Free Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham by M.C. Beaton

blue, as ever.
    ‘Have you thought any more about my business proposition?’ he asked.
    Agatha flexed her public relations muscles. She described how she thought they should go big from the word go, open in Bond Street, say. She outlined how she would go about rousing interest so
she could get it into as many newspapers as possible. ‘And do you know what we’ll call it?’
    ‘I thought just Mr John.’
    ‘No, we’ll call it the Wizard of Evesham.’
    He looked at her thoughtfully and then began to laugh. ‘I like that. It’s catchy. I like it a lot.’
    All afternoon, they talked busily. Then he sent out for Chinese food. Before dinner, he opened a bottle of pills and popped two in his mouth. ‘Is that your medicine?’ asked
Agatha.
    ‘No, they’re vitamin pills, a multi-vitamin called Lifex. I swear by them. I keep a supply in the shop. You should try them.’
    Agatha picked up the bottle and shook one out. ‘I’m not very good at swallowing pills,’ she said, looking at the large brown gelatine capsule in her hand. ‘I would choke
on something this size. What do they do for you?’
    ‘I find they give me a lot of energy. Let’s eat.’
    They talked busily over dinner, firing ideas for their new venture back and forth across the table. Agatha at last said reluctantly that she should get home.
    If he had asked her to stay with him, Agatha probably would have succumbed, but he only gathered her back into his arms as he said goodnight and again sent her senses spinning with one of those
kisses, fuelling the hopelessly romantic side of Agatha to boiling point.
    She decided as she drove dreamily home that all her suspicions of him had been unfounded. What were they based on after all? One frightened village woman who had probably had a crush on him, had
probably written him a silly love letter or something like that and her bad-tempered husband had found out.
    There was a message from Charles on her Call Minder but she did not want to phone him, did not want anything to burst the rosy bubble in which she floated. Mr John – no, John – stop calling him that silly hairdresser’s name – had said he had taken the liberty of making an appointment for her for the following day. Soon she would see him again.
    Agatha in love meant an Agatha who could not make up her mind what to wear. Although she started her preparations early the next day, she at last left in a rush, wearing a coat over a sweater
and skirt and having torn off more dressy ensembles, feeling she looked as if she were trying too hard.
    She would need to steer him to a good interior decorator, she thought, looking round the salon in a proprietorial way. And no receptionist like the dreadful Josie, but no one too glamorous
either.
    She was shampooed and with a dithering feeling of anticipation was led through to Mr John.
    ‘Agatha,’ he said, giving her a warm smile. He pressed her shoulders and then gripped them hard.
    She looked, startled, at his reflection in the mirror. Under the bruises, his face was an unhealthy red colour.
    ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered. He fled to the toilet. The tape deck was playing a selection of sixties pop. The Beatles were belting out ‘She’s got a ticket to ride’,
filling the salon with noisy sound. The number finished and then Agatha and everyone else could hear retching sounds coming from the toilet.
    Agatha went through and knocked at the door and called, ‘What’s the matter?’
    Another bout of dreadful retching answered her. She was joined by the assistant, Garry.
    ‘He sounds terribly ill,’ said Agatha. She rattled the door handle.
    ‘John! John! Let me in.’
    She was answered by a loud tearing groan. Then crashing noises.
    ‘Break open the door!’ she shouted at Garry.
    The willowy Garry threw himself against it but succeeded only in hurting his shoulder.
    Agatha was joined by the other customers. Maggie was amongst them, she noticed.
    ‘Get me a screwdriver or chisel,’ said Agatha.