Agatha brightened. Although she had been wary of Charles because of a one-night stand when they had both been in Cyprus, a night of sex which had seemed to mean very little to him, the thought of going out to dinner and showing off her new hair-style appealed greatly.

    She dialled his number and got his Call Minder and left a message asking him to call for her at eight o'clock the following evening.

    Her depression once more lifted, she went upstairs and had a bath and went to bed. She had left her hair pinned up, but as she lay on her hot pillow the pins bored into her head. At last she rose and took all the pins out and went back to bed, tossing and turning all night in the suffocating heat. Thunder rolled and the rain came down about two in the morning but did nothing to freshen the air.

    When she rose in the morning, it was to find her hair was a disaster, damp with heat, and dishevelled with all the tossing about.

    As soon as she knew the salon would be open, she phoned Mr. John's receptionist to see if she could have an appointment for that day. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Raisin," said the receptionist on a rather smug note. "Mr. John is fully booked."

    "Put him on."

    "I beg your parding?"

    "I said let me talk to him ... now!"

    "Oh, very well."

    "Agatha!" Mr. John welcomed her like an old friend.

    "I've got a dinner date and my hair is a wreck. Could you possibly fit me in?"

    "I would like to help you out. Let me see. Give me the book, Josie."

    There was a rustling of pages and then he came back on the phone. "You had your hair washed yesterday, so what I could do is just put it in rollers and then pin it up, but it would need to be five o'clock."

    Agatha thought quickly. She would have plenty of time to get her hair done, get back home and washed and changed in time for Charles. "Lovely," she said. "I'll be there."

    She then went up to the bedroom and swung open the doors of the wardrobe. What to wear? There was that little black dress she hadn't worn since Cyprus. He had liked it. She tried it on. It hung loose on her body. How odd, thought Agatha, that depression could do so effectively what all those diets and exercise had not. She had lost weight.

    She decided to drive into Mircester and look for something new.

    The steering-wheel of her car scorched her hands and she was up out of the village and speeding along the Fosse before the air-conditioning worked.

    Mircester shimmered under ferocious heat. She was able to find a parking place without difficulty. A lot of people seemed, to have decided to stay at home. Agatha put on her sunglasses and squinted up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. She made her way to Harris Street off the main square, which boasted a line of expensive boutiques.

    She went in and out of one hot shop after another until she felt she could not bear to try on one more dress. Perhaps it would be better to settle for one of her old dresses. It might be a bit loose but that would be all to the good, for any restaurant they went to would not have air-conditioning.

    Agatha had just decided to forget about the whole thing when, looking along an alley which led off Harris Street and down to the abbey, she noticed the weekly market was in full swing. She would buy some fresh vegetables for salad. Once she was in the market and heading for the vegetable stalls, she noticed several stalls full of brightly coloured clothes. In one of them, a dress caught her eye. It was of fine scarlet cotton with a design of white lotus flowers. It had a cool, flowing line. Agatha fingered it. An Indian trader appeared at her elbow. "Nice dress," he said.

    Agatha hesitated and then asked, "How much?"

    "Fourteen pounds."

    Again Agatha hesitated. It was very cheap. It might wrinkle or even fall apart. She had been prepared to spend a couple of hundred pounds. "Tell you what," said the trader wearily, "you can have it for twelve."

    "Okay, I'll take it."

    He stuffed the dress in an old plastic bag.

    "Hot, isn't it?" Agatha handed over the money.

    "And don't tell me I ought to be used to it," he said gloomily. "I was born in Birmingham."

    Agatha was about to say, "So was I," but then left the words unsaid. She was ashamed of her background.

    She tried on the dress as soon as she got home. It was very attractive and, once she had added a thick gold necklace, looked quite expensive.

    Now for Mr. John.

    Evesham seemed even hotter than Mircester. Agatha suddenly wished she had her old, simple hair-style which she could wash and arrange herself.

    But there was Mr. John, cool and handsome as ever. "Got a date?" he asked.

    "Yes."

    "Anyone special?"

    Agatha could not resist bragging.

    "Actually, he's a baronet."

    "Very grand. Which baronet?"

    "Sir Charles Fraith."

    "And how did you come to meet him?"

    Agatha was about to say, "On a case," but she did not like the implication that such as Agatha Raisin could not know anyone with a title, so she said airily, "He's in my set."

    And hope that shuts you up, she thought.

    "Pity," he said.

    "What's a pity?"

    "You'll think this very forward of me, but I was thinking of asking you out myself."

    "Why?" asked Agatha in surprise.

    "You're a very attractive woman."

    And a rich one, thought Agatha cynically. But then Mr. John was so very handsome with his intense blue eyes and blond hair. If James came back and if James saw them going out together, perhaps he would be jealous; perhaps he would be prompted into saying huskily, "I always loved you, Agatha."

