Saturday morning dawned bright and clear over the Gironde vineyards. There were early signs of life at the chateau and Agatha heard a car heading off through the vineyard before her eyes were properly open. She blinked, looked up and froze. She was in a box. Why was she sleeping in a box? Then she realised that the box lid was not, in fact, a lid but the canopy over her magnificent four-poster bed.
She stood under the shower, letting the streams of water from the huge circular shower head pummel her body awake, then strolled around the bedroom, towelling herself dry. The room had a high ceiling and she counted fifteen paces to take her from the door of the en suite bathroom to the dressing table on the opposite wall. It was such a luxury to have so much space. I could fit my cottage bedroom into this room at least twice, she thought. Gazing up at the intricate fruit-and-flower plasterwork of the ceiling rose, she decided that she’d probably have space for another two of her own bedrooms up above.
Wrapping her towel into a turban around her wet hair, she flung open the shutters and squinted against the sudden blaze of sunlight. Stepping to the left, she stood in front of a full-length mirror and cast a critical eye over herself. There’s no escaping it, she told herself, I have the body of a middle-aged woman. She smoothed her hands over her neck to pull the skin tight, then prodded herself in the waist. It was getting thicker, but there was still hope. Turning slightly to the side, she pushed her shoulders back, sucked her stomach in and stretched one leg slightly forward, the way models did in the fashion pages. That’s better, she thought. Mind you, I can’t stand around stark naked all day at a gymkhana. So what am I going to wear?
She heard the clink of coffee cups from the terrace and the sound of Claudette and Jen laughing. Do they never stop laughing? she wondered. Surely it’s far too early in the morning for that? Only those maniacs on radio breakfast shows laugh this early, and I can switch them off. How can I decide what to wear with them howling away? Hang on … I wonder what they’re wearing.
She looked towards the open balcony doors and the stone balustrade beyond. Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled out onto the balcony and peeked over the balustrade down to the left. Claudette had her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing a white blouse, cream jodhpurs and gleaming black riding boots. She looked fantastic, but that was no help at all to Agatha. Claudette was a competitor and Agatha would be a mere spectator. Jen was better. A simple floral dress, elegant and summery. That was more like it.
“Morning, Agatha!”
The Colonel strode past below on the right. Agatha squeezed her eyes shut tight, as if to make him disappear, then gave a little wave and quickly crawled backwards into the bedroom. How much did he see? No matter. The Colonel was a gentleman. He wouldn’t say anything. A burst of laughter echoed up from the terrace. Gentleman my arse!
Agatha dried her hair at the dressing table, applied her make-up, then retrieved a yellow linen shift dress from the bathroom. Linen had a tendency to crumple, but the dress had survived being packed in the suitcase reasonably well. The steamy bathroom had helped to disperse any slight creases. She had picked it off a rack in one of her favourite Mircester stores because she liked the look of the V neck and the cap sleeves. She had almost put it back when the tag described it as perfect for “apple-shaped women.” Agatha was not prepared to admit that she was apple-shaped, but the darts below the bust cinched the waist slightly, allowing the dress to hang so well on her when she tried it, the hemline just above the knee, that she couldn’t resist it. She held it against herself and checked it in the mirror. It would be perfect for today. She dressed quickly and joined the others on the terrace for a light breakfast.
Claudette drove them all to the event in her Range Rover. They headed towards the Bay of Biscay coast, where they arrived at a showground that was already buzzing with activity. A queue of cars tailed back from the entrance onto the main road, but Claudette turned towards a side gate, the competitors’ entrance, where there was no queue. She showed a pass and was waved through after a friendly chat.
“We have a good spot,” she said. “I was here with the Colonel earlier this morning. I talked to Pierre and to Poppy, my horse. She is in good shape. I am hoping for a good result today!”
“We’ll be cheering you on, won’t we, Agatha?” said Jen.
“Of course,” said Agatha. “Good heavens—this place is enormous!”
