The Blood of an Englishman Read Free Page A

memory.”
    â€œAny friction amongst the cast?”
    He sighed. “I think amateur productions are worse than professional ones for fragile egos. The Good Fairy, Pixie Turner, went on as if she had a leading role in a Shakespeare production. Then that so-called comedian was always groping the chorus girls.”
    â€œWhere does the chorus line come from?”
    â€œWinter Parva High School. They have tap dancing classes there.”
    â€œAny little Lolitas that Bert might have had his eye on?”
    â€œOh, no! He was devoted to his wife.”
    â€œI think I’ve enough names to be going on with,” said Agatha. “I’ll start with the village gossip and then maybe later on you can introduce me to the blacksmith if the police aren’t still grilling him.”
    *   *   *
    Agatha drove to Winter Parva and parked in the main street. The village was a mixture of old houses with high, sloping roofs. Seventeenth-century buildings rubbed shoulders with Georgian and Tudor. The market hall, carefully preserved with its open arches and cobbled floor, was a fifteenth-century building. The village was situated down in a fold of the Cotswold hills. It was often misty. The River Oore ran under a bridge leading to the main street and this was blamed for the frequent fogs which plagued the place in winter. A pale sunlight was trying to permeate the mist as Agatha climbed the old stone stairs which led to Marie Tench’s flat. Agatha rang the bell and waited. She had expected Marie Tench to be an old woman but the door was opened by a blonde with a quite enormous bust. She must have some sort of industrial-strength brassiere, thought Agatha, for the woman’s breasts were hoisted up so far that it looked as if her head were peering over them.
    â€œMrs. Tench?” asked Agatha.
    â€œIt’s Miss. Who are you?”
    Agatha handed over her card and said, “Gareth Craven has asked me to investigate the murder of Bert Simple. He told me you knew a great deal about the village.”
    â€œCome in.”
    Agatha squeezed past her and found herself in a cluttered living room. Every surface was covered by some ornament. There were little glass animals along the mantelshelf, china figurines on the occasional tables, a collection of china coasters on the coffee table, and on a round table by the window, a large acid green vase of silk flowers.
    Above the fireplace was a bad painting in oils of what appeared to be a naked Marie, those huge breasts painted in sulphur yellow and red.
    Marie sat down on a chintz-covered sofa and waved one plump arm to an armchair, indicating that Agatha should be seated.
    A shaft of sunlight shone through the window, lighting up Marie’s face. Agatha reflected that Marie was wearing so much make-up, you could skate on it. She had a small prissy mouth painted violent red, a button of a nose, and cold grey eyes. Her hair was so firmly lacquered that it looked like a bad wig.
    â€œI wondered if you had any idea who might have murdered Bert Simple,” began Agatha.
    â€œPixie Turner, that’s who.”
    â€œThe Good Fairy?”
    â€œGood Fairy, my arse. More like the wicked witch.”
    â€œBut the murder of Bert Simple,” said Agatha, “seemed to take a lot of knowledge of engineering and carpentry.”
    â€œHah! Not much by all accounts. Any fool could have sawn that hole in the trap and shoved a spike underneath.”
    â€œHow did you learn how the murder was done?”
    â€œMolly Kite, her what works in the gift shop, told me. Her cousin’s a policeman.”
    â€œApart from Pixie, who else might have hated him enough?”
    Did Marie suddenly look guilty—or was it a trick of the light? But she flashed Agatha a smile. “Apart from Pixie, we all loved Bert. No need to look anywhere else.”
    â€œAnd where does Pixie Turner live?”
    â€œOut on the housing estate at the end of the