    "Sorry." Mr. John dug a pin into the back of Agatha's hair and her rosy dream burst like a brightly coloured soap bubble.

    "Perhaps some evening," said Agatha cautiously. "Let me think about it."

    But his invitation gave her a warm little glow, and he was a wizard at fashioning her hair into that elegant style.

    Agatha made her way out to her car which she had parked on a double yellow line. "Look where that car's parked!" hissed a woman at her ear.

    Agatha swung round. A dumpy, frumpy woman with thick glasses was glaring at her. Agatha shrugged, walked to her car and opened the door.

    "It's yours!" gasped the woman. "Don't you know it's illegal to park there?"

    Agatha turned and faced her. "I am not obstructing the traffic or getting in anyone's way," she said evenly. "Nor am I responsible for the mad parking arrangements of Evesham or for the stupid one-way system. But I wonder where someone like you gets off on this hot day abusing motorists. Go home, have a cup of tea, put your feet up. Get a life!"

    And deaf to the insults that began to pour about her ears, Agatha got in and drove off.

Charles arrived promptly at eight o'clock. He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. "Like the hair, Aggie. And the dress. In fact, I bought a dress like that in the market in Mircester this afternoon for my aunt. She's was grumbling about not having anything cool to wear."

    "I bought this one in Harrods," lied Agatha. "The one in the market must have been a cheap copy." But her pleasure in her appearance had diminished. "Where are we eating?"

    "I thought we would go to the Little Chef." The Little Chef is a chain of eateries, rather like Howard Johnson's in the States, reliable, but hardly glamorous.

    "I am not being taken out to a Little Chef. You are cheap, Charles."

    "I like the food," he said defensively. "I suppose you want foreign muck. Well, give me a whisky while I think of something."

    Agatha poured him a whisky and he settled in a chair cradling his glass between small, well-manicured hands. He was a slight, fair-haired man. Agatha had never known his age. He had mild, sensitive features and she had originally thought he might be only in his late thirties. But she had later decided he was probably in his mid-forties. He was wearing a shirt open at the neck and had slung his jacket over a chair.

    "I know," he said. "The Jolly Roger at Ancombe, that new pub."

    "I haven't been there and I don't like the sound of it."

    "Friend of mine went the other week. Said the food was good. Besides, they've got a garden with tables. By the way, I saw that detective friend of yours in Mircester; what's his name, Chinese chap?"

    "Bill Wong. But he's on holiday!"

    "I suppose he's taking it at home. Had a girl on his arm."

    And he hasn't phoned me, thought Agatha. Bill had been her first friend, the old, tougher Agatha, driven by career and ambition, never having had any time before to make friends. She could feel the old black edges of that depression hovering on the horizon of her mind.

    They set out for Ancombe and parked outside the Jolly Roger, formerly called the Green Man. Inside it was everything that shouted poor food to Agatha—fishing nets, murals of pirates, and waiters and barmen dressed in striped tops and knee-breeches with plastic "silver" buckles. Charles led the way through to the garden, which was at least a fraction cooler than the inside. A roguish waiter who introduced himself as Henry handed them two large, gaudily coloured menus.

    "Oh, shit," grumbled Agatha. "Listen to this. Captain Hook's scrumptious potato dip. And what about Barbary Coast Chicken with sizzling Long John corn fritters?"

    Henry the waiter was hovering. "Do you remember when they were called hens, and chickens were the fluffy little yellow things?" asked Agatha.

    "And now all mutton is lamb, dear," said Henry with a giggle.

    Agatha eyed him with disfavour. "Just shove off and stop twitching and grinning and we'll call you when we're ready."

    "Well, really, I never did." Henry tossed his head.

    "The fact that you haven't lost your virginity is nothing to do with me. Go away."

    "You've hurt his feelings, Aggie," said Charles equably.

    "Don't care," muttered Agatha. Bill hadn't even bothered to phone her. "What are you having?"

    "I'll have the all-day breakfast. The Dead-Eye Dick Special, and I hope it comes with lots of chips."

    "No starter? Oh well, I'll have a ham salad."

    "They can't have anything described simply as ham salad."

    "It's described as South Sea Roast pig, sliced and on a bed of crunchy salad with Hard Tack croutons."

    "Oh. Wine?"

    "Why not?"

    Charles signalled to the waiter, ordered their meals and a carafe of house wine.

    "No vintage for me?" asked Agatha.

    "I wouldn't bother in a place like this."

    "So why did you bring me to a place like this?"

    "God, you're sour this evening, Agatha. Am I to assume that James is not around?"

    "No, he's away somewhere."

    "And didn't even say goodbye? Yes, I can see by the look on your face."