The showground was a vast flat area with two large white-painted grandstands looking out over competition arenas. The flags of many nations fluttered weakly in a whisper of breeze. Scores of spectators strolled along avenues of parked cars, exchanging lively greetings with others picnicking under open tailgates. There were vans where food vendors offered crêpes and ice creams, marquees where corporate sponsors were entertaining important clients, and event marshals patrolling in high-visibility green jackets. The whole place was buzzing with activity.
“Exciting, isn’t it?” said Jen, patting Agatha’s thigh. “You’re going to love this—we’ll have a gorgeous lunch later. This is such a fun day out!”
“Our area is just over there,” said Claudette, steering the car past a knot of people. “I don’t like to drive the horse transporter. Too big for me. Pierre has everything ready.”
Claudette showed her pass at the entrance to the competitors’ enclosure and the nature of the parked vehicles changed from everyday cars to horse boxes, four-wheel drives of every variety and horse transporters the size of commercial trucks. Claudette pulled in beside one of the gargantuan transporters, which was patriotically painted in the red, white and blue of the French tricolour. Pierre was there waiting for them. He handed a sheaf of papers to Claudette. The Colonel disappeared to attend to official duties.
“There is paperwork—formalities.” Claudette smiled, handing Agatha and Jen lanyards with credit-card-sized passes. “Your jewellery for today.” She laughed. “It will not suit your dress, Agatha, but you must not lose it. Okay, I must go.”
“Where might I find the woman you mentioned?” Agatha asked. “The woman called Cherry?”
“I think she has the big silver transporter down there,” said Claudette, pointing. “She will not be there right now. You should try later. Now I must go to see Poppy.”
Claudette hurried off and Jen suggested that she and Agatha take a stroll to find their bearings. They walked past dozens of transporters, some with horses hanging their heads out of open windows, eyeing them curiously. Everywhere, with no wind to disperse it, the scent of horses hung ripe in the air. In some places the smell was so thick you could almost taste it. Agatha held her nose. Jen giggled.
“You get used to it after a while,” she said. “Come on, let’s see where Claudette will be riding.”
They found the show-jumping arena in front of one of the white grandstands. A contest for juvenile riders was under way. Children, faces set in grim concentration, pounded the sandy surface of the course on ponies that flew over brush-hedge fences, red-and-white-painted gates and walls made from hollow plywood bricks. Like the wooden bars of the gates and fences, the bricks were intended to be knocked over if the horse hit the obstacle. Agatha saw a number of fences collapse and several walls destroyed. There were tears from the losers, jubilation and rosettes for the winners, cheers and applause for everyone.
Back at the transporter, Claudette had returned and was sipping a coffee.
“Everything is ready,” she said, sounding nervous. “I ride shortly. Agatha, I have seen Cherry and her friends at her transporter.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha. “I will try to have a quick word with her now.”
Leaving Jen quietly soothing Claudette’s nerves, Agatha wandered off in the direction of the silver transporter. It stood in a line of vehicles, their backs towards a sheltering thicket of trees. There were no signs of life at the front, but a strong, handsome black horse stood calmly at the side, tethered in the shade. Female English voices in lively conversation came from the rear. Agatha approached the open tailgate. Three women were inside the transporter. Two were casually dressed, one leaning against a saddle slung over a low trestle and one passing a silver hip flask to the third, who was the only one in the competition uniform of boots, jodhpurs and jacket. She had her back to the tailgate.
“What do you want?” called one of the women, spotting Agatha.
“I’m looking for Cherry…” Agatha replied, then stopped as the figure in the black jacket turned to face her. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun and her make-up was, Agatha judged, a trifle heavy, but immaculate. She had a familiar thin smile on her face and an even more familiar jewelled horse brooch on her jacket.
“So, not Cherry,” said Agatha. “Sherry—Sheraton Chadwick.”
“Agatha Raisin,” said Chadwick. “I’ve been wondering when you might turn up. I wasn’t expecting you here, though.”
“Oh, I’m full of surprises,” said Agatha.
“Come in,” Chadwick invited, offering the hip flask. “Have a drink.”
