“Okay, I’ll take it.”

He stuffed the dress in an old plastic bag.

“Hot, isn’t it?” Agatha handed over the money.

“And don’t tell me I ought to be used to it,” he said gloomily. “I was born in Birmingham.”

Agatha was about to say, “So was I,” but then left the words unsaid. She was ashamed of her background.

She tried on the dress as soon as she got home. It was very attractive and, once she had added a thick gold necklace, looked quite expensive.

Now for Mr. John.

Evesham seemed even hotter than Mircester. Agatha suddenly wished she had her old, simple hair-style which she could wash and arrange herself.

But there was Mr. John, cool and handsome as ever. “Got a date?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Anyone special?”

Agatha could not resist bragging.

“Actually, he’s a baronet.”

“Very grand. Which baronet?”

“Sir Charles Fraith.”

“And how did you come to meet him?”

Agatha was about to say, “On a case,” but she did not like the implication that such as Agatha Raisin could not know anyone with a title, so she said airily, “He’s in my set.”

And hope that shuts you up, she thought.

“Pity,” he said.

“What’s a pity?”

“You’ll think this very forward of me, but I was thinking of asking you out myself.”

“Why?” asked Agatha in surprise.

“You’re a very attractive woman.”

And a rich one, thought Agatha cynically. But then Mr. John was so very handsome with his intense blue eyes and blond hair. If James came back and if James saw them going out together, perhaps he would be jealous; perhaps he would be prompted into saying huskily, “I always loved you, Agatha.”

“Sorry.” Mr. John dug a pin into the back of Agatha’s hair and her rosy dream burst like a brightly coloured soap bubble.

“Perhaps some evening,” said Agatha cautiously. “Let me think about it.”

But his invitation gave her a warm little glow, and he was a wizard at fashioning her hair into that elegant style.