A receptionist marked off Agatha’s name in the book and called to a thin, pimply girl to escort Agatha to the salon. Agatha began to wish she had not come. She trudged through to a room at the back and the girl said she would fetch Mr. John.

Agatha gazed sullenly at her reflection in the mirror. She felt old and frumpy.

Then suddenly behind her in the mirror, a vision appeared and a pleasant voice said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Raisin. I’m Mr. John.”

Agatha blinked. Mr. John was tall and very, very handsome. He had thick blond hair and very bright blue eyes, startlingly blue, as blue as a kingfisher’s wing. His face was lightly tanned.

“Now what have we here,” he said.

“We have purple hair,” snapped Agatha, feeling diminished in front of this handsome vision.

“It’s easily remedied. Would you also like me to style your hair?”

Agatha, who usually kept her hair short, had let it grow quite long. She shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Why not?”

“You’re not local, are you?” Mr. John stirred the hair tint with strong, well-manicured hands.

“No, I’m from London.” Agatha had no intention of telling Mr. John or anyone about her childhood background in a Birmingham slum. “I had my own public relations business and sold up and took early retirement and moved to Carsely.”

“Pretty village.”

“Yes, very pleasant.”

“And does your husband like it?”

“My husband is dead.”

His hands hovered above her head. “Raisin. Raisin? That name rings a bell.”

“It should do. He was murdered.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. How terrible for you.”

“I’m over it now. I hadn’t seen him in years anyway.”

“Well, an attractive lady like yourself won’t remain single for long.”