The Blood of an Englishman by M. C. Beaton Page A

might judge Agatha’s appearance to be that of an attractive woman, but Agatha always wished she looked younger, thinner and glamorous.
    The newspapers were full of the gruesome story of the beheading of George. There was a long interview in the Daily Mail with Gareth Craven. “Shock upon shock and blah, blah, blah,” muttered Agatha. She read on. Gwen Simple and her son had declared themselves too upset to speak to the press. Pixie Turner was only given one line and no photo. She’ll be furious, thought Agatha.
    Toni suddenly said, “You were asking about John Hale?”
    â€œYes. What?” asked Agatha.
    â€œThere’s a bit about him in The Guardian . It says he is not available for comment. The reporter says there is a mystery as to why he let George Southern take his place in The Mikado. He was not to be found at home or at the home of his ex-wife, Olivia.”
    â€œLet me see that,” said Agatha sharply. Toni handed the newspaper to Agatha, open at the article. Agatha quickly read it. John’s ex-wife lived in Oxford. Agatha raised her eyebrows. He had a son. Olivia was quoted as having said that she had not seen her husband for four years. Any communication was done through her lawyer.
    Why had he not told her about his ex-wife and son? But then, she had not told him about her first marriage, which had dramatically ended in murder. She conjured up a picture of John’s beauty. Oh, what prestige to have a husband who looked like that!
    â€œThanks,” she said gruffly and turned to the other newspapers. “Here’s something interesting in The Times, Toni. That blacksmith was the one who sharpened the sword. I’d like another word with him when all the fuss dies down. I won’t be able to get near anyone at the moment until the press go away again.”
    â€œDo you want me to try to see John Hale?” asked Toni.
    â€œNo!” said Agatha sharply. “But what we could do is try to see Gareth Craven. I’d like to know what you make of him. If there are too many press around his door, we’ll leave it.”
    The temporary thaw was over and piles of dingy slush were piled up on either side of the roads. The sky was dark grey and more snow was forecast. Agatha drove both of them to Winter Parva. She was wearing a body stocking for the first time. She had enjoyed looking at her slim figure in the mirror that morning but now her skin under the body stocking was beginning to itch and she felt uncomfortable and constricted.
    Satellite dishes, cables and television vans littered the main street of Winter Parva. There were very few journalists in sight. “They’re probably in the pub somewhere,” said Agatha.
    â€œThis early?” said Toni.
    â€œIt’s bang on eleven o’clock,” remarked Agatha. “The witching hour for all of the media. Here we are at Gareth’s place and not a reporter in sight. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.”
    They rang the bell. “Go away!” shouted a voice from inside.
    Agatha bent down and called through the letterbox. “It’s me. Agatha.”
    There came the sound of the door being unlocked. Gareth opened it and said urgently, “Come in. I thought you were the press.”
    Agatha introduced Toni. “You are much too beautiful to be a detective,” beamed Gareth.
    â€œWhy, thank you,” said Agatha sarcastically. “The latest I’ve heard from the newspapers is that George Southern had that sword sharpened by the blacksmith.”
    â€œThat’s right. The silly man was fooling around with it.”
    â€œBut what did the man who played the part of the Lord High Executioner have to say about it?”
    â€œColin Blain. It seems he was in on the joke. They meant people to get a fright afterwards. He said he never thought the girls would look at it on the stage. We’re going to open again next week and I’m glad to say that