“Not for me, thanks,” said Agatha, stepping into the transporter. “I was hoping to have a word with you about—”
“Her Royal Highness Queen Mary Darlinda Brown-Field Fraith, deceased.” Chadwick smirked. “You’ve been making a nuisance of yourself pestering everyone about her, haven’t you?”
“It’s important that I—”
“It’s not important. Mary wasn’t important. You’re not important—so nothing that you do is important, Mrs. Private Detective.”
“Is this her?” one of the other women snorted. “Is this the private eye? Not much to look at, is she?”
Agatha shot her a look. “You must have been born at home,” she said. “That’s where most accidents happen.”
“Ha!” laughed the third woman. “Mary must definitely have been born at home, then!” She stuck out her chin and waggled her head, in a crude impersonation. “It’s Lady Mary to you! It’s Lady Mary to you!”
The other two shrieked with laughter. Agatha scowled at Sheraton Chadwick.
“You wouldn’t be so quick to mock her father, would you, Mrs. Chadwick? Nice brooch, by the way. I think I can hazard a guess where that came from.”
“Have you been spying on me, Mrs. Raisin? I really don’t like snoopers, you know.”
“Oh, I know all about what you like,” said Agatha, nodding towards the saddle. “Is that all ready for you to ‘Saddle Up the Palomino?’”
“I think we need to teach you a lesson, you old cow!”
Sheraton Chadwick made a grab for Agatha, who dodged aside, only for one of the other women to reach out and seize her arm.
“Snakes and bastards!” she hissed. Following Claudette’s example, she grabbed a riding helmet hanging on the transporter wall and smashed it into the face of her captor. The woman staggered back, holding her nose. Agatha lunged towards the tailgate. Chadwick stepped in front of her and the uninjured woman leapt on her from behind. Agatha squirmed, kicked and twisted, but now the woman she had hit was there again and the two held her fast.
Chadwick stepped towards her. She held a leather riding crop in her hand and pressed the tip under Agatha’s chin. Agatha tried to break away, but her arms were twisted and tightly gripped by Chadwick’s friends.
“When I caught the lovely Mary in here,” Chadwick snarled, “I gave her a taste of this.” She shoved the riding crop harder into Agatha’s throat. “Now you’ve hurt my friend Charlotte. You will have to be punished.”
She stepped back and pointed to the saddle. Her friends bent Agatha’s arms behind her back and she was thrust forward, crashing into the saddle and collapsing over it, her assailants maintaining their ferocious and painful grip. She was bent double, her face just inches from the straw on the floor, her hair falling into her face as she fought to straighten up, but Charlotte was standing over her, pinning her arms behind her and pushing her down. The other woman quickly locked her arms around Agatha’s ankles, clamping them together and pulling her feet clear of the floor. Now Agatha could barely move, barely breathe. She felt her dress being yanked up to her buttocks. Chadwick laid the riding crop across the top of her thighs.
“Your sweet little summer dress isn’t going to look nearly so pretty when you’ve a lovely set of tiger stripes down the backs of your legs, is it?” she purred. “You’ve been a very naughty pony…”
“STOP THAT! Let her go!”
Agatha recognised Jen’s voice, but not the tone. She had never heard Jen angry. She felt her legs being released and her feet hit the floor. Then her arms were free. She eased them down to her sides, pushing away from the saddle to stand up. She smoothed her dress and pushed her hair out of her face.
“You people are animals!” Jen was standing at the tailgate. Pierre’s strong hand was clamped around Chadwick’s wrist. He took the riding crop and pushed her aside.
“Thank you, Jen,” said Agatha, regaining her composure. She picked up her clutch bag, dropped during the struggle, and, spotting a small mirror on the wall, ran her fingers through her hair and checked her make-up. She turned to Charlotte, offering her a tissue to mop up the blood dribbling from her nose. “Poor Charlotte,” she said. “I’d like to say I’m sorry … but I’m not.” Then she faced Sheraton Chadwick, fixing her with her bear-like eyes. “This isn’t over,” she growled.
“You don’t frighten me,” Chadwick sneered. “I can buy and sell low-life like you. Cross me again, and you’re dead!”
