She pottered around aimlessly for the rest of the day, played with her cats and fed them, watched some television, or rather flicked backwards and forwards through the channels, and then decided to have an early night.

But Agatha tossed and turned. She kept going over what she had found out again and again. Faces swam in front of her-Maggie, Jessie, Harriet, Josie and the rest. At last, she felt her eyes close. She would forget about the whole thing, go to that nice hairdresser, Marie, and get her hair done and maybe buy a new dress.

Suddenly her eyes shot open. She could almost hear Marie’s voice talking about the jealousies and rivalries in the hairdressing business. And wait a bit! John Shawpart had said the same thing. And who was it had said that John’s wife had been jealous of him?

Her heart beat faster. And who was it who had turned up in Evesham after John’s death, set up business and taken over his staff?

Eve!

Mrs. Shawpart had been described as blonde and statuesque. But then in these days of clever dying and tinting, Eve could have changed her hair from blonde. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try.

The next day she phoned up Eve’s and told Josie she insisted that Eve herself did her hair. Josie sulkily said she could fit her in at three that afternoon, although Agatha was sure that the day was probably full of free appointments.

Agatha felt she should tell someone what she was about to do… well, just in case. If she told Bill, he would order her not to go. But if she told Charles, perhaps he could phone the police.

She dialled Charles’s number. To her relief he answered the phone himself. He listened carefully and to her relief did not tell her she was behaving like an idiot.

“Tell you what, Aggie,” said Charles. “I’ve got a friend in the village who’s a TV sound man. I’ll see if I can get him and bring him over. He’ll put a mike on you and then we’ll wait across the road with the headphones on and if there is even a glimmer that she’s the one we want, I’ll call the police.”

“Don’t be long,” urged Agatha.

She waited impatiently and, as the hands of the clock crept around to two in the afternoon, was beginning to wonder if she should go ahead without them. But suddenly Charles’s car drove up, and Charles got out followed by a tall thin man.

“Right, Aggie,” said Charles when she had let them in, “Brian here will just fix you up and then you can get off.”

Agatha was wearing a trouser suit. The sound pack was clipped onto the waistband of her trousers and the small mike fastened on her collar. “She might see that little black thing,” said Charles. “Have you got a brooch or something?”

Agatha went up to her jewel box and found a gaudy piece of costume jewellery. “That’s quite horrible,” commented Charles, “but it will stop her noticing the microphone.”

They all set off in Charles’s car.

“I never thought about this,” exclaimed Agatha suddenly. “How can I start accusing her of murder in front of her staff?”

“Try anyway,” said Charles. “Say you want a quiet word with her.”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

Agatha was feeling nervous on two counts. First, if Eve were the murderess, then she might be in real danger. And second, if Eve were not, Agatha felt she would make a terrible fool of herself in front of this sound man.

They parked and then walked along the High Street. “Now,” said Charles, “we’ll wait across the street in this doorway. Go to it, Aggie, and best of luck.”

The day was sunny and unusually warm. People came and went in the High Street with their amiable, non-threatening Evesham faces. Agatha suddenly felt silly. In the clear sunshine, her idea began to seem mad. All that would happen would be that she would end up with a truly dreadful hair-style.

Agatha pushed open the door and went in.

Josie was painting her nails and did not look up. “I’ve an appointment,” snarled Agatha. “Jump to it!”

Josie gave a stage sigh and said, “Follow me,” and, waving her painted nails in the air to dry them, led Agatha through to the wash-basins. Eve was sitting reading a magazine. There were no other customers.

“That’s all right, Josie,” said Eve, putting down her magazine. “You can take the rest of the day off. I’ll attend to Mrs. Raisin. Would you like a coffee first, Mrs. Raisin?”

“No, thank you.” Agatha did not want to risk getting coffee laced with ricin.

Josie went off Eve unhitched a gown and held it out to Agatha.

“I’d like a word with you first… Mrs. Shawpart,” said Agatha.

“Who’s she?”

“You are the wife of the hairdresser who was murdered, aren’t you?” demanded Agatha.

Eve looked at her in bewilderment. “I never even knew John Shawpart,” she said. “I had a hairdressing establishment in Worcester and moved here. Whatever gave you such an odd idea?”

“Despite the colour of your hair,” pursued Agatha, although she was beginning to feel stupid and acutely conscious of Brian and Charles listening in, “you fit the description given me of Mrs. Shawpart. Your husband divorced you and collected all the insurance from your salon when it burned down. You were jealous of his success.”

Eve looked at her wearily. “You are talking absolute rubbish. Wait a minute.”

She went away and came back with a business card. “That was the business I had last year and I was in business in Worcester for ten years. Ask anyone.”

Agatha dismally looked down at the business card. It said, “Eve’s Hairdressing,” with an address in the Foregate in Worcester.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Well, we all make mistakes. Come over to the washbasin. What on earth gave you such a mad idea?”

Agatha allowed her to put the gown on and then sat down meekly at the wash-basin.

“I’d been investigating because I was the one who found him when he was dying,” she said. “He was a blackmailer.”

“Never!”

“Yes. So at first I thought that it might be one of the people he had been blackmailing and then I suddenly thought it might be his wife, and since you suddenly appeared and took over his staff, I leaped to the wrong conclusion that you might be his wife. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Lean your head back. Comfy?”

Agatha nodded.

Across the road, Brian and Charles, with their headphones, on looked at each other. Brian removed his. “May as well take these things off.”

“Keep listening,” said Charles. “Poor Aggie. Let’s hear just how much of a fool she’s making of herself.”

“But I tell you one thing,” said Agatha. “I plan to go on and on until I track down the missing Mrs. Shawpart.”

Eve shampooed Agatha’s head with strong fingers. Suddenly those fingers buried themselves in her hair and held her head in a strong grip.

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?” asked Eve.

“No,” lied Agatha.

“Just as well.”

“Why?”

“Because, you interfering bitch, you’re not going to get out of here alive.”

Across the road, Charles whipped out a mobile phone and called the police.

Agatha tried to get up and then yelped in pain as Eve held tightly on to her hair.

“He had it coming to him,” said Eve viciously. “He always said the success of the salon in Portsmouth was due to his talents. I thought, I’ll show the bastard. After the divorce, I set up a rival salon, but he poisoned people’s minds against me.”

Agatha forced herself to remain still, hoping against hope that the microphone was working. “And did you blackmail women as well?”

“I didn’t even know about that, not until just before I left Portsmouth, when some stupid woman came whining to me.”

“You set his house on fire? How come you had the keys?”

“I came back and cosied up to him. John was so vain, he thought he was irresistible. We spent a few nights together for old time’s sake and I got him to give me a set of keys.”