The Blood of an Englishman Read Online Free PDF Page A

ground with the local fellows?” he asked.
    â€œNo. I’ve just been assaulted by the blacksmith’s wife. I need junk food. I’m going to the nearest McDonald’s.”
    Charles went round the other side of her car and let himself into the passenger seat. “The nearest McDonald’s is in Evesham,” he said.
    â€œDon’t care,” muttered Agatha, switching on the engine. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get there.”
    *   *   *
    â€œRather like some sex,” said Charles, wiping his fingers after disposing of a Big Mac. “Better in the anticipation than the reality.”
    Do you mean sex with me? Agatha wanted to ask, but feared the answer and started to talk about the little she knew about the case. A lump of earth she had missed fell out of her hair onto the table. An employee rushed forward with a damp cloth and cleared it up.
    â€œSo why did the blacksmith’s wife throw a clod of earth at you?” asked Charles.
    A shaft of sunlight came through the window and lit up his neat, composed features, barbered hair and tailored clothes.
    â€œI think she’s one of those martyrs,” said Agatha bitterly. “I bet if I’d got her out of there and she got a divorce, the next thing you know, she’d be off with the same sort of man. She’s eminently beatable. You know the type. They crave sympathy like a drug. I think the blacksmith did it. He was the one that put the trap in.”
    â€œThe way you’ve described it,” said Charles, “makes the whole village seem suspect. Why don’t you get Toni to help you?”
    Agatha fought down a pang of jealousy. “I suppose I could do with some assistance,” she said. “I wonder whether I can get near the wife now.”
    â€œNo time like the present,” said Charles. “But I warn you. She is probably surrounded by helpful neighbours who won’t let us near her.”
    *   *   *
    When they drove away from Evesham, the sky had turned leaden grey. “Looks like snow,” said Charles.
    â€œSurely not,” said Agatha. “What about global warming?”
    â€œThat’s up at the North Pole. Nobody told the weather gods to lay off the Costwolds.”
    Agatha drove along the main street of Winter Parva and then suddenly stopped with a screech of brakes. “What happened?” asked Charles.
    â€œLook!” exclaimed Agatha. “The baker’s shop is open.”
    â€œProbably some help.”
    â€œI’ll park and have a look inside anyway,” said Agatha. “Why can one never see a parking place in these villages?”
    â€œThere’s one right there.”
    â€œYou forget. I need a parking place the size of a truck.”
    â€œLet me at the wheel and I’ll park for you.”
    The parking expertly effected, they both got out and walked into the shop. A tall, slim young man with a sensitive face was serving customers, aided by a small, chubby girl with rosy cheeks.
    Agatha and Charles inched forward until they were at the counter. “Are you Walt Simple?” asked Agatha.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMy condolences on your sad loss.”
    â€œWant to buy anything?” he asked.
    â€œI am a private detective, Agatha Raisin, employed by Gareth Craven to find the murderer of your father. Is it possible to have a word with your mother?”
    â€œMum’s in the back shop, having a break.” He lifted a flap on the counter. “Go through.”
    He led the way past gleaming ovens and into a small parlour where Gwen Simple sat, drinking tea.
    The baker’s wife looked as if she had stepped down from a mediaeval painting. She had blond hair worn in an old-fashioned chignon which gleamed in the soft light from a table lamp beside her. She had a dead-white face, a long thin nose and thick hooded lids, shielding brown eyes. Her wool dress of green and gold was