Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

‘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.’
    ‘I am sure you mean well and that’s what you say to all your dreary customers,’ said Agatha tetchily, ‘but I am well aware of what I look like.’
    ‘Ah, but I haven’t done your hair before. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be fighting them off with clubs.’
    Agatha suddenly laughed. ‘You’re very sure of your skill.’
    ‘I have every reason to be.’
    ‘So if you’re that good, why Evesham?’
    ‘Why not? I like Evesham. The people are nice. I am king here. I might be lost among the competition in London. There you are. Now, I’ll set the timer. Sharon, a coffee and some magazines for Mrs Raisin.’
    A woman had entered and was sitting in the chair alongside Agatha. ‘Ready to have your colour done again, Maggie?’ Mr John greeted her.
    ‘If you think so,’ said Maggie, gazing up at him with adoring eyes.
    ‘Did your husband like the new style?’
    ‘He doesn’t like anything about me.’ Maggie’s voice had taken on a querulous moan. ‘Insults from morning to night. I tell you, John, if it weren’t for you bucking me up, I’d kill myself.’
    ‘There, now. You’ll feel better when I’ve finished with you.’
    As Agatha waited for the tint to take effect and more customers were dealt with, some by a couple of assistants, Agatha was amazed at the personal revelations that were poured into the hairdressers’ ears.
    She covertly watched Mr John as he moved about, admiring his athletic body and his blond hair, and oh, those blue, blue eyes.
    Agatha began to feel alive for the first time in weeks.
    The timer rang and she was escorted through to a hand-basin and the tint was washed out. Then back to Mr John, who began to put her hair up in rollers.
    ‘I thought it would be a blow-dry.’
    ‘I’m going to put your hair up . . . Agatha. It is Agatha, isn’t it?’
    A less glorious-looking hairdresser would have been told sharply that it was Mrs Raisin. Agatha nodded.
    ‘You’ll love it.’
    ‘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