Agatha made her way out to her car which she had parked on a double yellow line. “Look where that car’s parked!” hissed a woman at her ear.

Agatha swung round. A dumpy, frumpy woman with thick glasses was glaring at her. Agatha shrugged, walked to her car and opened the door.

“It’s yours!” gasped the woman. “Don’t you know it’s illegal to park there?”

Agatha turned and faced her. “I am not obstructing the traffic or getting in anyone’s way,” she said evenly. “Nor am I responsible for the mad parking arrangements of Evesham or for the stupid one-way system. But I wonder where someone like you gets off on this hot day abusing motorists. Go home, have a cup of tea, put your feet up. Get a life!”

And deaf to the insults that began to pour about her ears, Agatha got in and drove off.

Charles arrived promptly at eight o’clock. He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Like the hair, Aggie. And the dress. In fact, I bought a dress like that in the market in Mircester this afternoon for my aunt. She’s was grumbling about not having anything cool to wear.”

“I bought this one in Harrods,” lied Agatha. “The one in the market must have been a cheap copy.” But her pleasure in her appearance had diminished. “Where are we eating?”

“I thought we would go to the Little Chef.” The Little Chef is a chain of eateries, rather like Howard Johnson’s in the States, reliable, but hardly glamorous.

“I am not being taken out to a Little Chef. You are cheap, Charles.”

“I like the food,” he said defensively. “I suppose you want foreign muck. Well, give me a whisky while I think of something.”

Agatha poured him a whisky and he settled in a chair cradling his glass between small, well-manicured hands. He was a slight, fair-haired man. Agatha had never known his age. He had mild, sensitive features and she had originally thought he might be only in his late thirties. But she had later decided he was probably in his mid-forties. He was wearing a shirt open at the neck and had slung his jacket over a chair.