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  “Well, keeping fit isn’t a crime. Neither is having a man friend. That certainly doesn’t make her a murderer.”

  “It doesn’t make her innocent, either.”

  “You’re right. She’s still a suspect. Keep your ear to the ground there, Roy. Try to have a word with the people who help Tamara at the stables, too. They might put us on to another lead. Right—I’m off next door.”

  * * *

  James Lacey’s cottage bore a strong resemblance to Agatha’s, a family resemblance that, as with most family likenesses, went little more than skin deep. The appearance and layout of the two houses might have been similar, but they were entirely different in character.

  When Agatha had first moved in to her cottage, she had an interior designer decorate and furnish the whole place to make it look like the sort of idyllic country home that appeared in glossy newspaper supplements. It didn’t matter that the supplements were only ever read by bored commuters stuck on delayed trains that had left one of London’s stations and were going nowhere. Being in one of those articles was what counted. That was the way to show everyone she had left behind in London what a wonderful new life she was enjoying. She had wanted them all to be jealous—even the bored commuters she had never met. Her cottage never made it into a glossy magazine, and it now had a far more comfortable, lived-in feel. She had slowly transformed it from an idyllic country home into her home, and she no longer cared about impressing anyone in London. Well, not with her fixtures and fittings at least. She still wanted everyone to know that she was living a life they should envy—even the anonymous commuters—but her cottage was her own private space.

  James’s cottage was a different kind of private space. Things had a tendency to drift around in Agatha’s cottage. An ornament might be in the dining room one week, moved on a whim to the living room the next, and in a charity shop the week after. James was a former military man, and in his cottage, everything remained in its proper place, neatly regimented, unless orders were received to mobilise. Books stood smartly to attention on shelves as straight as a sergeant major’s swagger stick. Agatha could never understand how he got everything to stay that way. In her place, the floors, walls and ceilings seemed to compete for the title of “Wonkiest Surface.” She was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when James showed her into his small dining room.

  On a day-to-day basis, the dining room served as James’s study. These days he was a moderately successful travel writer, and this was where his latest insights on far-flung places were whipped into shape. Tonight, however, the disciplined order of the study had been swept away. The desk had been transformed into a table for two, set with a crisp white cloth and two tall candles.

  “James, you’ve gone to so much trouble,” was all Agatha could think to say.

  “No, no trouble … well, a bit, obviously … but not so much…”

  “It looks lovely,” she said, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. He grinned. His face was tanned from exotic foreign travel and his blue eyes shone from beneath dark brows. A sweep of grey at the sides of his thick black hair was the only real sign of advancing years, and he stood tall and unbowed. He looked as handsome as the day he had moved into Lilac Lane and set all the village women’s hearts aflutter. Yet it was Agatha Raisin who had been the one to snare him. “It makes me feel very special.”

  “You are special,” he said, pulling out her chair for her. “So I thought this should be special. Wouldn’t really have worked for three…”

  He poured the wine and took his seat.

  “Aggie, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about…” A timer pinged somewhere in the kitchen. “Garlic bread.”

  “You want to talk to me about garlic bread?”

  “No, no, not that. Garlic bread’s ready in the oven. I’d best take it out.”

  He left the room and a cold sensation spread across Agatha’s shoulders. Then her heart dropped into her stomach. The table, she thought to herself, the candles … this is all so romantic. A romantic atmosphere was definitely not the environment normally inhabited by James Lacey. Oh my God! He’s going to propose! Or re-propose, or whatever it is people do when they get remarried!

  James returned with a basket of bread and an ornate dish adorned with a carefully prepared salad.

  “James, this is all very romantic,” said Agatha, “but I hope you’re not going to…”

  “Not going to what?”

  “You know, after what we’ve been discussing … with the murder inquiry, this wouldn’t be a very good time to…”

  “Ah, yes … ahem! I see,” James blustered. “No, nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to you about … the investigation. Then I thought, no, let’s just relax and … um … take your mind off it for an evening. How is it all going, by the way?”

