Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

∨ The Love from Hell ∧

8

ROY Silver was delighted to accept Agatha’s invitation. He felt it was very trendy to tell his colleagues in the office that he was popping down to the Cotswolds for the weekend.

Agatha met him at Moreton-in-Marsh station on the Friday evening. “Not much of a glad welcome,” said Roy, looking at her sour face. “What’s up?”

“May I refresh your memory? James is God knows where and suspected of murder and I’m not in the clear myself. My house and James’s were ransacked. The murderer is out there, and for all I know, I’m the next victim. Furthermore, Charles was supposed to help me in my moment of peril and he’s buggered off to his estates.”

Roy slung a thin arm around her shoulders. “Never mind, you’ve got me.”

Agatha repressed a sigh. Roy looked thinner and weedier and more white-faced than ever. He was wearing designer jeans and fake crocodile boots with high heels. She had not warned him about the fête, worried that if she did, he would not come, and she did not like being on her own.

“You must tell me all about the murder,” said Roy, teetering on his heels towards her car.

“Aren’t those boots terribly uncomfortable?” said Agatha.

“Yes, but they give me height.”

“You don’t need height. You’re tall enough. Not really suitable for down here.”

Roy paused, one hand on the car door, looking stricken. “You think so?”

“Great for London,” said Agatha consolingly, “but not here. Sling your case in the back.”

“I’ve got moccasins and sneakers in my case,” said Roy, as Agatha drove off. “So who did it?”

“I don’t know. But when we get home, I’ll fix you a drink and tell you all I know.”

They chatted about people they knew in the PR business, but as Agatha swung off the A-44 and down the Carsely road, Roy saw a large board: VILLAGE FETE.

“What a coincidence, sweetie,” said Roy in a suspicious voice. “There always seems to be a fête on when I come down here.”

“Isn’t the weather hot and stuffy?” said Agatha.

She was conscious of Roy glaring at her. “The fête. You’re working at it and you’ve put me down to work as well. Remember that time you had me dressed up as a jester and had me cavorting around? Never again.”

“It’s just the tombola stand,” said Agatha soothingly. “Only an hour or two.”

“Or three or four,” said Roy waspishly. “And the prizes! Old tins of sardines, brunette hair shampoo, plastic flowers.”

“Well, I’m doing the white elephant stall.”

“I must say, that’s worse.”

“Not this year. I went round the rich of Gloucestershire and got them to contribute something worthwhile. It is for charity. The nouveau riche don’t give a damn, but the old guard of the county always feel obliged to give something. Then I spread the word around that there were treasures to be found at the white elephant stall. The buyers will be turning up in droves, and not only them. So many people watch the Antiques Roadshow on telly, and think that they too can be the lucky one with the bit of priceless Staffordshire that they just managed to pick up at a boot sale. Cheer up, Roy. Gives you a bit of cache. I’ll see if I can get you a write-up in one of the locals: ‘Young London Exec Does His Bit at Village Fête.’“

Roy brightened. “That would do me no end of good at the office.”

Agatha parked outside her cottage. “James’s cottage looks as if it’s about to fall down,” commented Roy as he got out of the car.

“It’s the thatch. Needs doing,” said Agatha. “But thatching costs a mint, so I keep putting it off in the hope that he’ll turn up and do it himself.”

Once they were both settled in the sitting-room with large drinks, Agatha began to tell Roy about the murder and all she and Charles had found out.

“It’s Dewey,” said Roy, when she had finished. “Mark my words: it’s Dewey. How creepy! I mean, the police think the murder wasn’t committed in a burst of passion. Someone took the trouble to bring a vacuum with them, for heaven’s sake. Look at the way Dewey drugged Melissa and then threatened her.”

“But he was clear of her,” said Agatha patiently.

“You don’t know that,” exclaimed Roy, wriggling with excitement. “I mean, she could have turned up to pester him, for all you knew. I would like to meet him. Why don’t I go over to his shop tomorrow – ”

“There’s the fête.”

“Let me off the hook. This is important.”

“I can’t let you back out now.”

“Can’t you just imagine I didn’t turn up? They’d have to find someone else.”

“Let’s compromise,” said Agatha. “You work at the fête and I’ll take you to where Dewey lives. Or you can phone him on Sunday and say you’re an avid collector and only down for the day.”

