The Blood of an Englishman Read Online Free

some maniac from outside.”
    â€œThank you for your time, Miz Turner.”
    â€œDon’t you want to come in for a little drinkie?”
    â€œNo, got to get on.”
    Agatha retreated to the parlour. Pixie came in looking sulky and was about to sit down when the doorbell rang again.
    â€œMaybe they’re back,” she said eagerly.
    But this time, Agatha heard a voice say, “ Mircester Echo. ”
    Pixie tripped in followed by a reporter and cameraman. Agatha recognised the reporter, Chris Jenty.
    â€œWhy, Mrs, Raisin,” he cried. “What a bit of luck.”
    â€œShe’s just leaving.” Pixie’s eyes bored into Agatha’s face.
    â€œHow right you are,” said Agatha with a smile. As she headed for the door, the reporter and cameraman followed her. “Come back!” wailed Pixie.
    The slamming of her front door was the only answer.
    â€œLet’s go for a drink,” said Chris. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
    When they were settled over drinks in a corner of the Jolly Beggar pub in the main street, Chris said, “You first.”
    Agatha told him what she had found out about the rigged trap, that the village gossip had suggested Pixie was the murderer, but that she hadn’t got very far.
    â€œWho’s paying you to investigate this?” asked Chris.
    â€œCan’t tell you,” said Agatha. “What have you got?”
    â€œI’ve got a report of flaming rows between Bert Simple and Gareth Craven.”
    Agatha stared at him while her mind worked furiously. Once, before she had made a name for herself as a detective, she had been hired by a murderer who thought her incompetent and that the very act of hiring her might make him look innocent.
    â€œThat’s interesting,” she said cautiously.
    â€œAll I can dig up at the moment. Have you seen Mrs. Simple?”
    â€œI might try,” said Agatha. “I hope she’s not too sedated.”

 
    Chapter Two
    But when she left the pub, Agatha decided it was time she found out more about Gareth Craven. If he were retired, he must have private means or other work to be able to afford her fees.
    She found his address and looked up his street on her iPad. It was quite close to the pub so she decided to walk. His home was in a narrow lane leading off the high street. It was in a terrace of seventeenth-century buildings that leant together as if trying to prop each other up. There were no gardens at the front of the houses.
    As she raised her hand to ring the bell, she paused as a pleasant tenor voice sounded from inside the house, singing, “Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes” from Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Gondoliers.
    Agatha waited until the end of the song and firmly rang the bell.
    Gareth answered the door. He had a charming smile, reflected Agatha.
    â€œWas that you singing?” asked Agatha.
    â€œYes, I’m in amateur theatricals, for my sins.”
    Agatha’s hormones gave a little sigh of disappointment. People who said “for my sins,” in Agatha’s opinion, had gnomes in the garden and avocado bathroom suites.
    â€œCome in,” said Gareth, standing aside to let her pass. “Turn left.”
    Agatha found herself in a small front parlour. Like Pixie, he had the walls and tables festooned with photographs of himself. She could understand people having family groups on display, but it did look like an excess of vanity to have so many pictures of oneself. Still, she reflected, maybe it was healthier than her own dislike of her appearance. She could remember, as a child, praying that she would wake up one morning with curly blond hair and green eyes.
    â€œI belong to the Mircester Savoy Players,” said Gareth. “You must come and see us. Sometimes I either sing or produce. I’m producing The Mikado .”
    â€œMaybe another time,” said Agatha. “Have you heard anything more that