The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [55]
Emma, who had adopted the name of Mrs. Elder, had been in the television room. She passed Mrs. Blythe in the hall, her eyes glazed and her lips moving. Mrs. Blythe made up her mind. “Mrs. Elder!” she said sharply.
Emma started and focused on her.
“Em sorry this is such short notice, but Ell be needing your room.”
Emma stared at her for a long time. Mrs. Blythe expected her to protest, but Emma decided this was The Sign she had been waiting for. Time to go south.
“Thank you,” she said mildly. “I shall leave after breakfast.”
Mrs. Blythe watched her visitor mount the stairs. Why, Mrs. Elder had sounded quite normal.
Agatha was glad when morning dawned. She had drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep. The trouble with old thatched cottages was that beams creep and things rustle in the thatch. The first winds of autumn had risen during the night and the lilac tree in the front garden scraped its branches against the window.
She went down to the general stores as soon as they opened to buy treats for her cats. There were several other people in the shop and the atmosphere was frosty. Agatha was still being blamed by the villagers for having brought in violence from that outside world of murder and mayhem.
But Agatha was too worried and edgy to notice the atmosphere. She bought pate and cream and frozen fish for the cats, went home and fed them, and drove to her office in Mircester. The wind was sending leaves skittering across the road in front of her car. Autumn was the only time when Agatha missed London. One didn’t notice the seasons much in the city. But in autumn in the country, you could practically feel everything dying and became aware of your own mortality.
In the office, Patrick seemed to have everything in hand. Agatha decided to visit Harrison Peterson’s former wife, Joyce, again. Her new partner was obviously capable of violence.
Thoughts of Emma still at large floated uneasily through Agatha’s mind. But she wouldn’t dare try again. Would she?
The autumn mist of earlier.that morning had lifted and a small white sun shone down over the brown ploughed fields.
Agatha drove steadily along the Fosseway, her eyes flicking occasionally to the speed dial because the police with speed cameras had started using unmarked vehicles.
She turned off on the road down into Shipston-on-Stour and drove into the car-park opposite Joyce Peterson’s house. Agatha found the last parking place available with a feeling of triumph because a car which came in after her had to circle round and round, waiting for someone to leave.
She did not know that PC Betty Howse was in that car, having been ordered to tail Agatha.
Agatha walked across the road and rang the bell. There was a long silence. She rang the bell again.
At last, Joyce Peterson opened the door. She had been crying. Her beautiful face was blotched with tears.
“I wondered how you were doing,” Agatha began.
Joyce looked nervously over her shoulder. “Now is not a good time to call,” she said. “I’m busy.”
She was suddenly jerked aside and Mark loomed in the doorway. “You!” he said in accents of loathing. He towered over Agatha, who backed out onto the pavement. Mark followed her.
Agatha was wearing a loose silk blouse under her open coat. He seized her blouse by the neck and twisted it and then banged her up against the wall of the cottage.
“You leave us alone, you old bitch,” he raged. He gave Agatha’s head a nasty thump against the wall.
A cool voice behind them said, “Let her go immediately.”
Betty Howse was in plainclothes.
“Get lost.” Mark banged Agatha’s head again.
“That’s it,” said Betty. She flashed her warrant card. “Mark Goddham, I am charging you with assault.” She recited the caution while Mark stood frozen.
Agatha had read in books of people’s eyes going red with fury and thought the description poetic licence, but Mark’s eyes did look red as they blazed with anger.
He released Agatha and stared down at Betty.
“And just how are you going to take me in?”
He reached out to grab Betty, who produced one