Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [5]
She got out at Oxford and began to walk. They followed. Agatha took out her mobile phone and called Mrs. Bloxby. “Do you know what Mrs. Smedley looks like?”
“Yes, you must have seen her before, Mrs. Raisin, but maybe you didn’t notice her. She does a lot of work for the Ancombe Ladies’ Society. She’s small and thin with sandy hair. I think she’s about fourteen years younger than her husband. Very quiet. What… ?”
“Tell you later,” said Agatha and rang off. “That’s her, all right,” she said to Phil. “Wonder where she’s going?”
They followed her along Worcester Street and then along Walton Street. At last, Mrs. Smedley stopped outside the Phoenix Cinema and went in.
“Don’t get too caught up in the film,” hissed Agatha.
They bought tickets. The cinema was nearly empty. They took seats three rows behind her. The film was a Russian one called The Steppes of Freedom. It was beautifully photographed, but to Agatha’s jaundiced eyes, nothing seemed to happen apart from the heroine either bursting into tears or staring out across the steppes. Obviously Mrs. Smedley was as bored as Agatha because, before the end, she got up. They gave her a few minutes before following. Back along Walton Street and so down to the station.
Back on the train to Moreton and from there they followed her home.
“Maybe she hoped to meet someone,” said Phil, “and he didn’t turn up. I mean, it seems odd to go all that way to sit through a dreary film.”
“You got photos of her going into the cinema?”
“Of course.”
“I know,” said Agatha. “Let’s go and see Mrs. Bloxby. She seems to know all about Mrs. Smedley.”
They drove to the vicarage. Alf Bloxby, the vicar, answered the door and his face hardened into displeasure when he saw Agatha.
“If you’ve come to see my wife, she’s busy,” he said.
Mrs. Bloxby appeared behind him. “What are you talking about, Alf? Do come in, Mrs. Raisin. And Mr. Witherspoon, too.”
The vicar muttered something like pah under his breath and strode off to his study.
“Let’s go into the garden,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Such a fine day. It won’t last, of course. As soon as Wimbledon comes around, then the rain comes down again.”
They sat at a table in the garden. “I see you’ve employed Mr. Witherspoon,” said Mrs. Bloxby brightly.
“For the moment,” retorted Agatha. “He’s on trial. The case we’re on involves Mrs. Mabel Smedley. Her husband thinks she’s having an affair.”
“That doesn’t seem very likely. I mean, a small place like Ancombe. Such news would soon get out.”
“What’s she like?”
“Hard to tell. Have you forgotten, Mrs. Raisin? The Ancombe Ladies’ Society is having a sale of work the day after tomorrow and some of us are going over to help. You could come along and see for yourself. Mrs. Smedley works very hard for good causes, but she is quiet and self-effacing. They’ve only been married for two years.”
“Any children?”
“No, and none by Mr. Smedley’s first marriage either.”
“What happened to the first Mrs. Smedley?”
“Poor thing. She was subject to bouts of depression. She committed suicide.”
“I’m not surprised. Married to a creature like that.” Agatha described him in trenchant terms, ending up with that description of his mouth.
“Mrs. Raisin! Really.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha.
Phil stifled a laugh by pretending he had a sneezing fit.
“I think Mr. Smedley is just unnaturally jealous,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“Oh dear,” sighed Agatha. “It all seems such a waste of time. We’ll leave it for today, Phil, and you can drive me back to the office so I can collect my car. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. I’ve a few things to work on.”
Just as Agatha was setting down to a dinner of microwaved chips and microwaved lasagne that evening, the telephone rang. “Don’t dare touch my food,” she warned her cats, Hodge and Boswell.
She answered the phone and heard the slightly camp voice of her former assistant, Roy Silver.
“I haven’t heard from you in ages,” he said. “No more killings down there?”
“No, nothing. Just a divorce case and I hate divorce cases.”
“Stands to reason, sweetie. You being