    "Men are so immature."

    "That's what you women always throw at us."

    "Well, it's true."

    "It's a necessary part of the masculine make-up. It enables us to dream greater dreams and bring them about. Have you ever wondered why all the great inventors are men?"

    "Because women never had a chance."

    "Wrong. Women are pragmatic. They have to be to bring up children. I shall illustrate what I mean with a story." He rested his chin on his hands and gazed dreamily across at her.

    "A chap goes to Cambridge University. The girls there terrify him and they're only interested in rugger-buggers anyway and he's the academic type. So he falls in love with a fluffy little barmaid, and gets her pregnant and marries her. He gets a first in physics but he has to support his new family, so he takes a job in an insurance office and there he is, up to his neck in a mortgage and car payments and the wife has twins. A few years pass and he begins to spend every weekend down in the garden shed. Wife begins to whine and complain. `We never see you. Sharon and Tracey are missing their dad. What are you doing?' At last he tells her. He's building a time machine. Then the shit hits the fan. Will this pay the bills? she rages at him. The Joneses next door have a new deep freeze. When are they going to get one? And so on. So he locks himself into his shed and hammers away while she screams outside.

    "Well, he builds his time machine and becomes a billionaire and runs off with a little bit of fluff in the office who is the only woman who really understands him and has supported him, which of course she has, not knowing one word he's been talking about, but likes the excitement of being involved with a married man. He divorces his wife and marries the office girl and the money goes to her head and she joins the Eurotrash and runs off with a racing driver and they all live unhappily ever after. And the moral of that is, men and women are different and should start to accept the differences."

    Agatha laughed. "Couldn't he have escaped in his time machine?"

    "Of course not. He got billions to destroy it. Can't have people zipping around the centuries and messing up history."

    "I never know if you're a male chauvinist oink or just being funny."

    "I'm never funny. Look at the wrinkles on my forehead, Aggie. Product of deep thought. So what about you? No nice, juicy murders?"

    "Nothing at all. I am yesterday's sleuth."

    "I should have thought your experiences in Cyprus would have given you enough death and mayhem for life."

    Cyprus. Where she had passed a night with Charles and James had found out about it and things had never been the same again. Agatha would not admit to herself that her relationship with James had been on the rocks for a long time before that.

    Charles watched the shadow fall across her eyes and said gently. "It wouldn't have worked, you know. James is a twenty-per-cent person."

    "I don't understand you."

    "It's like this. You are an eighty-five-per-cent person and James only gives twenty percent. It's not a case of won't, it's a case of can't. A lot of men are like that but women will never understand. They go on giving. And they think if they go to bed with the twenty-per-center, and they give that last fifteen per cent, they'll miraculously wake up next to a hundred-per-center. Wrong. If they wake up next to him anyway, it'll be a miracle. Probably find a note on the pillow saying, `Gone home to feed the dog,' or something like that."

    Agatha remembered nights with James and mornings when he was always up first, when he never referred to the night before or hugged her or kissed her.

    "Maybe I was just the wrong woman," she conceded.

    "Trust me, dearest. Any woman is the wrong woman for James."

    "Perhaps I would have been happy to settle for twenty per cent."

    "Liar. Here's our food."

    To Agatha's surprise, the ham was delicious and the salad fresh and crisp.

    "So we're never to go detecting again?" Charles asked, pouring ketchup on his chips.

    "I can't go around finding bodies to brighten up my life."

    "No more public relations work?"

    "None. All my efforts are going towards providing tea and cakes for the ladies of Ancombe."

    "You'll stir something up, Aggie. No new men on the horizon?"

    "One very gorgeous man."

    "Who?"

    "My hairdresser."

    "Ah, the one that's responsible for the new elegance."

    "Him."

    "Hairdressers are fickle. I remember ... Never mind."

    "What about your love life, Charles?"

    "Nothing at the moment."

    They passed the meal reminiscing about their adventures in Cyprus and then he drove her home.

    "Am I going to stay the night?" asked Charles as they stood together on Agatha's doorstep.

    "No, Charles, I'm not into casual sex."

    "Who says it would be casual?"

    "Charles, you demonstrated in Cyprus that I am nothing more than a temporary amusement to you. Has it ever dawned on you that you might be a twenty-per-center yourself?"

    "Ouch! But think on this, Aggie. Any eighty-five-per-center who hangs around with twenty-per-centers is just as afraid of commitment."

    He waved to her and went off to his car.

    Agatha let herself in, feeling flat. No messages on the phone for her. And what had Bill Wong been thinking of not to phone her?

    The sensible thing would be to phone him, and yet Agatha dreaded the idea of finding out she had lost the affection of her first friend.

    Life went on. She had to keep moving. Perhaps she would accept Mr. John's invitation after all.