“I will not sink down under this,” she muttered to herself. Feeling like an old woman, she rose from her chair and went to the garden shed and wheeled out her bicycle. Minutes later, she was cycling off down the country lanes, pedalling fast like one possessed, racing to leave that tired failure of an Agatha behind her.

She pedalled while darkness fell over the countryside and light came on in cottage windows. When she at last turned homewards and free-wheeled down the hill into Carsely under the arched tunnels made by the trees on either side of the road, she felt calm and exhausted.

She let the cats in from the garden, locked up for the night, made herself a ham sandwich, then showered and went to bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When Agatha awoke in the morning, she felt stiff and sore from the exercise, but prepared for the day ahead. She put the little Asprey’s box in her handbag and drove to the hairdresser’s. On the other side of Broadway she looked up at the sky. Mares’ tails streamed across the blue of the sky. The weather must be about to change.

By the time she drove into Evesham, the sky was changing to grey. To her delight, there was actually a legal parking space right outside the hairdresser’s.

With a twinge of apprehension, she opened the door and went in. With something like triumph, the receptionist informed her that Mr. Garry would do her hair.

“Who the hell’s Mr. Garry?” snarled Agatha. “And stop grinning when you speak to me.”

“Mr. Garry is Mr. John’s assistant,” said the receptionist, Josie. Agatha was about to cancel her appointment, but she got a glimpse of herself in one of the many mirrors. Her hair looked limp and sweaty.

Yvette washed her hair and then she was led through to the ministrations of Mr. Garry, who proved to be a youth who chattered endlessly about shows he had seen on television. Agatha interrupted the flow by asking, “What’s Mr. John got?”

“He phoned in to say he was under the weather. He didn’t say exactly what it was.”

“Does he live in Evesham?”

“Yes, one of those villas on the Cheltenham Road.”

Agatha’s hair emerged as shiny and healthy as it had recently become, but she was unhappy with the style, which looked slightly rigid. Normally she would have complained and made him do it again, but she was tired of sitting in the hairdresser’s. As she was paying for her hair-style, she saw a framed certificate behind the desk. So Mr. John’s second name was Shawpart.

She went along to the post office and asked for a phone book and found only one Shawpart. She took a note of the number in Cheltenham Road and, swinging round into the traffic, headed in that direction. As she crossed the bridge over the river Avon, she noticed the water was greenish black and very still under a lowering sky.

Up the hill, past the garage, past the hospital and along in the direction of the by-pass she went, until she found Mr. John’s house, a fairly large modern villa. She parked outside and walked up the short path and rang the doorbell.

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the traffic humming past her on the road behind her. The sky above was growing even darker. Then she faintly heard the sound of shuffling footsteps, like those of a very old man.

She suddenly wished she had not come. The door swung open on the chain.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Mr. John’s voice. “Come in.”

He unlatched the chain and stood back. The hallway was in darkness. He led the way into a sitting-room and switched on a lamp and turned around.

Agatha let out an exclamation. His face was black with bruises.

“What on earth happened to you?” she asked. “Car accident?”

“Yes, last night. Some drunken youth ran into me and I hit the windscreen.”

“Didn’t you have an air bag? Or didn’t you have your seat-belt on?”

“I don’t have one of those models with an air bag. I’d just started to drive off, so I didn’t have a seat-belt on.”

“What did the police say?”

“I didn’t bother reporting it. I mean, what could they do? I didn’t get the number of the other car.”

“But you have to report it to the police! The insurance-”

“Oh, just leave it. I don’t want to talk about it. What do you want?”

Agatha had planned to be flirtatious, but confronted with his black-and-blue face, she did not quite know how to begin.

“I heard you were ill,” she began, “and was concerned about you.”

“That was nice of you.” He rallied himself with an effort. “Can I offer you something? Tea? Something stronger?”

“No, don’t trouble. How long have you lived here?”

“Why?”

Agatha blinked. “Just wondered. “Here.” She fumbled in her handbag. “Just a silly little present I got you.” She handed him the Asprey’s box.

He opened it and stared down at the heavy gold cufflinks nestling in their little bed of velvet.

Suddenly his face and manner were transformed. “How beautiful. And how very, very generous. I don’t know what to say.”

He came across to her and bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Now, we really must have a drink to celebrate. No, we must. I insist.”

He went out and returned after a few moments carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He expertly popped the cork, filled the glasses and handed one to Agatha.

Agatha raised her glass. “Here’s to friendship,” she said.

“Oh, I’ll drink to that. I do need a friend.” His voice had a ring of sincerity for the first time. I wonder if I’ve been mistaken about him, thought Agatha.

He sat down and held his tulip glass in one slender hand. “You were asking how long I had lived here? About a year. I had been working in Portsmouth and I wanted a change of scene. I saw in the Hairdresser’s Journal that this business in Evesham was going for sale. When I first came to Evesham, I looked the place over. It seemed neither go-ahead, nor sophisticated. But there was something about the sheer laziness of the place which got to me. And I knew there were a lot of rich people in the surrounding villages. Well, the business took off almost from the beginning. Although I am thinking of moving on. I get restless after I’ve been in the same place for a bit.”

Agatha glanced around her at the heavy furniture and the dark wallpaper decorated with uninspiring scenes of the Cots-wolds, those sort of scenes, peculiarly lifeless, painted by local artists as if they had meticulously copied photographs.

“Did you take this place furnished?”

“Yes, I rent it. Not my taste. So how’s your muddled love life, Agatha?”

She manufactured a world-weary shrug. “That scene Charles threw was the last straw. I’m weary of James.” She looked down at the floor and wished she could blush to order. “I kept thinking about you, instead.”

“I’ve been thinking about you as well,” he said. “We could make a great team.”

She looked at him in surprise.

He put his glass down and leaned forward. “You wondered why I didn’t move to London. Well, I’ve been thinking about it. One of my customers told me about how successful you were at organizing things and about your public relations job. Oh, I know you told me, but it was only I thought of it later. I’ve enough money put by to take a lease on a place in the centre of town, Knightsbridge, Sloane Street, somewhere near Harrods. With my hairdressing skills and your public relations skills, I could be another Vidal Sassoon.”

If only I could believe he was not a blackmailer, thought Agatha quickly. But string him along anyway.

“Do you know, that could be very exciting. I miss London. And it would get me out of the mess I’ve made for myself down here. When do we start?”

“It’ll take some time to wind things up in Evesham. We could think about starting next year.”

He can’t have thought that tape recorder meant anything. Agatha stood up. “I really must be going. I’m sorry about your accident. When are you back at work?”