“Oh, all right. What’s for dinner?”

“I’ll have a look in the freezer.”

“I thought you’d moved on from the microwave.”

“I’ve moved back.”

Agatha rose and went into the kitchen and lifted the lid of the deep freeze. There were things down there, she thought, that must have been bought ages ago. She wished she had put labels on them. She decided to defrost two freezer boxes from the bottom.

“We’re having pot luck,” she called out, putting the two boxes into the microwave to defrost.

She set the kitchen table – Agatha hardly ever used the dining room – and then, when the microwave pinged, she took the two packages out and prised open the lids.

“Jackpot,” she said cheerfully. She remembered Mrs. Bloxby giving her an enormous casserole of savoury stew and dumplings and she had put the remainder into the two freezer boxes. No need for Roy to know she hadn’t cooked the stew herself. She tipped the contents into an attractive oven dish she had never before used and lit the oven. Then she put two baking potatoes in the microwave and joined Roy.

“Won’t be long,” she said. “I was only joking about the microwave. I’ve been slaving away all day over a casserole on your behalf. It’s a recipe I got from Mrs. Bloxby.”

Roy admitted that dinner had impressed him. Agatha, after she had stacked the dishwasher, was anxious to return to talking about the murder because during dinner they had chatted about old times, but all Roy would say was that he was sure Dewey had done it, and did not want to discuss Agatha’s favourite – Sheppard.

At last, Agatha suggested an early night because they both had to get up in time to set up their stalls in the morning. She set the newly repaired burglar alarm, and with a feeling of relief that she was not alone in the house, fell into a deep and refreshing sleep.

♦

In the morning, murder and mayhem seemed very far away. It was a perfect English summer’s day, bright sunlight and not too hot. After breakfast, she and Roy walked to the church hall. To Agatha’s relief, Roy was so depressed at the idea of working at the fête that he was wearing an old pair of jeans with a shirt and sweater and sensible shoes. She herself was wearing a pale biscuit-coloured trouser-suit with high-heeled strapped sandals. A warning voice in her head was telling her she would regret the high heels before the end of the day, but she had a nagging dream that the missing James would walk into the fête and she did not want the frumpish feel that flat shoes always gave her.

The white elephant stand was next to the tombola. While Roy made acid comments about the cheapness of the items contributed to his stall, Agatha unpacked her collection, putting the usual old recycled Carsely junk to the front of the stall and the good items at the back. As she had guessed, the collectors and antique dealers were circling around early. Agatha unpacked slowly. She had invited the local press and did not want to start selling until they had arrived. She unpacked a box from a local manor-house that had been contributed at the last minute and so far she had not had time to examine the contents. There was a small dark oil painting of ships on the sea, badly in need of restoration. Agatha suddenly wished she knew more about antiques. The picture might turn out to be valuable. There were several china ornaments, most of them cracked or chipped, and then, at the bottom of the box, something wrapped in tissue. She took it out and unwrapped it – and then nearly dropped it. Looking up at her out of the tissue-paper wrapping was an eighteenth-century doll. It was either the twin of the doll that Dewey loved so much, or somehow he had decided to sell it to the owners of the manor-house and they had given it to the sale.

She called Roy over and showed him the doll. “This is the one Dewey is in love with,” she hissed.

“Where did it come from?” asked Roy.

“A manor-house over Longborough way. Rats! I just knocked at the door and asked for contributions. Don’t even know their name.”

Roy looked excited. “Phone Dewey and get him over here. Can it be the same one?”

“It looks the same to me. But I can’t imagine Dewey parting with it. Get me a phone book. There should be one over at the back of the church hall next to the kitchen.”

She waited impatiently until Roy came back with the phone book. She scanned the pages until she found the number of Dewey’s shop and phoned it. Roy fidgeted impatiently while Agatha spoke rapidly into the phone. When she rang off, she turned gleaming eyes to him. “It’s not his but he’s locking up the shop and coming over. I don’t know the price of these things. I wish I knew more about antiques. I could be selling old masters for a few pounds, for all I know.”

“Make it an auction,” said Roy. “Announce that because there are valuable items on the stall, you will start the auction at eleven o’clock. Take that big card which says WHITE ELEPHANT STALL, turn it over and write AUCTION in big letters.”

