Mrs. Friendly stood stock-still. Her eyes were wide with fright and her face paper-white as she looked at Mr. John. She made an inarticulate sound and turned and went hurriedly back into the bar, pushing her way through people until she was lost to view.

Outside, Agatha said, “You frightened her.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Friendly.”

“Who’s she? Sounds like Happy Families. Miss Bun, the Baker’s Daughter, Mrs. Friendly, the-”

“No, no. She was really frightened. The woman who was staring at you just as we left.”

“I saw no one I know. The restaurant behind us was crowded, Agatha. She probably saw someone behind us.”

Tipsy as she was, a little warning bell was beginning to sound in Agatha’s brain. She had talked a lot about herself, but she knew practically nothing about this hairdresser apart from the fact that he possessed a good knowledge of Evesham history.

“Should you be driving?” she asked. “We’ve had rather a lot to drink.”

“I’ve a hard head. Don’t worry.”

“If you’re sure. The fact that I know a lot of the police won’t help us if we’re caught.”

But he had marched ahead of her to the car and did not hear her.

When they reached her cottage and got out, Agatha turned to him and said firmly, “Thank you so much for a delightful evening.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

“Not tonight. I’ve had too much to drink. The next dinner’s on me.”

“I’ll keep you to that.” He bent to kiss her. Mrs. Friendly’s frightened face rose up in Agatha’s mind and she turned her face so that his kiss landed on her cheek. “Good night,” she said hurriedly and left him standing by the car, looking after her.

Agatha pottered about her house and garden the following day. It had rained during the night but the day was once more hot and stifling. The newspapers reported it was the hottest August in England since records had begun. There seemed to be a plague of mosquitoes and the Cotswold spiders were everywhere. Agatha did not like killing spiders and scooped the beasts up in kitchen paper and threw them out into the garden. One was descending from the kitchen ceiling in front of her eyes. She glared at it and it hurriedly retreated upwards, almost as if it were hauling itself up hand over hand.

She was wearing a washed-out cotton caftan she had bought years ago, with nothing underneath. On the kitchen floor, still in its box, was an electric fan she had bought in Evesham. She sighed. She tore open the box and lifted it out. It was in pieces. Did nothing come whole these days? She read the instructions carefully but could not unscrew one piece so as to attach the fan. She was just about to kick the infuriating thing across the floor when the doorbell rang.

Would she ever stop going to answer the door without hoping with all her heart that when she opened it James Lacey would be standing on the doorstep?

But it was Charles who stood there, looking cool and barbered.

“Come in,” said Agatha, her voice curt with disappointment. “What brings you?”

“Got bored.” He followed her into the kitchen.

“You can make yourself useful. I can’t put that fan together.”

“Make us a cup of coffee and I’ll do it.”

Charles worked away busily at the large pedestal fan. “Have you got one of those screwdrivers with the little cross at the head, Aggie?”

“In that box on the kitchen table. How do you want your coffee?”

“As ever. Milk, no sugar. If you loved me, Aggie, you would remember.”

“There’s your coffee, Charles. I’m going upstairs to put some clothes on.”

Agatha went upstairs, took a quick shower, towelled and dressed in shorts and a cotton top.

When she went back to the kitchen, the fan was spinning busily.

“How clever of you, Charles,” said Agatha. “What a relief! How did you get that big screw undone?”

“You unscrew it clockwise.”

“Now, how was anyone supposed to know that?” Agatha sat down at the kitchen table. “I may have stumbled across a mystery, Charles.”

“What bleeding body have you tripped over?”

“No body.” She told him about overhearing the pleading woman while she was in the toilet at the hairdresser’s. “Then I went out with this Mr. John for dinner and as we were leaving, we ran into Mrs. Friendly.”

“Who is she?”

“Newcomer to Carsely. Arrived last winter. Has one of those little cottages opposite the church. Mr. John said she must have been looking at someone in the restaurant behind us but I’ll swear it was him she was frightened of.”

“Is there a Mr. Friendly?”

“Yes, he’s a building contractor.”

“Do you think this hairdresser could have got his leg over, or maybe he’s indulging in a spot of blackmail?”

Agatha’s eyes gleamed. “I thought of blackmail. The way women talk to their hairdressers! You should hear them.”

“Let’s go and see this Mrs. Friendly.”

Agatha shifted uneasily. “What? Now?”

“Why not? Don’t beat about the bush. Ask her why she was so frightened.”

“Shouldn’t I phone first?”

“Let’s surprise her.”

“All right,” said Agatha reluctantly. “I’ll put the cats out in the garden and lock up.”

Mrs. Friendly’s cottage was small and neat, two-storied, with no garden at the front.

They rang the bell. The door was opened by a very hairy man. He was wearing a tank top and shorts and grizzled hair sprouted all over his body. He had tufts of hair in his ears and hair sprouting out of his nose. His eyes were surprisingly weak and pale, peering at them from out of all this hairy virility. He must have been nearly sixty and Agatha thought he looked thoroughly unpleasant.

Agatha introduced herself and Charles and said they had called to see Mrs. Friendly.

“Why?” His voice was thin and high.

“Ladies’ Society.”

“Come in,” he said reluctantly.

The little cottage was dark and stifling. It had the original leaded windows, which looked so quaint and pretty from outside but allowed very little light to penetrate the inside. Mr. Friendly ushered them into a hot, dark living room and said, “I’ll get Liza.”

“I didn’t know he was retired,” whispered Agatha. “Looks as if he must be.” Fierce whispers were coming from the nether regions, then Mr. Friendly’s voice, sharp and angry: “Just get rid of them.”

“Oh, dear,” muttered Agatha.

Liza Friendly came in. She had a round pleasant face, pretty even in middle age.

“Is it about the concert?” she asked.

“Not really,” said Agatha. “I was at that French restaurant in Blockley last night with Mr. John and you saw us and I thought you look frightened.”

For one brief moment, Liza looked every bit as frightened as she had been the night before, but then she said brightly, “Oh, I must have looked odd. It was the heat. I had to get out of there. I thought I was going to faint. Anything else?”

“Well, no,” said Agatha.

Liza had remained standing. She moved towards the door. “In that case, I won’t keep you.”

There was nothing else they could do but leave. “I haven’t introduced my friend,” said Agatha. “Sir Charles Fraith.”

But Liza had reached the front door and was holding it open.

“Goodbye,” she said formally. “How kind of you to call.”

“Well, that was a wash-out,” said Charles. “Let’s go back to your place and talk.”

They returned to the kitchen of Agatha’s cottage. Agatha switched on the fan and poured two more cups of coffee.

“Now,” said Charles, “if he’s a blackmailer, there is one way to find out.”

“How?”

“You think of some truly awful secret, Aggie, and take him out for dinner and cry on his shoulder. Then we’ll wait and see.”

“I could do that,” said Agatha slowly. “You know, we could be imagining things. Maybe she’s just frightened of her hairy husband. Wait a bit. At the ladies’ society meeting, I said I was going to Mr. John in Evesham and she said something like, ‘I wouldn’t go there.’ Oh, and there’s something else. I did ask Mr. John about those voices I overheard when I was in the toilet, but he said it was a husband and wife who owned the shop next door and who were always quarelling. Should we watch Mrs. Friendly’s cottage and see if her husband goes out?”