“A threat?” said Agatha, shaking her head. “Oh dear. Big mistake. You really don’t know me at all, do you?”
She strode out of the trailer with Jen at her side. Pierre followed quietly behind.
“Are you all right, Agatha?” asked Jen once they were well away from Chadwick’s transporter.
“I’m fine,” said Agatha, turning her face to the sun and breathing deeply. “A little shaken, maybe, but nothing a good stiff drink can’t put right.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Jen. “There’s a bar at the grandstand. Claudette will be riding shortly, so let’s go there. What on earth were you doing with that lot?”
“I was doing my job. Sometimes it can get a little rough.”
“Well, Sheraton Chadwick is no stranger to that sort of thing, I can tell you. She once took a riding crop to a young girl who only wanted to stroke her horse. I’m sorry you ran into someone like her here. She is not typical of the sort of people we know on the circuit. Most are extremely nice. She, on the other hand, is a particularly nasty piece of work.”
“So it seems. I have a … professional interest in her.”
“Be very careful with that one, Agatha. She’s ruthless. No morals. She uses her husband’s money to finance her riding jaunts, and when he reins in the cash from time to time, she simply turns to another benefactor. I could name at least three men, in Italy, Germany and the Netherlands, whose bed she shares when she needs an injection of corporate finance.”
“Is that so?” Agatha said quietly. “Jen, I may have to press you for those names later. I will make each one a nail in Sheraton Chadwick’s coffin. In the meantime, let’s go get that drink.”
By the time they had reached the grandstand and picked up two glasses of deliciously cold white wine from the bar, the show-jumping was already under way. They took their seats to watch the rider preceding Claudette finish her round. Even a novice like Agatha could tell that the jumps for the adult contest were higher, and there were more of them, spread out over a longer course. The rider guided her horse with great skill, but at the final jump one of her horse’s rear hooves clipped the wall, sending a couple of bricks toppling to the ground. There was a groan of disappointment from the crowd but cheers and applause nonetheless when she finished the course.
Claudette was in the arena next with Poppy. She looked lean and athletic balanced on the powerful grey mare, tackling the course with confidence. Agatha noticed Jen rising and falling in the seat next to her, taking every jump and turn along with her friend. Horse and rider moved in smooth harmony, tension and expectation building in the crowd until Claudette faced the final wall. Poppy surged forward and took a mighty leap, sailing well clear of the top. There was a huge roar and a thunder of applause from the crowd. Jen and Agatha were on their feet cheering, Agatha totally caught up in the excitement of the moment.
“Come on,” said Jen. “Let’s go and have a word with her!”
They rushed down the stairs from the grandstand to find Claudette in a small paddock with Poppy, Pierre in attendance. She was jumping up and down in elation. Other competitors were milling around, congratulating her on a fine performance. Jen hugged her, and Claudette hugged Agatha, squealing with excitement.
“Does that mean you’ve won?” Agatha asked.
“Not quite,” Claudette grinned, “but it was a very good start. Poppy was fantastic, no? There is more to do, but that was a clear round in a fast time. Our best performance, I think. Whatever else happens today, tonight we will celebrate at dinner in a restaurant close to the chateau. You will love it.”
“We’d best stick to a light lunch, then, Agatha!” Jen laughed. “We’ll watch Claudette ride again later.”
“I can’t wait,” said Agatha. Then, as Claudette chatted happily with friends, she said quietly to Jen and Pierre, “Say nothing about that little incident earlier. We don’t want to spoil Claudette’s day in any way. I will deal with Sheraton Chadwick.”
Agatha sat at the dressing table in her room at the chateau. She had showered and changed and was putting the finishing touches to her make-up, with the events of the day running through her head. Claudette and Poppy had enjoyed a triumphantly successful day and were well placed for the next stage of the competition tomorrow. The time Agatha had spent with Jen had been a delight … but then there was Sheraton Chadwick.
