“Where?”

“Taking this girl to see Macbeth at Stratford.”

“Oh,” said Agatha in a small voice. She felt disappointed but reminded herself that Charles was a bachelor with his own life to lead.

When they left the boat and walked back towards the car-park, the heat was suffocating.

“Thunder tonight,” said Charles as they drove out of Evesham. Agatha looked ahead. There were purple clouds building up over Fish Hill.

“There’s a thunderstorm almost every night,” she said, “and yet the next day is always as hot and humid as ever.”

Charles grunted by way of reply. He seemed immersed in his own thoughts. Agatha could feel the edges of that depression in her brain. She would go and see Mrs. Bloxby. Perhaps that would take up some of the lonely evening ahead.

When Charles dropped her off, he did not say anything about seeing her again. Agatha had a feeling that the mystery of the hairdresser had become a bore. She said goodbye to him in a subdued voice and let herself into her cottage just as the first fat raindrops struck the thatch on the roof.

She hurried to let her cats in and then opened a can of cat food for them. Her cats, Hodge and Boswell, although they purred around her ankles, seemed so self-sufficient, so little in need of the company of Agatha Raisin.

A blinding flash of lightning lit up the kitchen. Then came a crack of thunder which seemed to rock the old cottage to its very foundations. Agatha switched on the kitchen light only to find out that Carsely was suffering from one of the village’s many power cuts.

She crept up to her bedroom and into bed without undressing, pulled the sheet over her and lay listening to the fury of the storm. She fell into an uneasy sleep, waking at seven in the evening feeling hot and gritty. Late sunlight streamed in at the windows.

She climbed out of bed and looked out of the window. Everything in the garden glittered in the sunlight. She leaned out. The air was as warm and sticky as ever.

Agatha showered and changed and then made her way along to the vicarage.

She hesitated on the doorstep as she heard the vicar’s angry voice, “Does that woman never think to phone first?”

She was about to turn away. That was the trouble with true Christians like Mrs. Bloxby; one never thought of them as having any life of their own.

But the door opened and Mrs. Bloxby smiled a welcome, pushing a wisp of grey hair out of her eyes.

“I saw you coming up the road,” she said. “Come in.”

“And so did your husband,” said Agatha ruefully. “He’s quite right. I should have phoned first.”

“Never mind him. The heat is making us all irritable and he’s got evening service.”

“In that case… ”

Agatha allowed herself to be led indoors just as the back door slammed angrily and through the window she could see the vicar striding off through the churchyard.

“The trouble is,” said Agatha, sitting down in the pleasant living room, “that when something is bothering me, I simply come along to see you without thinking you might be busy.”

“It works both ways,” said Mrs. Bloxby placidly. “I never bother calling you first. I’ll make some tea and then we’ll have it in the garden and see if we can get a breath of air.”

She never fussed, thought Agatha enviously, as through the window she watched Mrs. Bloxby wiping the raindrops from the garden table and chairs. Then she retreated to the kitchen to make tea before summoning Agatha into the garden.

“Look at that!” said Agatha. “Over at the churchyard. The gravestones are actually steaming in the heat. Looks like some Dracula film.”

“We’re heading towards the end of the month. The cooler weather should be here soon,” said Mrs. Bloxby, pouring tea. “Now, what is the matter? James?”

“No, it’s my hairdresser.” Agatha told of her suspicions and Charles’s idea of setting a trap.

“It could be quite dangerous for you.” Mrs. Bloxby’s large grey eyes looked concerned. “Surely this Mr. John has heard of your reputation as a detective.”

“He remembers about my husband’s murder. But I have never been credited in the newspapers with solving anything,” said Agatha. “The credit has always gone to the police. Tell me about the Friendlys.”

“They haven’t been in Carsely long, as you know. Let me see, there was some scene after morning service a few weeks ago. Alf told me.” Alf was the vicar.

“Alf had been preaching a sermon about how we should have minds above material things and Mr. Friendly said something afterwards in the church porch about how he hoped his wife had been paying attention to the sermon because she was going through money like water. Mrs. Friendly protested she had only been buying a few clothes and her husband said something like, ‘what clothes? I haven’t noticed.’ ”

“You think I should leave it alone?”

“One part of me thinks you should. On the other hand, it would be quite dreadful should he prove to be a blackmailer. Just think of the misery he would cause! But why not tell your friend, Bill Wong?”

“I can’t,” said Agatha. “Bill’s on holiday.” She was still hurt by Bill’s not phoning her and did not want to say that Bill was holidaying at home.

“What about his boss, Wilkes?”

“He thinks I’m an interfering pain. No, I would need proof. There’s no harm in trying. At the worst he’s going to blackmail me. Not kill me.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

“I meant to ask him out but think I’ll make a hair appointment and this time watch and listen. See if I can suss out any other customers he might be putting the squeeze on.”

“Be careful. Now about the concert at Ancombe. It’s very good of you to take over the catering. Do you want me to help you?”

“No, I’ll manage.” Agatha had already decided to hire a catering firm to make cakes and savouries. Worth every penny to put Mrs. Dairy’s nose out of joint.

“You know, I’m beginning to wish I had never recommended Mr. John. But he has such a good reputation. Mrs. Jessie Black over at Ancombe, the chairwoman of the ladies’ society, she used to sport a terrible frizzy perm in an impossible shade of red and he tinted it auburn and put it into a beautifully smooth style.”

“I’ll see if I can get an appointment,” said Agatha. “I’ll try tomorrow.”

Agatha made her way to Evesham. The old buildings of Evesham shimmered in the dreadful heat. She parked in the carpark although she would have liked to try to find a parking place outside the hairdresser’s but did not want another confrontation with some embittered local.

Alert now for nuances, Agatha noticed this time that the receptionist, a vapid blonde in a pink overall with her name, Josie, on a badge on her left breast, gave her a sour, jealous look.

“I was certainly lucky to get a cancellation,” said Agatha brightly.

“Yes,” said Josie, jerking a pink gown round Agatha’s shoulders. “Mr. John is particularly popular with the elderly.”

“Was that crack meant for me?” demanded Agatha, rounding on her savagely.

“Oh, no, modom.” Josie backed away, flustered. “I’ll just get Yvette to shampoo you.”

Ruffled, Agatha sat down at a wash-basin and looked around. From the adjoining area, she could hear a woman’s voice raised in complaint. “I can’t do anything with her these days. I said, ‘That stuff 11 kill you,’ and she says to me, ‘Heroin is my friend.’ My own daughter on drugs! The shame of it. My neighbour says she thinks my Betty is pushing the stuff.”

“Can’t your husband have a word with her?” came Mr. John’s voice.

“Jim? Him! He doesn’t know she’s on the stuff and he wouldn’t believe me even if I told him. Betty’s always been able to twist him round her little finger. Daddy’s girl. Always been daddy’s girl.”

Yvette arrived and put a towel around Agatha’s neck. The subsequent hissing of the water drowned out the rest of the conversation between Mr. John and his customer.