Agatha did as she was told and then waited and waited. Buyers circled around, trying to purchase things, but Agatha remained adamant. They would just need to wait until the auction started. She got Mrs. Bloxby to organize a microphone for her.

When the press arrived, she tipped them off – hopefully – that she meant to gain thousands from the auction and then introduced them to Roy, describing him as a top London executive.

Dewey arrived just before eleven o’clock. “Where’s the doll?” he asked.

“You’ll need to wait for the auction,” said Agatha.

“Just let me see it!” There was a light film of sweat over his face and his eyes were glittering.

Agatha held it up. He drew in a sharp breath. “I’ll give you two hundred for it.”

“You’ll need to wait with the others,” said Agatha firmly.

On the stroke of eleven, Agatha started the auction with the oil painting. She felt like an amateur. She did not even know the name of the painter because the painting was so dirty, the signature was obscured. But she bravely spoke up. “Who’ll give me one hundred pounds? Starting the bidding at one hundred.”

The large crowd shifted and swayed. A man scratched his eyebrow. Was that a bid?

“As we have professionals here as well as non-professionals,” called Agatha, “instead of signalling, I must ask you to shout out your bids.”

Silence. Then the man who had scratched his eyebrow called out, “One hundred and fifty.”

Silence again. Wasn’t bad for a ratty old painting, thought Agatha, picking up her hammer, a kitchen hammer, as no auctioneer’s gavel had been available. “Going, going…”

“Two hundred,” called another voice.

The crowd around the white elephant stand began to get thicker. The bidding rose and rose. The painting was finally sold for twelve hundred pounds. Agatha guiltily hoped that the people who had given her the painting were not in the crowd.

And so it went on. Auction fever was gripping the crowd. Some of the villagers were bidding wildly for the rubbish they had ignored the year before.

At last, Agatha held up the doll. The bidding went up and up until Dewey suddenly called out shrilly, “Two thousand pounds!”

There was a startled silence. Dewey stared at Agatha, his eyes mad with longing. Agatha took pity on him. “Going, going, gone. Sold to Mr. Dewey,” she said quickly.

After that, the excitement died down. Dewey wrote out a cheque and tenderly took the doll in his arms. “The money is going to a very good cause,” said Agatha. Roy, who had persuaded Miss Simms to take over the tombola stall, came hurrying up. Agatha introduced him. “I’m ever so interested in antique dolls,” gushed Roy. “Can we have a chat?”

“No,” said Dewey harshly, “I shut up my shop to come to this auction. Got to get back.”

“I’ll come with you. I’m ever so madly keen on antique dolls and I must say, that one you got is the most fascinating and beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Dewey’s eyes darted suspiciously from Agatha’s face to Roy’s. Then he said reluctantly, “All right.”

Roy trotted off after him. Agatha longed to follow as well, but the remaining items which no one had seemed interested in bidding for might still be sold. New visitors were arriving. So she put price cards on the remainder and stood there patiently, her feet beginning to ache dreadfully. Where had the days gone when she could run around all day in very high heels and not even feel a twinge? Agatha felt the autumn of her life stretching in front of her.

She looked around the crowd, searching for a victim to take over the stand for her so that she could give in and find a pair of flat shoes. She saw Mrs. Allan, Carsely’s battered wife, and called to her. Mrs. Allan came up to Agatha. Although she was only in her thirties, she had stooped shoulders, as if from a lifetime of warding off blows. “Could you take over for me?” asked Agatha.

“I dunno. I ain’t never auctioned nothing.”

“The auction’s over. I’ve put the price tickets on everything. I’ll give Mrs. Bloxby the cheques.”

“Oh, all right, then,” said Mrs. Allan. “Ain’t it hot?” She removed a limp white cardigan and draped it over the edge of the stall. Underneath the cardigan, she was wearing a skimpy blouse. Agatha’s eyes sharpened. There was a nasty bruise on one of Mrs. Allan’s thin arms. “What happened there?” she asked, pointing to the bruise.

“Oh, that? Ever so clumsy, I am. Hit it on the door.”

Agatha headed off to find Mrs. Bloxby and handed her a pile of cheques and notes. “There must be a fortune here, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. She turned to her husband, the vicar. “Alf, isn’t she marvellous? Don’t you just feel like giving Mrs. Raisin a great big hug?”

The vicar shied like a startled horse. “Good heavens, is that the time?” he exclaimed. “Got to see someone,” and ran off as fast as he could.