  Far from taking Agatha’s mind off the murder of Lady Mary Fraith, they then talked of nothing else for the rest of the evening. By the time they had polished off their second bottle of wine, Agatha was starting to feel weary. She stifled a yawn.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, James,” she said. “I need to be up early tomorrow for the French trip.”

  “Absolutely no problem,” said James, jumping to his feet and drawing back Agatha’s chair for her like an over-eager waiter. They hesitated by the front door and he placed his hands gently on her shoulders. She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. Then she laughed.

  “I really don’t need you to play the fawning flunkey, you know,” she smiled. “I love the regular James Lacey just the way he is.”

  He stooped, she eased herself up on her tiptoes and they kissed.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said. “When this awful business is all over, we must talk again … about us.”

  “It’s a date,” he smiled.

  * * *

  It wasn’t her biggest suitcase, but it wasn’t her smallest, either. Lying open, it covered far less than half the bed. The Colonel had said she need only be there for a couple of nights. How many outfits did you really need for two nights? Certainly more than could be fitted into the smallest case. She needed first-choice items and backups, shoes, jewellery, make-up … Would she need a swimsuit? The weather was even warmer in Bordeaux than here. She packed one just in case, then packed another for safety, laid a lightweight jacket on top of all the other stuff, threw in an extra pair of knickers and slammed the case shut just as her phone buzzed.

  It was a message from Toni. She had kept it brief but had avoided using text speak—or txt spk—which she knew Agatha hated.

  Simon and Patrick have found no further suspects so far from Mary’s past punch-ups. All either out of the country or have other cast-iron alibis.

  Still checking out party guests but no clear suspects to date.

  Background on C. Duvivier. Age 33. Mother deceased (cancer). Father deceased (heart attack). Owns a vineyard and finance/investment business with her uncle, Pascal Duvivier. Both extremely wealthy and businesses worth many millions.

  Should have info on Lexington med care on your return.

  Have fun in France!

  Toni

  So there were no new suspects who could be placed at Barfield House on the night of the murder. That, thought Agatha, doesn’t actually mean much. If we rule out the Brown-Fields, Charles, his aunt, Gustav and me, then even those we are considering as suspects can’t be placed at Barfield House that night. Maybe Claudette Duvivier will be able to shed some light on the matter.

  Heaving the suitcase off the bed, she grabbed a wide-brimmed sunhat and made her way downstairs. She lingered in front of the hall mirror, checking that all was well before she left the house. She wore a pleated sleeveless summer dress with a bold jungle pattern and a bolero shrug top to cover her shoulders and upper arms. High-heeled strappy sandals and a green leather clutch bag completed the look. She wouldn’t wear the hat unless it was necessary. You could never tell what was happening with your hair once you took off a hat, so it was best never
to put one on in the first place. With that, she hauled her suitcase to the car and set off for Maugersbury.

  “Bravo!” called the Colonel as she pulled into his driveway twenty minutes later. “Bang on time. Jen! Agatha’s here!”

  Jennifer Warbler-Dow was locking the front door. She strode over to greet Agatha with a bright, beaming smile.

  “Lovely to meet you at last,” she said. “Missed you last time you were here.” Agatha judged her to be a few years younger than the Colonel. “Did you bring sunglasses?” she asked, fishing a large pair of dark glasses from a pocket in her lightweight cream trouser suit. Quite stylish, thought Agatha, yet practical for travelling. Agatha produced a pair of aviator shades from her clutch bag. “They’ll be fine,” Jen said approvingly.

  “I’ll fetch Bella,” the Colonel announced and disappeared round the back of the house.

  “Here, take this, my dear,” said Jen, offering Agatha a silk headscarf and nodding at her sunhat. “That will be gone in no time.”

  A mechanical stutter, a bang and the roar of an engine announced the imminent arrival of Bella. The Colonel drove into view at the wheel of a large dark-green vintage car with enormous wire-spoked wheels, neither roof nor windows bar a tiny windscreen, and very little in the way of bodywork. A spare wheel was mounted on the side and the giant headlights looked like monstrous bug eyes. It was the sort of car Agatha imagined Mr. Toad driving in The Wind in the Willows.

