“I’ve never had my hair up before. I’ve always had it short.”

He clicked his tongue. “Ladies who don’t think as much of themselves as they should, always get their hair cut short. Show me a woman with her hair cut to the bone and I’ll show you an example of really low self-worth. Tell you what, if you don’t like it, I’ll take it down again and cut it.”

Agatha reluctantly gave her approval although she could feel sweat trickling down her body. How did Mr. John keep so cool?

She was just beginning to feel she had been under the hot drier for hours when she was rescued and taken back to Mr. John.

As he worked busily away, Agatha looked in delight as her new appearance emerged. Her hair was glossy and brown once more, but swept up in a French pleat and then arranged around her square face in a way that made it looked thinner. She forgot about the heat. She smiled up at Mr. John in sheer gratitude.

It was only when she was walking back down the High Street, squinting in shop windows to admire her reflection, that she realized she had not made another appointment. But Agatha had mostly done her own hair, getting it cut in London on her occasional visits.

Once home, she opened all the doors and windows to try to let in some fresh air. Her two cats darted out into the garden and then promptly lay down on the grass, lethargic in the sun.

She looked at her silent phone. To add to her depression, it never seemed to ring. Her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong was on holiday; Sir Charles Fraith, with whom she had been involved on a couple of cases, was abroad somewhere; James Lacey was God only knew where; and even Roy Silver, her former employee, had not troubled to ring.

Then she remembered there was to be a meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society that evening. A good opportunity to show off her new hair-style.

Mrs. Bloxby was hosting the society at the vicarage and because of the heat had set out chairs and tables in the vicarage garden.