She shuddered. The truth was that she had thought of little else all day. Whenever there were no other distractions, when there was nothing else to occupy her mind, or even when she drifted momentarily out of a conversation, snatches of the confrontation played out in her head. Every time it happened, she felt a surge of anger. She had been humiliated. She had been frightened. She had been very frightened when they draped her over that saddle, waiting for the hot, sharp sting of the riding crop on the backs of her legs. If Jen hadn’t come looking for her … She gulped a breath of air. A tear forced its way out of the corner of her eye. She dabbed at it with a tissue. Thank God for waterproof mascara! She gave herself a shake. This will not do, she told herself. She was not going to be upset. She was going to enjoy an evening with friends. Sheraton Chadwick would get what was coming to her.
She checked herself in the full-length mirror before going downstairs. The black sequinned dress was mid length and the neckline respectable rather than daringly low. It was a cocktail dress as opposed to an evening gown—ideal for an early dinner at any restaurant. The temperature was markedly cooler, a change in the weather clearly on the way, so she draped a silver-flecked black pashmina over her shoulders. She was ready.
Downstairs in the lounge, Claudette and Jen were sipping glasses of Crémant with the Colonel, who had his ledger laptop open on a table.
“Just in time, Agatha my dear!” he called, holding out a glass of sparkling wine for her. “Come and take a look at this!”
A video was playing on the laptop. Agatha could see the show-jumping arena and glimpses of the crowd, then the camera was racing towards one of the jumps and soaring over it, Poppy’s neck and ears filling part of the screen. There was the sound of pounding hooves, Poppy snorting and Claudette breathing words of encouragement. It was a record of the day’s success, all from Claudette’s point of view.
“Amazing,” said Agatha. “How on earth did you do that?”
“With one of these,” said the Colonel, holding out a handful of what looked like colourful buttons. “These little beauties can transmit video and sound direct to my laptop. Decent-quality results and they weigh next to nothing.”
“Good evening,” came a voice from the doorway. “I hope I am not missing anything.”
A man stood in the doorway, looking directly at Agatha. He was of medium height with strong, broad shoulders and smouldering dark eyes.
“Uncle Pascal!” Claudette threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “You made it!”
“A little late, and I must leave again for London tomorrow.” He smiled and shrugged. “But tonight I shall have dinner with my beautiful niece, our wonderful friends and … a charming lady.”
Claudette introduced her uncle to Agatha. She went to shake his hand, but he took hers, lifted it to his lips and kissed it.
“Delighted to meet you, Agatha,” he said. “We must talk later. I want to know all about you.”
“I … well, yes … of course,” Agatha felt her face flush slightly. Agatha Raisin! she scolded herself. Get a grip! You’re behaving like a silly little girl … but, well, he is devilishly handsome …
Claudette drove to the restaurant. She would have only one glass of wine, she declared, because she needed to keep a clear head for the dressage competition the following day. This was also the reason they were eating early. Both Claudette and the Colonel had to be up early the next morning to get back to the showground. Because Agatha wanted to get home for work, it had been decided that she would fly to Oxford with Pascal.
The restaurant reminded her of a number of Cotswold inns. It was centuries old, sitting at a crossroads in the heart of the countryside just a few minutes’ drive from the chateau. Inside, there were low ceilings with wooden beams, subdued lighting and a maze of discreet nooks and crannies where the chic tables looked intimately inviting. She surprised herself by suddenly imagining James beckoning her to sit at one of the tables. She had visited far more places like this with Charles than she ever had with James, yet it was James who had sprung to mind. He would, she decided, appreciate the atmosphere here far more than Charles, and would probably include it in one of his travel articles.
They enjoyed a sumptuous meal and a choice of wines with each course, Pascal insisting on explaining to Agatha the intricacies of each distinct variety. He chatted to her about Paris, London and bizarre and amusing experiences of corporate life. Agatha relished the atmosphere, the conversation and the wine, but paused as she was about to sample the final vintage of the evening. From where she was sitting, she had a view across the restaurant, now busy with clients. Standing at the door, being attended to by the maître d,” was Darell Brown-Field with Mrs. Sheraton Chadwick on his arm. Agatha reached into her handbag, grabbed her phone and snapped a photo. Neither Brown-Field nor Chadwick noticed a thing, and they were shown to a table out of sight on the far side of the restaurant without spotting her. They must have thought they were safe here, she smiled, miles from anywhere in the heart of the French countryside at a restaurant where no one would know them. Now, whatever they chose for dinner, their goose was cooked.