“I’ve got to get home,” said Agatha. “My feet are killing me.”

“Such a pity. Those shoes look really glamorous.”

Agatha smiled. Mrs. Bloxby had a knack of saying the right thing. A lesser woman would have said, “Why don’t you wear sensible shoes?”

“I’ve left Mrs. Allan in charge. She’s got a terrible bruise on one arm. Can it be the husband? He’s out of the picture, isn’t he?”

“As far as I know. But the trouble with that kind of woman – I don’t mean to sound patronizing, but sometimes I despair – is that they get rid of one villain and pick up another.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been told that women who don’t think much of themselves gravitate to people who’ll make them feel even worse about themselves. It’s amazing how they get rid of one and then marry again, the same type.”

“Has she got anyone?”

Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “Not that I know of, and if she has, there is nothing I can do about it but sit and wait until it gets too bad again and then step in and try to pick up the pieces. Off you go. You’ve done splendidly. The doll! What an enormous amount of money.”

“That was Melissa’s ex-husband, the one before Sheppard.”

“Really? He looks quite mad. I hope he does not regret spending such a vast amount of money. But these antique dolls can be really valuable.”

“I only hope that the people who donated the doll don’t come after me and demand the money,” said Agatha.

“Who was it?”

“Big manor-house. Over by Longborough. Big cedar tree outside.”

“Oh, Lord Freme. I wouldn’t worry. He’s got millions.”

“I’ll be off then.”

“Where’s your young friend?”

“Gone off with Dewey to do a bit of detective work.”

“Is that wise? He may be your murderer.”

Agatha looked worried. “I’ll wait a bit and then go after him.”

She went home and massaged her aching feet after she had taken her shoes off. Her cats jumped, purring, onto her lap and she lay back in the armchair and stroked their fur, reluctant to return to the fête. But at last she let them out into the garden, put on flat shoes and walked back to the church hall.

“Sold anything?” she asked Mrs. Allan.

“A riddle jug thing. I put the money in the box.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Allan. Why don’t you go and get a cup of tea? I’ll take over now.”

Mrs. Allan slouched off. At the next stand, Miss Simms turned the tombola drum and called over, “Your young man not coming back?”

“Don’t think so,” said Agatha. “There’s nobody interested in what I’ve got left, so I can take over for you.”

“Ta. Where’s Charles?”

“Gone home.”

“All your fellows left you?”

“Looks like that,” said Agatha sourly.

The day wore on. The morris dancers jumped up and down energetically, tourists took pictures, the cake-and-jam stall had sold out and the cafeteria was doing a roaring trade. Clouds were piling up over to the west and Agatha could feel the beginnings of a headache. Where was Roy? She began to worry so much that even when Mrs. Bloxby rounded off the day by making a speech of thanks to everyone who had helped in general and one, Agatha Raisin, in particular, she barely listened. As soon as the applause had died down, she ran home and got into her car and headed for Worcester.

When she arrived in Worcester, she realized she should just have waited at home for Roy to call. She had forgotten, he didn’t have a car. He might even now be on the train, heading back to Moreton-in-Marsh. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Six o’clock! Dewey would have shut up shop, so she would have no way of finding out when Roy had left.

She decided to try the shop anyway. She parked the car and hurried over to The Shambles. To her relief, she saw the shutters had not been put up. She cupped her hand and peered in the window. Roy was sitting in a chair, looking like a scared rabbit. Dewey was talking forcibly and standing over Roy, brandishing a pair of scissors. Agatha was about to burst in, but then she thought that might urge Dewey to violence. She moved away from the window and took out her mobile phone and called the police, and waited, trembling and anxious, until a squad car roared up. “My friend is in there,” she babbled to the first policeman, “being threatened with a pair of scissors.” There were three policemen in all. They walked into the shop and Agatha followed them, glad to see that Roy was still unharmed.

“We have a report that you have been threatening this gentleman with a pair of scissors,” said the leading policeman ponderously.

Dewey, whose face had been contorted with rage when Agatha had seen him through the window, immediately became transformed into a meek and bewildered shopkeeper.

“I do not know what you mean!” he said, putting the scissors down on the desk. He looked at Agatha. “It’s that trouble-making woman again. I was merely giving this gentleman a lecture on antique dolls.”

“Is that true, sir?” The policeman looked at Roy.

