She decided to drive into Mircester and look for something new.

The steering-wheel of her car scorched her hands and she was up out of the village and speeding along the Fosse before the air-conditioning worked.

Mircester shimmered under ferocious heat. She was able to find a parking place without difficulty. A lot of people seemed, to have decided to stay at home. Agatha put on her sunglasses and squinted up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. She made her way to Harris Street off the main square, which boasted a line of expensive boutiques.

She went in and out of one hot shop after another until she felt she could not bear to try on one more dress. Perhaps it would be better to settle for one of her old dresses. It might be a bit loose but that would be all to the good, for any restaurant they went to would not have air-conditioning.

Agatha had just decided to forget about the whole thing when, looking along an alley which led off Harris Street and down to the abbey, she noticed the weekly market was in full swing. She would buy some fresh vegetables for salad. Once she was in the market and heading for the vegetable stalls, she noticed several stalls full of brightly coloured clothes. In one of them, a dress caught her eye. It was of fine scarlet cotton with a design of white lotus flowers. It had a cool, flowing line. Agatha fingered it. An Indian trader appeared at her elbow. “Nice dress,” he said.

Agatha hesitated and then asked, “How much?”

“Fourteen pounds.”

Again Agatha hesitated. It was very cheap. It might wrinkle or even fall apart. She had been prepared to spend a couple of hundred pounds. “Tell you what,” said the trader wearily, “you can have it for twelve.”

“Okay, I’ll take it.”

He stuffed the dress in an old plastic bag.

“Hot, isn’t it?” Agatha handed over the money.

“And don’t tell me I ought to be used to it,” he said gloomily. “I was born in Birmingham.”

Agatha was about to say, “So was I,” but then left the words unsaid. She was ashamed of her background.

She tried on the dress as soon as she got home. It was very attractive and, once she had added a thick gold necklace, looked quite expensive.

Now for Mr. John.

Evesham seemed even hotter than Mircester. Agatha suddenly wished she had her old, simple hair-style which she could wash and arrange herself.

But there was Mr. John, cool and handsome as ever. “Got a date?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Anyone special?”

Agatha could not resist bragging.

“Actually, he’s a baronet.”

“Very grand. Which baronet?”

“Sir Charles Fraith.”

“And how did you come to meet him?”

Agatha was about to say, “On a case,” but she did not like the implication that such as Agatha Raisin could not know anyone with a title, so she said airily, “He’s in my set.”

And hope that shuts you up, she thought.

“Pity,” he said.

“What’s a pity?”

“You’ll think this very forward of me, but I was thinking of asking you out myself.”

“Why?” asked Agatha in surprise.

“You’re a very attractive woman.”

And a rich one, thought Agatha cynically. But then Mr. John was so very handsome with his intense blue eyes and blond hair. If James came back and if James saw them going out together, perhaps he would be jealous; perhaps he would be prompted into saying huskily, “I always loved you, Agatha.”

“Sorry.” Mr. John dug a pin into the back of Agatha’s hair and her rosy dream burst like a brightly coloured soap bubble.

“Perhaps some evening,” said Agatha cautiously. “Let me think about it.”

But his invitation gave her a warm little glow, and he was a wizard at fashioning her hair into that elegant style.

Agatha made her way out to her car which she had parked on a double yellow line. “Look where that car’s parked!” hissed a woman at her ear.

Agatha swung round. A dumpy, frumpy woman with thick glasses was glaring at her. Agatha shrugged, walked to her car and opened the door.

“It’s yours!” gasped the woman. “Don’t you know it’s illegal to park there?”

Agatha turned and faced her. “I am not obstructing the traffic or getting in anyone’s way,” she said evenly. “Nor am I responsible for the mad parking arrangements of Evesham or for the stupid one-way system. But I wonder where someone like you gets off on this hot day abusing motorists. Go home, have a cup of tea, put your feet up. Get a life!”

And deaf to the insults that began to pour about her ears, Agatha got in and drove off.

Charles arrived promptly at eight o’clock. He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Like the hair, Aggie. And the dress. In fact, I bought a dress like that in the market in Mircester this afternoon for my aunt. She’s was grumbling about not having anything cool to wear.”

“I bought this one in Harrods,” lied Agatha. “The one in the market must have been a cheap copy.” But her pleasure in her appearance had diminished. “Where are we eating?”

“I thought we would go to the Little Chef.” The Little Chef is a chain of eateries, rather like Howard Johnson’s in the States, reliable, but hardly glamorous.

“I am not being taken out to a Little Chef. You are cheap, Charles.”

“I like the food,” he said defensively. “I suppose you want foreign muck. Well, give me a whisky while I think of something.”

Agatha poured him a whisky and he settled in a chair cradling his glass between small, well-manicured hands. He was a slight, fair-haired man. Agatha had never known his age. He had mild, sensitive features and she had originally thought he might be only in his late thirties. But she had later decided he was probably in his mid-forties. He was wearing a shirt open at the neck and had slung his jacket over a chair.

“I know,” he said. “The Jolly Roger at Ancombe, that new pub.”

“I haven’t been there and I don’t like the sound of it.”

“Friend of mine went the other week. Said the food was good. Besides, they’ve got a garden with tables. By the way, I saw that detective friend of yours in Mircester; what’s his name, Chinese chap?”

“Bill Wong. But he’s on holiday!”

“I suppose he’s taking it at home. Had a girl on his arm.”

And he hasn’t phoned me, thought Agatha. Bill had been her first friend, the old, tougher Agatha, driven by career and ambition, never having had any time before to make friends. She could feel the old black edges of that depression hovering on the horizon of her mind.

They set out for Ancombe and parked outside the Jolly Roger, formerly called the Green Man. Inside it was everything that shouted poor food to Agatha-fishing nets, murals of pirates, and waiters and barmen dressed in striped tops and knee-breeches with plastic “silver” buckles. Charles led the way through to the garden, which was at least a fraction cooler than the inside. A roguish waiter who introduced himself as Henry handed them two large, gaudily coloured menus.

“Oh, shit,” grumbled Agatha. “Listen to this. Captain Hook’s scrumptious potato dip. And what about Barbary Coast Chicken with sizzling Long John corn fritters?”

Henry the waiter was hovering. “Do you remember when they were called hens, and chickens were the fluffy little yellow things?” asked Agatha.

“And now all mutton is lamb, dear,” said Henry with a giggle.

Agatha eyed him with disfavour. “Just shove off and stop twitching and grinning and we’ll call you when we’re ready.”

“Well, really, I never did.” Henry tossed his head.

“The fact that you haven’t lost your virginity is nothing to do with me. Go away.”

“You’ve hurt his feelings, Aggie,” said Charles equably.

“Don’t care,” muttered Agatha. Bill hadn’t even bothered to phone her. “What are you having?”

“I’ll have the all-day breakfast. The Dead-Eye Dick Special, and I hope it comes with lots of chips.”