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up over Fish Hill.
    ‘There’s a thunderstorm almost every night,’ she said, ‘and yet the next day is always as hot and humid as ever.’
    Charles grunted by way of reply. He seemed immersed in his own thoughts. Agatha could feel the edges of that depression in her brain. She would go and see Mrs Bloxby. Perhaps that would take up some of the lonely evening ahead.
    When Charles dropped her off, he did not say anything about seeing her again. Agatha had a feeling that the mystery of the hairdresser had become a bore. She said goodbye to him in a subdued voice and let herself into her cottage just as the first fat raindrops struck the thatch on the roof.
    She hurried to let her cats in and then opened a can of cat food for them. Her cats, Hodge and Boswell, although they purred around her ankles, seemed so self-sufficient, so little in need of the company of Agatha Raisin.
    A blinding flash of lightning lit up the kitchen. Then came a crack of thunder which seemed to rock the old cottage to its very foundations. Agatha switched on the kitchen light only to find out that Carsely was suffering from one of the village’s many power cuts.
    She crept up to her bedroom and into bed without undressing, pulled the sheet over her and lay listening to the fury of the storm. She fell into an uneasy sleep, waking at seven in the evening feeling hot and gritty. Late sunlight streamed in at the windows.
    She climbed out of bed and looked out of the window. Everything in the garden glittered in the sunlight. She leaned out. The air was as warm and sticky as ever.
    Agatha showered and changed and then made her way along to the vicarage.
    She hesitated on the doorstep as she heard the vicar’s angry voice, ‘Does that woman never think to phone first?’
    She was about to turn away. That was the trouble with true Christians like Mrs Bloxby; one never thought of them as having any life of their own.
    But the door opened and Mrs Bloxby smiled a welcome, pushing a wisp of grey hair out of her eyes.
    ‘I saw you coming up the road,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
    ‘And so did your husband,’ said Agatha ruefully. ‘He’s quite right. I should have phoned first.’
    ‘Never mind him. The heat is making us all irritable and he’s got evening service.’
    ‘In that case . . .’
    Agatha allowed herself to be led indoors just as the back door slammed angrily and through the window she could see the vicar striding off through the churchyard.
    ‘The trouble is,’ said Agatha, sitting down in the pleasant living room, ‘that when something is bothering me, I simply come along to see you without thinking you might be busy.’
    ‘It works both ways,’ said Mrs Bloxby placidly. ‘I never bother calling you first. I’ll make some tea and then we’ll have it in the garden and see if we can get a breath of air.’
    She never fussed, thought Agatha enviously, as through the window she watched Mrs Bloxby wiping the raindrops from the garden table and chairs. Then she retreated to the kitchen to make tea before summoning Agatha into the garden.
    ‘Look at that!’ said Agatha. ‘Over at the churchyard. The gravestones are actually steaming in the heat. Looks like some Dracula film.’
    ‘We’re heading towards the end of the month. The cooler weather should be here soon,’ said Mrs Bloxby, pouring tea. ‘Now, what is the matter? James?’
    ‘No, it’s my hairdresser.’ Agatha told of her suspicions and Charles’s idea of setting a trap.
    ‘It could be quite dangerous for you.’ Mrs Bloxby’s large grey eyes looked concerned. ‘Surely this Mr John has heard of your reputation as a detective.’
    ‘He remembers about my husband’s murder. But I have never been credited in the newspapers with solving anything,’ said Agatha. ‘The credit has always gone to the police. Tell me about the Friendlys.’
    ‘They haven’t been in Carsely long, as you know. Let me see, there was some scene after morning service a few weeks ago. Alf