“Yes, I suppose he was,” said Roy. “But he scared me. I’ve been here for hours and hours. He said I was checking up on him. He said I didn’t know the first thing about dolls and he stood over me with the scissors in my face and went on and on.”

“Do you wish to lay charges?”

“No,” said Roy. “I just want to get out of here.”

“If he threatened you with a pair of scissors, you should lay charges against him.”

“I was defending myself, officer,” said Dewey. “You will find that this woman and another man entered my home recently and said they had a gun.”

Now the policeman looked at Agatha suspiciously. “You pestering this man?”

“No,” said Agatha, and “Yes,” said Dewey.

“Could we just let the matter drop?” pleaded Roy.

Dewey suddenly agreed. “Yes, let’s just forget about the whole thing.”

The police driver came into the shop. “Smash and grab out on The Walls, sir.”

“Right.” The policeman glared all around. “I’ll let it go this time.”

“Come on,” hissed Roy, grabbing Agatha’s arm. He obviously didn’t want to be left with Dewey again.

“Phew!” said Roy as they hurried along the street. “Let’s find a pub. I could do with a drink.”

“Now,” said Agatha when they had found a table in a quiet pub, “what happened?”

“At first it all seemed pretty matey,” said Roy. “That was when we drove to Worcester. He was torn between joy at getting the doll and wondering whether he had paid too much over the top for it. He did all the talking. Things were fine until we got to the shop. He seemed to have taken a liking to me. He got us coffee and we sat down by the desk. I said I was a friend of yours and wasn’t it dreadful about the murder of his ex-wife. He said, yes, it was terrible and then he grew cold and began to question me on my knowledge of antique dolls, of which I know zilch. He began then to accuse me of merely wanting to poke my nose into his affairs. I protested. I said I may not know much, but I was eager to learn as I was thinking of starting a collection.

“His eyes were all funny and glittery. He said I was just like Melissa, pretending to a knowledge I didn’t have to ingratiate myself with him and do him harm. By this time he was waving the scissors around.”

Roy took a gulp of his drink and went on. “That’s when I said, all haughty-like, that he had hurt my feelings and I was leaving. ‘Oh, no, you’re not,’ he says, pointing the scissors at my face and standing over me. ‘You say you came here to learn, and learn you will.’ Then two customers came in. He said to them, as pleasant and calm as anything, ‘Excuse us a minute,’ and digging those damn scissors into my side, he ushered me into the back room. ‘Sit there quietly until I’m ready for you,’ he said. ‘Call for help and I’ll kill you and say it was self-defence.’ He went back into the shop and locked the door.

“There was no way out. The back door was locked and there was only a little barred window. I shook with terror. And I was surrounded by all those dolls, all those little staring eyes. I was in there so long, I thought he’d gone for the night, and I was just about to risk calling out when he opened the door and, still brandishing those damn scissors, told me to go and sit down in the shop. Then he started this long lecture. Don’t ask me what it was about. I was so terrified I couldn’t take in a word. Then you came. Agatha, he’s certifiable, sweetie. Bonkers, a picnic short of a sandwich, raving. He did it, mark my words. The intensity of his rage was something awful.”

“But how can we prove anything?” wailed Agatha.

“There must be something in his past. We’d best go and see that copper friend of yours. We need help.”

“We’ll go tomorrow. Let’s hope Bill Wong’s on duty. You wouldn’t want to meet his parents. If you’ve finished your drink, let’s go.”

As they walked to the car-park, Roy kept casting nervous glances all around, as if expecting to see Dewey leap out at him.

♦

When they got back to the cottage, Agatha phoned Bill. She told him briefly what had happened and asked if they could call on him the following day, but Bill said he would come over right away.

“We’d better eat something before he arrives,” said Agatha. “Bill will already have had something.”

“I’ll fix it,” said Roy. “I’m still nervous and I feel like doing something. Have you got eggs and cheese? I’ll make a cheese omelette.”

“I have both. I’ll leave you to it.”

While Roy worked in the kitchen, Agatha phoned Mrs. Bloxby and apologized for having run away from the fête.

“Did you catch up with Roy?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Well, thanks again for a splendid effort. We raised a great deal of money. I told Alf we owe it all to you.”

“And what did the vicar say?” asked Agatha, who knew Alf did not like her, but craved his good opinion.