“You wish to take a photo?” asked Pascal.
“Just that one,” Agatha replied. “I wanted to capture … the ambience.”
Back at the chateau, Agatha and Pascal lingered in the drawing room, chatting merrily over balloons of cognac long after the others had gone to bed. When Agatha decided that she too needed to turn in, he took her arm and linked it into his own as they walked towards the stairs.
“It seems such a shame to part now simply to be together again so early in the morning,” he said. He bent his head towards her and kissed her on the lips. For a second, she let him, then she placed a hand on his chest and pushed herself gently out of his embrace.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have had such fun with you tonight, but I don’t feel quite ready for…”
“As you wish,” he replied softly. “I apologise if I have upset you in any way.”
“Not at all. No apology necessary, Pascal, really. I will see you in the morning. Goodnight.”
Agatha trotted upstairs to her room and threw herself on the bed. Pascal had been utterly charming and he simply oozed sex appeal. After such a wonderful evening, how could she resist such a gorgeous Frenchman, with his velvety smooth accent, who seemed totally besotted with her, in a fairy-tale castle? Because, Agatha Raisin, she told herself, your life is complicated enough right now. What about James? How could you start leading him to think that you could be together again when you’re not at all sure about it yourself? How could you kiss a Frenchman who is practically a stranger if what you really want is a life with James? How could you get yourself confused about all of this that is so incompatible with … and before she could work out exactly what it was not compatible with, she was sound asleep.
Having woken in the middle of the night with the shoulder of her dress pressing fish-scale sequin patterns into the side of her face, Agatha was not entirely ready to face the day by the time she was due to leave for the airport with Pascal. He understood entirely that sensible conversation would be delayed until the head fog of the night before had cleared, and spent most of the journey studying the financial section of his newspaper or sifting through papers from his briefcase.
By the time they were airborne and Agatha was sipping her fourth cup of coffee of the morning, they were able to resume their amiable conversation from the night before, and when they parted in the terminal building in Oxford, she knew that she wanted to see him again, though she needed to have her life back on the rails before then.
“You have a car here at the airport?” he asked.
“No, Toni will pick me up.”
“He is a good friend, your Tony?”
“He is a she,” Agatha laughed, “but yes—a good friend and colleague. Toni works for me.”
There was a short pause as she tried to find her next words.
“Pascal, last night I was a little…”
He waved a hand to dismiss any awkward thoughts, as though pushing them aside.
“I was too forward,” he said, “too eager. You must allow me to make it up to you. You must visit us at the chateau again soon. From tomorrow, I will be spending the next month there. Every day. Promise me you will come.”
“I promise. As soon as the case is wrapped up, I will come.”
“Just phone myself or Claudette to let us know. I will be most delighted to see you again. I am sure Claudette will too, but not, I think, as much as me.”
They hugged, then he kissed her on both cheeks and hurried off to talk to the pilot of the plane.
Toni was waiting for Agatha when she came through the arrivals gate.
“Welcome home,” she said, smiling. “Good holiday?”
“It was a work trip, my girl,” said Agatha, then laughed. “Want to see my holiday snaps? Take this for a second.”
She handed Toni her suitcase, pulled out her phone and, still walking towards the car park, held up the image of Darell Brown-Field with Sheraton Chadwick for Toni to admire.
“Wow!” said Toni. “You got them! Where was that taken?”
“At a restaurant in the Gironde. Come on, I’ll fill you in on the rest in the car.”
As they headed north up the A44, Agatha gave Toni an account of her whirlwind trip to Bordeaux, including her experience with Sheraton Chadwick and her friends.
“She is one sick, nasty bitch,” Toni gasped. “Would she really have flogged you with that thing?”
