Fine. Ready to go. One more look in the mirror. Damn. She was wearing a black bra and it showed through the white cotton. Off with the blouse, on with a white bra, blouse back on again.

Resolutely not looking in the mirror this time, Agatha darted down the stairs.

“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” said Paul.

“I haven’t gone to any trouble,” growled Agatha.

“You were away ages and I thought…Never mind. Let’s get going. You’d better take a pair of wellingtons.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s still foot-and-mouth around and she may live near a farm and we might have to wade through disinfectant.”

“Right,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a pair by the door. Whose car? Yours or mine?”

“I’ll drive.”

His car was a vintage MG. Agatha groaned inwardly as she lowered herself down into the low seat. She felt as if she were sitting on the road. He set off with a roar and Agatha’s hair blew forward about her face.

“Why is it in films,” she said, “that the heroine in an open car always has her hair streaming behind her?”

“Because she’s filmed in a stationary car in a studio with a film of landscape rolling behind her and a studio fan directed on her hair. If it’s bothering you, I can stop and put the top up.”

“No,” said Agatha sourly. “The damage is done. Whereabouts in Hebberdon does this Mrs. Witherspoon live?”

“Ivy Cottage, Bag End.”

Agatha fell silent as the countryside streamed past, the ruined countryside, the countryside destroyed by foot-and-mouth. If she had still been in London, she wouldn’t have given a damn. But somehow she now felt she belonged in the countryside and what happened there affected her deeply.

Hebberdon was a tiny picturesque village nestling at the foot of a valley. There were no shops, one pub, and a huddle of cottages. Paul stopped the car and looked around. “I’ll knock at one of the doors and ask where Bag End is.”

Agatha fished out a cigarette and lit up. There was a hole where she guessed the ashtray used to be. Still, it was an open car. He could hardly object.