“Oh, he agreed with me,” said Mrs. Bloxby, although what the vicar had actually said was, “God moves in mysterious ways.”

Agatha rang off. She poured herself a stiff gin and tonic and lit a cigarette. She had just finished both when Roy called her from the kitchen. As Agatha rose out of the deep armchair in which she had been sitting, she felt a slight stiff pain in her knee joints and her chest gave a distinct wheeze. She stood, alarmed. She took a deep breath, but the wheeze had gone. She remembered when she was in Wyckhadden that she had managed to give up cigarettes. It had felt good. Then she remembered Jimmy Jessop, the police inspector in Wyckhadden who had proposed marriage to her. She remembered him as safe and decent. She could have been Mrs. Jessop by now had Jimmy not found her in bed with Charles. Damn Charles. She would never, ever have gone to bed with him had not that fortune-teller told her that she would never have sex again. Now Jimmy was married. Was he happy? Maybe he was divorced.

“Agatha!” called Roy. “Your food’s on the table.”

She banished thoughts of what might have been from her mind and joined Roy in the kitchen.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Roy, “about what we could do tomorrow.”

“What?”

“You said this chap Sheppard lives in Blockley, which isn’t far from here. We could drop over there tomorrow – ”

“Are you mad? He’d be furious.”

“Ah, but if we told him we’re pretty sure it was Dewey, he might open up a bit.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Agatha thought of that sinister pain in her joints. “Tell you what,” she said. “I need exercise. If it’s a fine day, we could walk over.”

“All right. I could do with a bit of exercise myself.”

Bill arrived just after they had finished their meal. He listened carefully while Roy described his adventures with Dewey and made several notes. When Roy had finished, Agatha said, “You see, we wondered if you had been digging into Dewey’s past, if there was anything there.”

“Nothing sinister that we’ve been able to find,” said Bill. “He’s the son of fairly wealthy middle-class parents. The father died young and he was very close to his mother. When she died, he had just finished at university. With the money she left, he; bought that shop and started up in business. He really knows his stuff. He doesn’t seem to have any friends. When he married Melissa, they didn’t seem to socialize. I’ll dig a bit deeper. I’ll I pull him in and have another go at him.”

“Is there any news of James?” asked Agatha.

“Not a whisper. I would have told you if I had heard anything.”

♦

The following day dawned sunny and fresh. They set out to walk to Blockley, which meant climbing up the steep road out of Carsely, walking along the A-44 and then down the hill into Blockley. When they reached the village, Agatha felt that longing for a cigarette and fought it down. She had not yet lit up one that day.

“I don’t feel very brave,” she whispered to Roy as they walked up Greenway Road. “He’s a very belligerent man.”

“Maybe we should forget about the whole thing,” said Roy uneasily. “I hear there’s some good French cooking down at the Crown. We could walk about a bit and then have lunch.”

But his cowardice spurred Agatha on. “Don’t want to think we’ve walked all this way for nothing. If he’s mad at us, he can slam the door in our faces.”

Walking close together, they approached the door of the Sheppards’s cottage. Agatha rang the bell.

After a few moments, Megan Sheppard answered the door. She was wearing a brief pair of hot pants over a gingham blouse. Her hair was tied in two bunches with pink ribbons. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. She called over her shoulder, “Luke, it’s that woman from Carsely who’s been pestering you.”

Luke Sheppard loomed up behind her. “Get away from here,” he growled.

“We thought you would like to know,” said Agatha bravely, “that we’re pretty sure it was Melissa’s first husband, Dewey, who killed her.”

What was that odd look that had flashed in his eyes? wondered Roy. Relief?

The truculence left his face. He said mildly, “You’d better come in and tell us about it.”

They followed the Sheppards through the cottage and out into the garden. After they had all sat down round the garden table, Roy told them all about his visit to Dewey’s shop.

“You poor thing,” said Megan, looking into his eyes. “You must have been frightened to death.”

“I tell you,” said Roy, delighted to have such an appreciative audience, “I thought my last moment had come.”

“So have you told the police all this?” asked Luke.

“Yes,” said Agatha. “They are going to pull him in for further questioning. Did I ask you this before? Did you know Melissa was sectioned at one time?”

He looked genuinely surprised. “No. Was it drink?”

“Drugs.”

“When was this?”

