The Blood of an Englishman Read Online Free PDF

long. Her hands were very white with long, tapered fingers.
    â€œMum,” said Walt, “this is that detective woman. I’ve got to get back to the shop.”
    â€œMay we sit down?” asked Agatha.
    Gwen nodded.
    â€œThis is a colleague of mine, Charles Fraith. I am Agatha Raisin. We are so sorry for your loss. Have you any idea who might have done such a dreadful thing?”
    â€œNo. You must have tea. Wait.”
    Charles watched Gwen, fascinated, as the woman’s white fingers put tea into a pot and added boiling water from a kettle steaming on the Aga cooker in the corner. Her movements seemed to flow. It was like watching a sort of tea-making ballet. When she had put the tea with cups and saucers on the plain wooden table along with milk and sugar, she went to the fridge and produced a plate of iced buns filled with fresh cream and strawberry jam.
    â€œYou must try this,” she said in a gentle Gloucester accent. “The strawberry jam is my own.”
    Charles did not much like sweet things but he felt almost hypnotised into taking a bun.
    â€œThis is delicious,” he said.
    She smiled warmly at him, a small thin curved smile. “Mrs. Raisin?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” said Agatha. “Got to watch my figure.” Agatha’s mind was working busily. There was no sense of mourning in this house.
    â€œDo you miss your husband?” she asked bluntly.
    Gwen raised pencil-thin eyebrows, suddenly making Agatha feel crude and clumsy.
    â€œOf course,” she said. “But it is all too horrible to take in, so Walt and I go on as usual. I will be glad when the body is released and we can mourn properly.”
    â€œWho would want to murder your husband?” asked Charles.
    â€œI can’t believe that anyone would,” she said. “Everyone liked and respected Bert.”
    â€œBut Mr. Crosswith said that your husband had affairs.”
    Those heavy lids masked her eyes for a moment. Then she looked steadily at Agatha. “Please leave. You are upsetting me. This is nothing more than malicious gossip.”
    â€œWe are very sorry,” said Charles. “But we must ask these awful questions.”
    â€œI do not want to speak to you anymore.” She rose to her feet.
    Charles took her hand. “If there is anything we can do…”
    She smiled faintly. “I will let you know. But not her.”
    Charles handed Gwen his card and ushered Agatha out through the shop.
    â€œDon’t say anything until we get in the car,” muttered Charles. “You look ready to explode.”
    *   *   *
    â€œWhat a creepy phoney!” exclaimed Agatha, as soon as Charles was in the driving seat. “I bet she did it.”
    â€œHow could she manage all the technicalities?” said Charles. “But I tell you one thing. La Belle Dame sans Merci is the sort of woman most men would kill for.”
    â€œLa Bell … who?”
    â€œIt’s a poem by John Keats about a knight who is seduced by a fairy.”
    â€œShe’s just an ordinary housewife,” said Agatha jealously.
    â€œCome on, Aggie. She looks as if she’d stepped down from a tapestry.”
    â€œWell, you must admit, Charles, the lack of mourning is most odd.”
    â€œShock takes people strange ways.”
    â€œI do believe you’re smitten.”
    Charles grinned. “You’re jealous because she can make strawberry jam and bake while you just nuke stuff in the microwave.”
    â€œI think her son does the baking and that jam was probably made by a local. I don’t believe a word that woman says.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Agatha, I’ll hear from her quite soon.”
    â€œBig-headed, aren’t you?”
    â€œNot at all. She will study my card and see the title. She will look me up on the Internet and find I am not married. She wants the best for her son. Oh, let’s go and interview someone else.