“If Jen hadn’t shown up with Pierre, I’m certain she would. She’s capable of just about anything.”
“How about murder?”
“No doubt about it.”
“But what motive would she have for killing Mary?”
“I’ve been puzzling over that most of the way home. Clearly she wanted to squeeze as much cash out of Darell as she could. Murdering his daughter wouldn’t help her in that respect. I suppose Mary could have been blackmailing her about the affair with her father, or about her other lovers. I have the names of three of them.”
“I suppose that at least puts the Chadwick case to bed, so to speak. We have everything we need to report back to Mr. Chadwick on what his wife’s been up to.”
“Not just Mr. Chadwick. I’m going to make sure the whole world knows what a money-grabbing whore she is.”
There was an uncomfortable silence as Agatha nursed her wrath. A few spots of rain spattered the windscreen and the wipers noisily scraped them away.
“News on Deborah Lexington,” said Toni eventually. “Simon and I have been in touch with every medical centre and nursing agency in the area. Simon knows a couple of nurses … quite a few actually … but a couple who had colleagues who used to visit Deborah Lexington at home. They haven’t been to see her for at least three months and we can’t find any evidence that she is receiving ongoing medical care. Remember the young doctor I was seeing?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re back with him again!” Agatha sighed. She hated it when Toni got herself tangled up in a relationship. She wasn’t nearly as useful at work and Agatha always ended up falling out with her. The doctor had been the worst.
“No, I’m not, but why would it be such a…” Toni shook her head, determined not to be sidetracked by a hostile debate with Agatha about her love life. “Anyway, he said that he knew someone involved with Deborah’s treatment and couldn’t believe that she hadn’t fully recovered.”
“Interesting…’Agatha fished out her phone and hit a speed-dial number. “Simon? Yes, I’m back. Yes, I know it’s a Sunday. No, I don’t want you to stake out the Chadwick house. I need you to stake out the Lexington house instead. Yes, tonight. Toni will send you the address shortly. Good. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
Toni dropped Agatha at her cottage in Lilac Lane. Agatha shivered as she hauled her suitcase out of the car. It was far cooler than when she had left. She would have to exchange her summer frocks for something more substantial. She dropped the suitcase in the hall and looked towards the kitchen. No cats came scampering. When she walked into her living room, she realised why. Roy was stretched out on the sofa, watching TV with both of them curled up in his lap.
“I thought you said they didn’t like you?” she said.
“I’ve been the one feeding them, darling,” Roy replied. “They worship the giver of food.”
“How are your legs?”
“Better, but worse. They were so much worse yesterday. Tamara warned me that the stiffness would be worst a couple of days after I started. The only way to make it bearable is to carry on riding. Who’d have thought that the cure for the agony of exercise was to take more of the exercise that caused the agony in the first place? Now I can’t feel the old pain for the new pain.”
“Still hooked on riding?”
“Absolutely. I am bravely suffering and still hooked. Tamara says I’ll soon be ready to try a rising trot.”
“Good. I need you to keep poking around at the stables.”
“That car has been back again overnight—the boyfriend’s car.”
Agatha crossed the room to her drinks cabinet, decided against a gin and tonic now that the weather had turned, and poured herself a whisky. She offered one to Roy.
“What sort of car is it?” she asked.
“A red Ford hatchback.”
“Really? That’s the same as the Lexingtons’ car.”
“Surely just a coincidence, darling,” said Roy, deciding he was bored with the cookery programme he had been watching. The likelihood of him ever poaching a whole octopus was fairly remote. “There must be thousands of red Fords around.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences in a murder investigation. Did you get the registration?”
Roy rattled off the number he had memorised from the car’s licence plate and took a sip of his drink, watching while Agatha tapped an icon on her phone.
“You’re already there? Well done, Simon. Is the red car in the driveway? What’s the licence number? Thank you.”
Agatha slowly placed her phone on a side table and sat down in an armchair. She sampled her whisky and looked over at Roy.
“Very interesting,” she mused. “Jacob Lexington has been calling on Tamara Montgomery.”