“The bush telegraph told me you had been sighted,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “so I put some of my Irish stew in a casserole for you. You won’t feel like cooking.”

“Come in,” said Agatha, gratefully. “I’ve had such an awful time.”

The doorbell rang again. This time it was Miss Simms, the unmarried mother who was secretary of the Carsely Ladies Society, balancing precariously on her heels and carrying a cake. “Welcome home,” she said.

After that, Agatha’s doorbell seemed to go every few minutes until her living room was full of villagers. She began to tell the story of her adventures to a rapt audience, but did not say that James had abandoned her, only that he had to go to Turkey on business.

It was late when they all left with the exception of Mrs. Bloxby. “What a home coming!” said Agatha, her face radiant. “It’s so good to be back.”

“There’s one thing that puzzles me,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “You said James went off on business. What business? I mean, you got to the point in your story where there had been two attempts on your life, and then you mention casually that James took off. I mean, wasn’t he worried about you?”

So Agatha told the real story, about Charles, about James’s bad temper and coldness.

“A most peculiar man,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “At least this makes you free of him at last. What he did was unforgivable.”

“You’re right,” said Agatha. “He’s out of my mind at last.”

And as the next few weeks passed, such seemed to be the case. Carsely enfolded Agatha and the whole north Cyprus adventure appeared like a bad dream.

The solving of the murders in Cyprus had appeared in the British press and on television but there was no mention of Agatha. “I am an unsung detective,” she said to Bill Wong when he called round one day.

“That’s us policemen for you,” said Bill, his eyes crinkling up with amusement. “Take all the credit no matter what nationality.”

“No murders for me, Bill?”

“Nothing. In fact, it’s the quietest time we’ve had for a long spell and I like it that way. So what are your plans? I can’t really believe you’re going to settle down to a quiet retired life.”

“That’s all I want at the moment. Anyway, I’ve been doing detective work in the village.”

“What!”

“I found where Miss Simms had put her reading glasses and I found the Fletchers’ missing dog.”

“Big time.”

“Suits me. I’ve got the job of organising the village Christmas party for the old folks. That’ll keep me busy.”

“No men in your life, Agatha?”

“No,” said Agatha curtly. “And it that’s the way I like it. Who needs them anyway?”

“I’m beginning to think all women feel the same as you.”

“Unhappy love life, Bill?”

“There was this girl who works in the chemists in Mircester. Pretty little thing. We had fun. She seemed quite keen on me. But she suddenly went off me and now she’s being romanced by a tattooed ape from the garage on the Oxford road.”

“Did you take her home to meet your parents?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” said Bill.

And that does it every time, thought Agatha, but did not like to point out to Bill that his formidable mother could probably see off any prospect, for Bill adored his parents.

The phone rang. Agatha picked up the receiver.

“Hullo, Aggie. Charles.”

“How are you?” said Agatha who had begun to think that Charles had forgotten all about her.

“Bored. Let’s go out for dinner.”

“Who’s paying?”

“I am.”

“May as well,” said Agatha ungraciously. “Where?”

“We’ll go somewhere in Stratford. Meet you at Marks and Spencer in the centre.”

“No, Charles, if you want to take me for dinner, you can pick me up here at eight.”

“It’s a long way round for me.”

“I want to dine in Moretón,” said Agatha firmly.

“Okay, Aggie, see you at eight.”

“Who was that?” asked Bill.

“Sir Charles Fraith.”

Bill smiled to himself. He thought Agatha had changed a lot. The old insecure Agatha would never have commanded a baronet to come and pick her up.

Agatha and Charles ate in a pub in Moretón and talked about the events in Cyprus. “I wonder how George and Angus and Trevor are getting on,” said Agatha.

“I don’t,” said Charles, “In fact if I saw one of them, I’d run a mile. Any word from James?”

“No.”

“So you waited and waited for your knight to come riding up on a white charger and all you were left with was the smell of horse manure?”

“You are quite amazingly insensitive, Charles.”

“Yes, but I stayed to look after you and he didn’t. Are you really going to have toffee pudding, Aggie? No fears about your waistline?”

“I’m tired of my waistline. I’m tired of exercise and strict diet. I’m going to kiss my waistline goodbye.”

“Let me do it for you.”

“Behave yourself and eat your pudding!”

Charles drove her back. More through habit than anything else, Agatha glanced at James’s cottage and then let out a gasp. Lights were shining from the downstairs windows and smoke was rising from the chimney.

“James is home!” she cried.

“And so he is,” said Charles, parking smoothly outside her cottage. “Why not ask me in for a night-cap, Aggie?”

“All right,” said Agatha defiantly.

They both got out of the car. James came out of his cottage door and stood looking at them.

Agatha unlocked her door and said over her shoulder to Charles in a loud, clear voice, “Come along, darling.”

“Coming my angel, my sweet,” said Charles cheerfully.

The door slammed.

James Lacey stood there for a few moments and then he too went in and slammed the door, but with such force that the sound echoed along the quiet lanes of Carsely and set a farm dog up on the hills above the village yelping with alarm.

Marion Chesney