The Blood of an Englishman Read Free Page B

village. I forget the number, but it’s Church Road on the corner. Can’t miss it. The door’s painted bright blue.”
    *   *   *
    Agatha drove to the housing estate. She saw the house with the blue door and parked outside. Suddenly, she felt inexplicably weary. Her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, could easily have diagnosed her trouble. Agatha Raisin, when she was not obsessed with some man or other, became de-energised. Sir Charles Fraith, with whom she had enjoyed an occasional fling, had disappeared out of her life as he did from time to time. Her ex-husband and next-door neighbour, James Lacey, was a travel writer and was currently abroad somewhere.
    Agatha got slowly out of her car. She was wearing flat shoes and little make-up. Her brown hair was as glossy as ever but her bearlike eyes held a sad look. Her thoughts turned to Gareth Craven. Pity about that weak chin.
    She squared her shoulders and marched up to Pixie’s door and rang the bell.
    The letter box opened and a voice cried, “Go away!”
    Agatha bent down. “I am Agatha Raisin and I am investigating the death of Bert Simple.”
    â€œGo away.”
    Agatha had a sudden inspiration. “I can understand you not wanting to be bothered. Those television crews will follow me around.”
    â€œTelevision!” The door swung open to reveal Pixie in a tatty pink silk dressing gown. “Come in quickly,” she hissed, “and wait in the parlour until I get dressed.”
    Agatha looked around the room into which Pixie had thrust her. There were framed photographs of Pixie everywhere. Her acting roles appeared to have been confined to the village productions of pantomimes. She had progressed from Cinderella when she had been young, then to the Principal Boy, and so on to older parts, ending up as the Good Fairy.
    A joss stick was smoking in a vase in one corner. Film and television magazines were piled up on the coffee table and on the chairs and sofa. One wall was dominated by a large mirror surrounded by light bulbs.
    I wonder what she does when she’s not dreaming of fame, thought Agatha.
    Agatha peered at her own reflection in the mirror. Was that a hair on her upper lip? “Snakes and bastards,” she muttered, and began searching in her bag for a pair of tweezers. Not all that long ago, early fifties had been considered pretty old. Women let their figures sag and grew moustaches and didn’t seem to bother. Ah, the good old days. She was still looking frantically for a pair of tweezers in her handbag when Pixie entered the room.
    She had put on so much mascara that her lashes stuck straight out around her eyes like black spikes. She was wearing a short, tight red leather skirt with fishnet stockings and high heels. Her white blouse was nearly transparent. Her face had a sort of withered prettiness under white make-up with pink circles of blusher on each cheek. Her dyed blond hair was dressed in old-fashioned ringlets. She looked like a rather battered doll.
    â€œHave the TV people called?” she asked anxiously.
    Agatha was about to lie and say they would be along shortly in order to keep Pixie’s interest when there was a ring at the doorbell.
    â€œThat’ll be them,” said Pixie and sashayed to the door.
    Agatha heard a man’s voice say, “Midlands Television.” Well, I’ll be damned, she thought.
    She walked into the small entrance hall to hear what Pixie was saying. “I was playing the part of the Good Fairy,” said Pixie, “only don’t let that fool you. Little Pixie can be wick- ED .” Then she let out a great laugh which actually sounded like Har! Har! Har!
    â€œWas there any friction amongst members of the cast?” asked the reporter.
    â€œOh, no. We got on great. Everyone loved Bert.”
    â€œCould anyone have got in under the stage to rig that murder device?”
    â€œYes, but take it from little Pixie here, it was