  “A 1931 Bentley,” shouted Jen, the roar of the engine subsiding to a minor cacophony. “It’s his pride and joy.”

  “Surely we’re not going all the way to Bordeaux in that thing, are we?” asked Agatha.

  “No,” Jen laughed. “Just a short run to Chipping Norton to pick up Claudette, then on to Oxford airport.”

  “You two ladies climb in,” said the Colonel. “Should be room for that suitcase to sit between you. Ours is strapped to the back.”

  Agatha opened a small rear door that she judged no bigger than a cat flap and heaved her case into the car, climbing in behind it. As she did so, she spotted her lacy black extra knickers hanging out the side. Maybe nobody else would notice them. Jen entered from the other side, picking the Colonel’s green ledger off the simple leather seat.

  “Have to take care of this,” she smiled, setting it on her lap. “He’ll pretty much run the whole event in Bordeaux using this.”

  Agatha held the sunhat in her lap and tied the headscarf under her chin. She felt disturbingly nervous, convinced that she would arrive at Oxford airport with hair like a blow-dried rat and skin like a sand-blasted chimp. And what would be waiting for them there? A First World War biplane? A Zeppelin?

  “All set?” called the Colonel. “Then we’re off.”

  Agatha was vaguely aware of him pulling levers and setting switches that, as a more than competent driver of modern cars, were a complete mystery to her, then the old car rumbled out through the gates. They picked up speed on the open road and she slowly started to enjoy the breeze on her face and the invigoration of the fresh air. Before she knew it, she felt a grin begin. Jen reached across to squeeze her arm.

  “Not as bad as you thought it was going to be, is it?” she laughed.

  * * *

  Just outside Chipping Norton, they pulled into a side road signposted for Bliss Mill. The huge building looked like a stately home, with row upon row of windows and a square tower at each corner. Its most prominent feature, however, was a round tower at the front of the building topped with a neat dome out of which, bizarrely, a colossal factory chimney launched itself into the sky, the only real clue that this was a former tweed mill. Agatha had seen the building from the road many times but had never come this close before. She was aware that the old mill was now a development of luxury apartments.

  “Why don’t you pop up and meet Claudette?” said Jen, waving to a slight figure at a second-floor window. “We’ll wait here.”

  Agatha eased herself out of the car and set off into the mill. Stepping out of the elevator on the second floor, she was greeted by a slim, smiling dark-eyed woman, casually dressed in T-shirt and jeans. Agatha would have judged Claudette Duvivier to be much younger had she not known from the brief background report that she was thirty-three. Her skin was smooth and lightly tanned and her long, glossy hair swept back and forth well below her shoulders with every movement of her head.

  “You are Agatha, yes?” She held out her hand. Agatha went to shake it, then realised she was holding the headscarf that she had removed in the elevator. “Aha!” laughed Claudette. “For your hair, yes? How did you enjoy your first journey in Bella?”

  “I think I can see how you might get to like Bella,” said Agatha, using unaccustomed diplomacy, “but I’m not quite used to her yet.”

  “She is so beautiful,” Claudette enthused, her soft French accent caressing every syllable. “I am so happy when the Colonel brings beautiful Bella. I am almost ready,” she added, leading Agatha into her apartment. The exposed brickwork of the walls in the large living area seemed to glow in the sunlight that flooded through the tall windows. Wooden beams separated a series of brick arches that formed the ceiling. The furnishings were modern, but not aggressively so. It was a stunning apartment.

  “It is nice here, no?” said Claudette. “I adore to stay here when I am in England.”

  “It is very nice,” agreed Agatha. “Très chic.”

  “Ah, you speak French?”

  “No, not really,” Agatha admitted, “but I love visiting France, especially Paris.”