“A long time ago, when her father was still alive. Did you ever know her sister?”

“No, Melissa didn’t have anything to do with her.”

“Do you know if she had a friend from the past, someone she might have met when she was in the psychiatric unit?”

“No, come to think of it, she didn’t have any real friends. I mean, she would strike up a friendship with someone but it would never last very long. People would go off her.”

“Just like you, dear,” said Megan, and stroked his hand. And yet Agatha noticed that one of Megan’s smooth tanned legs was pressed against Roy’s.

“Is there anything you can think of,” pursued Agatha, “any little thing that might help us find out who murdered Melissa?”

“What’s this?” The anger had returned to Luke Sheppard’s face. “You told us it was Dewey.”

“We’re sure it is. But still – ”

“I think you should get a life,” said Luke.

“Don’t be hard on her, dear,” cooed Megan. “Some of these old village women lead empty lives.”

Roy cackled with laughter and then put a hand over his mouth when he saw Agatha’s furious face. But Luke went on as if she had not spoken. “Where do you get off, nosing around, poking around into people’s lives? Get out of here.”

Agatha stood up, her face flaming. “Come on, Roy.”

They both marched out. The Sheppards stayed where they were.

“Insufferable man,” raged Agatha, “and she’s nothing more than a little bitch.”

“Clever, though,” said Roy. “Even if he hadn’t lost his temper, her crack at you would have made you leave.”

“I keep wondering where James fits into all this,” said Agatha. “Oh, why doesn’t he turn up? He should be getting treatment. He may be dead.”

She began to cry. Roy put an awkward arm around her shoulders. “The living can keep out of the road of the police, Aggie. The dead find it difficult. Cheer up. Let’s try the Crown for lunch.”

♦

After Agatha had taken Roy down to catch the London train that evening and returned to her cottage, she found herself thinking more and more about Jimmy Jessop, that police inspector in Wyckhadden she had so nearly married. Yes, at the time, she had hoped to make James furious and jealous. And if the wretched Charles hadn’t turned up at a moment when she was weak and shocked, she would never have had sex with him. She thought of Jimmy’s nice smile and the way his eyes used to light up when he saw her. Roy had gone, Charles showed no sign of coming back. She had a longing for masculine company.

Before she fell asleep, listening uneasily to the night sounds, things rustling in the thatch, the creaks as the old cottage settled down for the night, she decided that the next morning, she would get up bright and early and go to Wyckhadden.

♦

As she drove out of Carsely the next morning, she turned on the radio. Stepping Out were still top of the pops with their rambling song. I wonder if they ever thank me for getting them fame, thought Agatha. Then she began to wonder if she should have tried to phone Jimmy first. The woman he had married instead of her had warned her in no uncertain terms not to come round again, so she couldn’t have phoned him at home. Then his colleagues at the police station all loathed her and would no doubt lie to her and tell her he wasn’t available. No, the best thing to do was to go to that pub where he usually had his lunch-time drink and see if he turned up there.

She remembered Wyckhadden as a seaside town plagued with extremes of weather and was quite surprised to find a pale misty sun shining down on a placid sea. She had left home at dawn and so it was an hour before lunch-time when she arrived. She walked along the pier and back again, and then followed the familiar route to the pub. She ordered a gin and tonic and sat at the table they had always sat at and waited, looking up hopefully every time the door opened. Outside, the street suddenly darkened as a cloud crossed the sun. What am I doing here? wondered Agatha. Was it because she was sure that James was still alive and that he had not contacted her because he did not want to see her again? Had she nourished some mad hope that Jimmy might still feel something for her, that he would get a divorce, marry her and give her a shoulder to lean on for the rest of her life?

She swallowed the last of her drink and reached for her handbag. The pub door opened and Jimmy walked in. He stood looking at her in surprise and then that old familiar slow smile lit up his face.

“Why, Agatha!” he said, sitting down opposite her. “This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

Agatha suddenly wanted to lie, to say she had just wondered: if the place was still the same, but she found herself saying simply, “You. I came to see you.”

“I’ll get us drinks. Wait there.”

Jimmy went to the bar, a tall, competent, safe figure.

He came back with a pint of beer for himself and a gin and tonic for Agatha. “I assumed you’re still drinking the same,” he said.

“Yes. Thanks. How’s marriage?”

