Free The Blood of an Englishman by M. C. Beaton Page A

John. “I’m in Mircester. May I call on you?”
    â€œYes, of course,” said Agatha. “But aren’t you on stage tonight?”
    â€œWe were going to perform as usual but the police said the theatre must be closed down. Be with you in a few minutes. I’ll tell you all about it.”
    After she had rung off, Agatha slid out the bottom drawer of her desk and took out a magnifying mirror and a bag of make-up. She cleaned off her old make-up and put on a fresh layer and then brushed her hair until it crackled with electricity. Her black cashmere sweater was all right, she decided, as were her black tapered trousers, but she was wearing flat-soled boots, and, without heels on, Agatha felt demoralised.
    As she waited for John, Agatha began to wonder uneasily about him. Why had he allowed George to take his place?
    But when John walked in, Agatha surveyed all that masculine beauty and forgot about her doubts.
    â€œDo sit down,” she said. “Have the police been questioning you?”
    â€œOver and over again,” said John.
    â€œWhy at the theatre?”
    â€œEvidently it was the executioner’s sword that killed George.”
    â€œBut these stage swords are surely made of wood,” said Agatha.
    â€œThis one was steel. It had been made razor sharp.”
    â€œHow does Blain explain the sharp sword?”
    â€œHe said it was as dull as anything during rehearsals,” said John.
    â€œI wonder if the blacksmith sharpened it,” said Agatha.
    â€œI’m sure the police will think of that. I owe you dinner.”
    Agatha’s phone rang. “I’d better answer that in case it’s the police again.”
    But it was Mrs. Bloxby. “Such awful weather,” said the vicar’s wife. “But the farmers have cleared the road down to the village and the A44 has been salted and gritted. I left a lamb casserole on your doorstep. All you need to do is heat it up.”
    Agatha thanked her and turned to John. “That was my friend, Mrs. Bloxby. She’s left one of her famous lamb casseroles for me. Why don’t you come back with me and we’ll have dinner at my place?”
    â€œI’d love to, but I don’t have snow tyres,” said John.
    â€œI do,” said Agatha, her mind full of romance. “I’ll run you to Carsely and then take you home.”
    *   *   *
    Agatha’s head was crowded with dreams as she drove home. She would suggest he stay the night … and then … and then …
    The casserole was on the doorstep under a wooden box. Agatha carried it in, lit the oven and put it in.
    James, who had been worried about her, had seen her arrival from his window. He phoned Charles.
    â€œAgatha has just arrived home with an exceptionally handsome man. Do you know who he is?”
    â€œHaven’t a clue,” said Charles. “I may run over and join the party. Maybe later.”
    *   *   *
    Agatha and John had a pleasant dinner. Agatha had found a good bottle of wine and then produced a bottle of brandy. John seemed to enjoy chatting about the school and Agatha loved watching his face.
    Then he said, “We’ve been drinking rather a lot. Do you think you can really drive me home?”
    â€œWhy not stay the night?” said Agatha. “I have a spare room.”
    He smiled. “I am rather tired.”
    â€œI can take you back in the morning.”
    *   *   *
    Bustling about in a housewifely way, quite unlike her usual behaviour, Agatha found him clean towels and one of Charles’s dressing gowns he had left behind on his last visit.
    She stood hopefully outside his bedroom door. “I hope you have a good night’s sleep,” she said.
    â€œI’m sure I will.” He bent down, kissed her on the cheek and retreated into the spare room.
    â€œSnakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha, stumping off to her own