  “Then you will love staying at our house. I can’t wait to show you round. But I think that you want to speak to me about something, yes?”

  “About Mary Brown-Field.”

  “Ah, yes, that one.” Claudette’s smile faded. “It is very sad what happened.”

  Agatha explained about Charles and the murder investigation.

  “I understand that you were not friends with Mary.”

  Claudette folded a T-shirt into a small suitcase and picked up a riding helmet. A hat box stood open, ready to accept it.

  “It is true. We were not friends,” she said. “I do not like her because she try to nibble my horse.”

  “Nibble…? Ah, she tried to nobble your horse. Drug it or something.”

  “I think so. I pull her away and she try to kick me. I hatted her.”

  “You hated her.”

  “No, I hatted her—hit her with my hat.” She knocked on the top of the hard riding hat. “Her nose is bleeding and she start screaming like a Marseilles whore. I am sorry if sometimes my English is not so good.”

  “Your English is so much better than my French,” Agatha admitted. “Charles speaks excellent French, but mine is pretty much limited to J’aime la mode française, j’aime la cuisine française, j’aime les vins français and j’aime les hommes français.”

  “Ha ha!” laughed Claudette, clapping her hands. “Very good! Where did you learn this?”

  “From a waiter at a café in Paris, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He said it was all the French an attractive woman ever needed to know.”

  “But you pronounce it very well for someone who says she speaks no French.”

  “I’m very good at picking up accents,” said Agatha, recalling the effort she had put in to losing her broad Birmingham accent when she first moved to London, and instantly suffering a lightning-fast series of flashbacks to uncomfortable public moments of stress and bad temper when her speech had been overwhelmed by a returning flood of the Brummie twang.

  “Ah, Saint-Germain-des-Prés,” Claudette sighed. “I have not been there for so long. Not the finest area of Paris to stay, but so much fun, and most exotic. This was where Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir frequented the cafés. I studied them in college.”

  “I studied in the cafés,” said Agatha. “It was very hot and my room had no air conditioning. I discovered that there were cafés that would stay open as late as you liked, so I sat at a table on the pavem
ent, sipping wine almost until dawn.”

  An old-fashioned car horn honked outside.

  “We had better go,” said Agatha. “We don’t want to miss our flight.”

  “We will not miss the flight,” Claudette smiled, “but we must go anyway. We will talk more later.”

  * * *

  With Claudette in the front passenger seat, her baggage stowed at her feet, Bella thundered out onto the A44, heading south towards Oxford. Before long, a sign announced their arrival at London Oxford Airport, a far more intimate facility than Heathrow, Gatwick or any of the bigger commercial airports surrounding the capital. They passed smoothly through security checks and were shown out of the terminal building onto the runway, where, to Agatha’s relief, a modern twin-engined aircraft stood waiting for them. It was not a jet, but neither was it an antique biplane or an airship. The propellers were turning, creating more of a din than Bella had done, and a man wearing overalls and ear protectors loaded their baggage into the hold.

  “Where are the other passengers?” Agatha asked Claudette, shouting above the engine noise.

  “No others.” Claudette shrugged. “This is my uncle’s aeroplane—well, our company’s aeroplane.”

  The Colonel had climbed the short flight of steps to the aircraft. He looked back at Agatha, laughed and winked, then ducked in through the door. She smiled. A private plane—another of his little surprises. With Jen and Claudette chatting to one of the ground staff, Agatha approached the steps and was suddenly caught in a blast of air from the propellers. The pleated skirt of her dress shot up into her armpits, leaving her practically naked from the waist down. Hat in one hand, clutch bag in the other, she quickly forced it back down and trotted up the steps into the plane. Why had she not worn trousers for travelling? Nothing to worry about. No one had seen a thing. Inside, the Colonel was standing at the front of the cabin, leaning in through the cockpit door, doubtless talking technical gobbledygook with the pilot. Agatha counted comfortable seats for at least a dozen people. She chose one and buckled herself in. Jen and Claudette joined her, strapping themselves in to two seats facing hers.