back window.’
‘Too many trees and bushes at the back, and I can’t see a light in a window anywhere. Come on .’
Agatha was so grateful to be finally back in her cottage kitchen. ‘Coffee would be nice,’ said James.
‘A stiff gin and tonic would be nicer,’ said Agatha.
‘Well, make a strong coffee for me. I’ll nip next door and get my camera. Don’t touch that ledger with your bare hands!’ James was Agatha’s nearest neighbour.
When James returned, Agatha had moved to her living room and was stretched out on the sofa asleep, a glass of gin and tonic perilously balanced on her chest and a smouldering cigarette in one
hand.
He gently removed her drink and stubbed out her cigarette. He decided to leave her to sleep while he had a look in the ledger himself.
The entries in the ledger were baffling. There were long lines of columns with cryptic entries such a c.h. b. P.L., t. r. P.L. and so on in the same style. He woke Agatha, who blinked up at him
and then came fully awake, crying, ‘What did you find?’
‘Nothing but a lot of gobbledygook. Come and have a look before I photograph the pages. There are only about five pages of entries. If this is what the killers were looking for, then I
wonder why they wasted their time.’
Agatha followed him into the kitchen and stared in bafflement at the entries.
‘Now what do we do?’ she asked.
‘I photograph all the entries and then, so help me, I’ve got to take the book back, make sure the place is swept clean so there’s no trace of our visit and then drop an
anonymous line to the police.’
Agatha awoke the next morning with the feel of James’s lips burning into her memory. In his way, he had been passionate in bed when they were married, but somehow only
during the sex act itself. When it was over, he had rolled over to his side of the bed and gone to sleep as if she didn’t exist. Agatha tried to erase her feelings over the kiss by
remembering how awful the marriage had been: all his infuriating pernickety bachelor ways such as complaining about the laundry, trying to forbid her to work. She gave herself a mental shake. She
did not want to end up in the miserable depths of an obsession for James again.
But in its way, obsession was as necessary to Agatha Raisin as drink to an alcoholic. In the way that an alcoholic will endlessly chase the dream of when drink brought pleasure and escape,
Agatha usually remembered only the beginning of obsessions, when the days were brighter and she felt young again.
She wondered whether to call on James before she went to the office but steeled herself against the urge.
Agatha was just about to leave her cottage after letting her cats out into the back garden for the day when the postman arrived with a large parcel. ‘Grand day,’ said the
postman.
Agatha could almost smell the countryside coming to life after the bitter winter. The sky above was pale blue, and somewhere nearby a blackbird poured down its song.
It was on mornings like this that Agatha realized why she loved living in the Cotswolds so much. Perhaps, she thought, there is nowhere more beautiful in Britain than this man-made piece of
England with its thatched cottages and gardens crammed with flowers.
The parcel was very heavy. She heaved it in and on to the kitchen table. It was addressed to her in block capitals. There was no return address.
She stared down at it, wondering at the same time if James had been successful in returning the ledger and somehow telling the police about the secret room without revealing their
identities.
Agatha took a sharp knife out of the kitchen drawer and sliced the tape that sealed the parcel. Just before she wrenched it open, she paused. What if it were a bomb?
She put her ear to the parcel and then told herself she was being silly. Surely bombs ticked only in old movies.
She was reminded of some old game show on television where people would shout either ‘Don’t open the box!’ or
‘Too many trees and bushes at the back, and I can’t see a light in a window anywhere. Come on .’
Agatha was so grateful to be finally back in her cottage kitchen. ‘Coffee would be nice,’ said James.
‘A stiff gin and tonic would be nicer,’ said Agatha.
‘Well, make a strong coffee for me. I’ll nip next door and get my camera. Don’t touch that ledger with your bare hands!’ James was Agatha’s nearest neighbour.
When James returned, Agatha had moved to her living room and was stretched out on the sofa asleep, a glass of gin and tonic perilously balanced on her chest and a smouldering cigarette in one
hand.
He gently removed her drink and stubbed out her cigarette. He decided to leave her to sleep while he had a look in the ledger himself.
The entries in the ledger were baffling. There were long lines of columns with cryptic entries such a c.h. b. P.L., t. r. P.L. and so on in the same style. He woke Agatha, who blinked up at him
and then came fully awake, crying, ‘What did you find?’
‘Nothing but a lot of gobbledygook. Come and have a look before I photograph the pages. There are only about five pages of entries. If this is what the killers were looking for, then I
wonder why they wasted their time.’
Agatha followed him into the kitchen and stared in bafflement at the entries.
‘Now what do we do?’ she asked.
‘I photograph all the entries and then, so help me, I’ve got to take the book back, make sure the place is swept clean so there’s no trace of our visit and then drop an
anonymous line to the police.’
Agatha awoke the next morning with the feel of James’s lips burning into her memory. In his way, he had been passionate in bed when they were married, but somehow only
during the sex act itself. When it was over, he had rolled over to his side of the bed and gone to sleep as if she didn’t exist. Agatha tried to erase her feelings over the kiss by
remembering how awful the marriage had been: all his infuriating pernickety bachelor ways such as complaining about the laundry, trying to forbid her to work. She gave herself a mental shake. She
did not want to end up in the miserable depths of an obsession for James again.
But in its way, obsession was as necessary to Agatha Raisin as drink to an alcoholic. In the way that an alcoholic will endlessly chase the dream of when drink brought pleasure and escape,
Agatha usually remembered only the beginning of obsessions, when the days were brighter and she felt young again.
She wondered whether to call on James before she went to the office but steeled herself against the urge.
Agatha was just about to leave her cottage after letting her cats out into the back garden for the day when the postman arrived with a large parcel. ‘Grand day,’ said the
postman.
Agatha could almost smell the countryside coming to life after the bitter winter. The sky above was pale blue, and somewhere nearby a blackbird poured down its song.
It was on mornings like this that Agatha realized why she loved living in the Cotswolds so much. Perhaps, she thought, there is nowhere more beautiful in Britain than this man-made piece of
England with its thatched cottages and gardens crammed with flowers.
The parcel was very heavy. She heaved it in and on to the kitchen table. It was addressed to her in block capitals. There was no return address.
She stared down at it, wondering at the same time if James had been successful in returning the ledger and somehow telling the police about the secret room without revealing their
identities.
Agatha took a sharp knife out of the kitchen drawer and sliced the tape that sealed the parcel. Just before she wrenched it open, she paused. What if it were a bomb?
She put her ear to the parcel and then told herself she was being silly. Surely bombs ticked only in old movies.
She was reminded of some old game show on television where people would shout either ‘Don’t open the box!’ or
Similar Books
