The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [49]
Mrs. Bloxby had endured an exhausting day. Angry villagers kept calling at the vicarage, wanting Agatha Raisin expelled from the village. Somehow it had got out about the would-be killer having had a gun and a Balaclava. By setting up as a detective agency, Agatha Raisin had brought terror to Carsely, they said.
The vicar's wife answered each as patiently as she could, pointing out that several murderers would still be roaming free if it hadn't been for the work of Mrs. Raisin. At last she told her husband that she was not going to answer the door that evening. She poured herself a rare glass of sherry and took it out to the garden. She was just sitting down at the garden table with her drink when the doorbell went again. Ignoring its shrill summons, she sipped her sherry and watched the light fading over the churchyard at the end of the garden.
And then a plaintive voice from the churchyard hailed her. “Mrs. Bloxby!”
“Who's there?” she demanded sharply.
“It's me, Emma Comfrey. I must talk to you.”
Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “Come round to the door.”
When she let Emma in, she thought the woman looked on the edge of a breakdown. Her eyes were red with weeping and her hands trembled.
“Come into the garden,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Would you like a sherry?”
“No, thank you. I've just got to talk to someone.” No sooner were they seated than Emma burst out with “They think I tried to poison Agatha!”
“Did you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby quietly.
“Of course not. I wouldn't dream … Oh, it's worse than
that.”
“I can't think of anything worse. Go on.” “Charles told the police I had been stalking him.” “And had you?”
“No, I hadn't!” shouted Emma. And then, quietly, “It's all adreadful mistake. I went to the fete at Barfleid House, that's all.”
“Why did you go there when you should have been working?”
“I was working in the area. Charles is … was … a friend of mine.”
“What did he say when you saw him?”
“I didn't approach him because he was so busy.”
“If there is nothing in it,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “then you have nothing to worry about. All you need to do is to keep well clear of Sir Charles Fraith in future.”
“But don't you see, I have to talk to him. I have to ask him why he said such a dreadful thing. I was interrogated for hours.”
The doorbell shrilled again. “I'd better answer that.” Mrs. Bloxby was suddenly anxious not to be alone with Emma.
She opened the door.
“Police,” said a plainclothes officer. “The forensic team have finished with Mrs. Raisin's cottage for the moment and would like to go into Mrs. Comfrey's cottage. Is she here?”
“Yes, I'll fetch her.”
Mrs. Bloxby went back into the garden. “Mrs. Comfrey, a forensic team wishes to examine your cottage.”
Emma turned pale. “Can't I just give them the keys and stay here?”
“I'm afraid not. But just let's hope nothing happens to Mrs. Raisin, because if it does, Mrs. Comfrey, I'm afraid you might find yourself the first suspect.”
Emma clutched her arm. “You think I did it!”
Mrs. Bloxby pulled her arm away. “Please go, Mrs. Comfrey. I must get my husband's supper and the police are waiting for you.”
“I always wondered what a safe house would look like,” said Agatha. “Not much, is it? It's not a house anyway. It's a flat.”
The flat was situated in a block on the outskirts of Mircester. The flats had been newly built and several were still vacant. Theirs was sparsely furnished with the bare essentials. There were three bedrooms: one for herself, one for Charles, and one for their minder, a burly individual in plainclothes who answered to the name of Terry.
Agatha went into the kitchen. There was milk in the fridge and teabags and ajar of instant coffee were on the counter.
“What about food?” asked Agatha.
“I've got list of food deliveries,” said Terry. “Tell me what you want and I'll phone for it. There's Indian, Chinese, pizza— you name it.”
“What about drink?” asked Charles. “I could do with a stiff
one.”
“I can get the local supermarket to deliver. They're