The Blood of an Englishman by M. C. Beaton

thousand pounds came from George Southern.”
    â€œIt still doesn’t make John a murderer,” protested Agatha.
    â€œIt’s still very odd. These amateur dramatic people take themselves very seriously. You know that, Agatha. He must need money very badly.”
    â€œI suppose so,” mumbled Agatha.
    *   *   *
    Once back in her cottage, Agatha phoned Bill after getting through the usual battle of pleading with his formidable mother to let him come to the phone. He listened carefully and then said, “Good work, Agatha. We can do with any lead.”
    And Agatha, conscious of Charles listening to every word, said, “Actually, it was Toni who put me on to it. But I think you owe it to me. Let me know what you find out.”
    â€œI can’t really do that, Agatha.”
    â€œOh, yes you can. If it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t even have thought of it.”
    When Agatha said goodnight and rang off, she stood for a moment looking sadly down at the phone. She remembered John’s beauty and suddenly felt like a traitor.
    Charles’s voice made her jump. “Have you thought, Agatha, that a man like John with those incredible good looks might rouse strong passions in people? For example, obsessions in women and jealousy in men.”
    â€œPerhaps,” said Agatha reluctantly.
    â€œOr perhaps,” Charles pursued, “beautiful John is the murderer. That bakery seems to be a thriving business and Gwen is an attractive woman. With her husband out of the way, she would be free to marry again.”
    â€œSo why come after me?” demanded Agatha.
    â€œMaybe he is scared. He needs money but he won’t want to do anything that might make the police suspect him. You’ve got money. Marry you, bump you off after you’ve made your will and after a couple of years to allay suspicion and he’d be comfortably off.”
    Agatha sat down at the kitchen table. “Then why go to all this elaborate business? All John had to do was bump off his ex.”
    â€œTrue. But in that case he’d be first suspect. I’d like to talk to the ex. Why don’t we both go over to Oxford tomorrow?”
    â€œIn this weather! We’ll be lucky if we get out of the front door.”
    Charles went to the kitchen door and looked out through the glass. “It’s stopped snowing. I’ve got snow tyres and the main roads will probably be gritted by the morning.”
    â€œOkay,” agreed Agatha. She thought that, after all, it would be interesting to see what sort of female John had been married to. “I took a note of her address.”
    *   *   *
    They left the following morning and drove off into a silent, white countryside.
    â€œWe’d better take the road out through Burford,” said Charles. “They’re notoriously bad at gritting the Woodstock road.”
    Once through Burford and onto the dual carriageway, it was easier going. As they reached the outskirts of Oxford, the sun shone down, glittering on the blanket of snow that covered the gardens of the houses in Summertown.
    Agatha thought about John and Charles thought about Agatha. It would be hopeless being married to her, he thought, not for the first time. He would never be able to trust her. Agatha would always be one woman looking for an obsession.
    â€œIt’s down near the synagogue,” said Agatha, studying a map.
    â€œI think there’s a good Lebanese restaurant close by,” said Charles.
    â€œIn this weather,” said Agatha, “I crave junk food.”
    â€œAll right. Here’s the address. Quite a handsome villa. I wonder if she owns all of it.”
    â€œYou can’t park here,” said Agatha. “It’s resident parking only.”
    â€œThey’re not going to be around to ticket people in this weather,” said Charles, driving neatly into the only free parking place on the street.
    The