The Blood of an Englishman Read Free

coming,” said Toni. “Might be something interesting.” Toni hoped it might be a job that she could do on her own. She did not like working with Simon. He was constantly asking her out on dates and she found it all embarrassing.
    The door opened and a man Agatha recognised as Gareth Craven walked in. He was even better looking than Agatha remembered. She did a frantic mental check. Did she have coffee-stained teeth? Had her lipstick faded? Why had she opted for trousers and flat shoes?
    Gareth Craven was a tall man with thick brown hair, clear grey eyes, a firm mouth, and a handsome face which unfortunately ended in a rather weak chin.
    â€œPlease take a seat, Mr. Craven,” said Agatha, thinking, nobody’s perfect.
    â€œI really need your help,” said Gareth. “You see, the newspapers are after me already and they are making me feel guilty. You would think I had done it. I’ve stopped answering the door or the phone. Mrs. Raisin, you have such a good reputation for solving cases. I wondered if I could employ you.”
    â€œCertainly,” said Agatha. “Mrs. Freedman will draw up a contract for you. I will start on it right away. Toni, you take over Berry’s supermarket for me.” Simon’s face fell. He had been looking forward to a day with Toni.
    Mrs. Freedman came over with the contracts. Gareth barely looked at the price and quickly signed them.
    â€œNow,” said Agatha to Gareth, “we’ll clear off somewhere for a coffee and you can give me all the details.”
    *   *   *
    In the old-fashioned gloom of the George Hotel lounge, after coffee had been served, Agatha asked, “Who, in your opinion, would want to kill Bert?”
    â€œThat’s the problem,” said Gareth. “I don’t know where to tell you to start.”
    â€œHave you discussed it with your wife?” asked Agatha.
    â€œI’m not married. Divorced.”
    â€œLike me,” said Agatha cheerfully. “What about the blacksmith?”
    â€œHarry Crosswith is a pillar of the community. He’s in a terrible state.”
    â€œHow could anyone guarantee that the spike would kill Bert? I mean, he could have been at the edge of the platform?”
    â€œIt’s a small platform,” said Gareth, “and Bert is—was—a big man. He complained that the lift went down too fast. In fact he and Harry had a bit of a row about it. Harry was very proud of that trap.”
    â€œWhat about the nearest and dearest. How old is the son, Walt?”
    â€œHe’s twenty. Works in the bakery. Quiet and reliable.”
    â€œAnd Mrs. Simple?”
    Gareth’s face softened. “Gwen is a saint. She works serving in the shop. Everybody loves her.”
    Not you, I hope, thought Agatha. Aloud she said, “Perhaps I should start today by asking some of the locals. Who’s the biggest gossip in the village?”
    â€œWell, there’s Marie Tench. But she can be spiteful.”
    â€œMaybe just the sort of person I should talk to,” said Agatha. “Have you her address?”
    â€œShe’s got a flat above the newspaper shop opposite the old marketplace.”
    â€œI’ll start there. Tell me about yourself. How did you get involved with producing this pantomime?”
    â€œI was a producer with BBC Radio 4 for years. Last year, I was suddenly made redundant. They’re cutting jobs all round. It was a bit of a blow, but I’m lucky enough to have private means so I thought I would keep my hand in by producing this pantomime.”
    â€œBut it wasn’t very professional, surely,” said Agatha. “I mean, it was a sort of mishmash of all the pantomime characters.”
    â€œI know. Mrs. Grant of the Women’s Institute wrote the script and was to produce it, but she died. I wanted to make changes but the cast protested and said it should be kept just the way it was, in her