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pretty quickly. I have an alibi for the night he was murdered, but it was pointed out to me that a bottle of wine or crème de menthe could have been poisoned any time before.”
    â€œThis is a council flat,” said Agatha. “Was it hard to find?”
    â€œI’ve always had it. Hung on to it for a rainy day. Never thought the storm would arrive, but here I am. Have a seat.”
    Agatha was puzzled. She had expected someone like the few trophy wives who lived in Carsely: blond, cosmetically enhanced and each with her personal trainer. Jenny certainly had a figure to delight an Edwardian gentleman, having a generous bosom and large hips. Her eyes were large and brown. But she had deep grooves at the side of her mouth and wrinkles radiating above her lips and around her eyes. She came to the conclusion that Jenny had once been a looker in her younger days, and that would be when the affair started.
    â€œHow did you meet Lord Bellington?” she asked.
    â€œLet me see. That would be about five years ago. I was working in a jewellers in the town, and he came in to buy a pendant for his daughter. We got talking, and he took me for dinner. The affair took off from there. At first he was very generous, and it was fun living in a big house. I was between men. The one before him had turned mean and bullying. Then, guess what? Bellington turned mean and bullying. Men!”
    â€œHave you always been an … er … mistress?” asked Gerald.
    â€œI suppose so. I’ve had the benefits of marriage but the freedom to clear off when I felt like it.”
    Agatha surveyed her curiously. What on earth did she do that made her so evidently popular? It was all a puzzle.
    â€œDid you ever meet Nigel Farraday?” she asked.
    â€œA few times.”
    â€œYou see,” said Agatha. “Peta Currie was murdered in the village of Carsely. She was married to him at one time.”
    â€œI read about that,” said Jenny. “I never met the girl. Before my time and I didn’t like Nigel. He treated me like dirt, and his wife is a pill.”
    â€œI looked up their address,” said Gerald. “They live in Iddington Loxby. Is that near Harby?”
    â€œIt’s about six miles away,” said Jenny. “I haven’t offered you anything. Would you like coffee or something?”
    â€œNo, we’d better be on our way,” said Agatha. “He’s a member of Parliament, isn’t he?”
    â€œYes, he stands as an Independent. He was a Conservative and he feared he might lose his seat, so he decided to leave the party and stand as an Independent, promising all things to all people with nostalgia thrown in. You know, Britain for the British, throw all the immigrants out, bring back smoking, and double the pension money for the elderly. And as he is never likely to have any real power, he can promise what he likes.”
    As they were driving off, Agatha said, “I expected someone more glamorous.”
    â€œOh, she’s sexy,” said Gerald.
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” commented Agatha huffily. What an odd world it was! Women’s magazines told you to wear heels and perfume, hair extensions and false eyelashes to lure the male creature, and here you have a woman like someone’s mother. She wondered if she would ever experience sex combined with tenderness and romance. James Lacey belonged to the wham-bang school. Charles was an expert lover, but always self-contained. “Like being shagged by the cat.”
    â€œWhat?” demanded Gerald, and Agatha realised to her horror that she had spoken aloud.
    â€œNothing,” said Agatha quickly. “Thinking about an old case.”
    They finally reached the village of Iddington Loxby. Gerald stopped by the village green and asked a man where they could find the home of Mr. Farraday.
    â€œThat’s Coddend Manor,” he said. “Go back the way you came and turn left at the