“I know,” he said. “The Jolly Roger at Ancombe, that new pub.”

“I haven’t been there and I don’t like the sound of it.”

“Friend of mine went the other week. Said the food was good. Besides, they’ve got a garden with tables. By the way, I saw that detective friend of yours in Mircester; what’s his name, Chinese chap?”

“Bill Wong. But he’s on holiday!”

“I suppose he’s taking it at home. Had a girl on his arm.”

And he hasn’t phoned me, thought Agatha. Bill had been her first friend, the old, tougher Agatha, driven by career and ambition, never having had any time before to make friends. She could feel the old black edges of that depression hovering on the horizon of her mind.

They set out for Ancombe and parked outside the Jolly Roger, formerly called the Green Man. Inside it was everything that shouted poor food to Agatha-fishing nets, murals of pirates, and waiters and barmen dressed in striped tops and knee-breeches with plastic “silver” buckles. Charles led the way through to the garden, which was at least a fraction cooler than the inside. A roguish waiter who introduced himself as Henry handed them two large, gaudily coloured menus.

“Oh, shit,” grumbled Agatha. “Listen to this. Captain Hook’s scrumptious potato dip. And what about Barbary Coast Chicken with sizzling Long John corn fritters?”

Henry the waiter was hovering. “Do you remember when they were called hens, and chickens were the fluffy little yellow things?” asked Agatha.

“And now all mutton is lamb, dear,” said Henry with a giggle.

Agatha eyed him with disfavour. “Just shove off and stop twitching and grinning and we’ll call you when we’re ready.”

“Well, really, I never did.” Henry tossed his head.

“The fact that you haven’t lost your virginity is nothing to do with me. Go away.”