“Great. We’ve got a son, Paul. Apple of my eye. What did you want to see me about? Is it all this stuff about you I’ve been reading in the papers?”

“Yes, that’s it. My brain’s in a muddle. I seem to have a suspect, but I can’t pin anything on him.”

“You shouldn’t go on like this,” said Jimmy. “You should leave these matters to the police. Oh, I know you helped me down here, but still…You’ll get yourself killed one of these days. Okay. Go on. Tell me about it.”

Agatha began at the beginning. She left nothing out, all the rows with James, the bad marriage, his brain tumour, and then went on to what she knew about Melissa and her ex-husbands. Jimmy took out a large notebook and began to make neat short-hand notes.

When she had finished, he asked, “What sort of village is Carsely?”

“Normally old-fashioned, sleepy and quiet. Nice people.”

“But a close-knit community?”

“Not exactly what it would have been in the old days. Cotswold villages get a lot of newcomers, people buying second homes and only using them at the weekends. There isn’t the gossip and curiosity about each other there would have been not so long ago. It all gets a bit Londonified, you know, everyone minding their own business a little too much, but they do rally round if someone is in trouble. Do you mean, why when James was being attacked and Melissa murdered did no one see or hear anything?”

“That’s it.”

“Well, they didn’t.”

“I think,” said Jimmy, “if I was on the case I would ask around the village again. In my experience, you’ll find someone really did see something. Might be an idea to keep asking. It’s infuriating the way people might come up with something like, ‘I saw old Mr. Bloggs walking down the street about that time.’ ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ ‘Oh, it was only old Bloggs. Didn’t seem worth mentioning.’ That sort of thing.”

“I’ll try,” said Agatha. “Now if you were making a guess as to who did it, who would you pick?”

He flicked through his notes. “Well, I would be thinking of the sister. I mean, forget all this mystery about psychopaths. There’s money involved. And I should think a good degree of hatred.”

“But why James?”

“He may have ferreted something out, told Melissa, she tells her sister and the sister tries to kill James.”

“But Melissa and her sister weren’t on speaking terms!”

“You only have Julia’s word for that. If their father had a big estate and left all to Melissa, and by your report Melissa didn’t use much of it, then it must have been some sum worth killing for. Then, if Melissa and Julia were supposed to be estranged, why did Melissa leave the money to her? You don’t leave money to someone you hate.”

“I know. But she did not have any friends. Husbands both finished with. Maybe when she was making out her will, she found Julia was the only logical person to leave it to.”

“Still, it’s odd. It would have been more like her to leave it to the cat’s home to spite Julia. I think your first move should be to start questioning the villagers again. That’s what police work is, Agatha,” he added sententiously, “plod, plod, plod.”

He glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation of dismay. “I’ve got to get back and I haven’t even had any lunch. Need to grab something from the police canteen. Tell you what, I’ll phone the wife. Why don’t you spend a nice day pottering round the shops and come home with me for dinner?”

Agatha repressed a shudder. His wife would probably throw the dinner in her face. “No, I’ve got to get back. Got things to do.”

They both stood up. “Well, as I’ve said before, Agatha, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be happily married now.” Jimmy smiled down at her.

Agatha felt like crying. But she said, “You deserve to be happy, Jimmy. You’re a good man.”

They emerged from the pub. The sky had clouded over and torrential rain was beating down. “Wyckhadden’s the same as ever,” mourned Agatha. “Dramatic weather.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Not far. In the central car-park.”

“Give me your keys and I’ll go and get it for you. You’ll get soaked otherwise. Tell me the make and registration number.”

Agatha was fishing in her handbag for her keys. She looked up and saw Jimmy’s wife, Gladwyn, bearing down on them, her eyes glittering with rage. “Get it myself,” gasped Agatha and took off, running as hard as she could. When she got to her car, she was soaked to the skin. She sat there miserably until the rain thinned and then stopped. She climbed out of the car and walked to a large department store which sold cheap clothes and bought herself a sweater and skirt, underwear and shoes, and, after she had paid for it all, put the lot on in the fitting-room and stuffed her wet clothes in a carrier bag. She was about to leave the store when she noticed it was raining again, so she retreated back in and bought a raincoat and umbrella. When she emerged, the sun was shining. “I hate this place,” she said loudly, and several passers-by edged nervously away from her.

As she drove the long road home, she told herself severely that the next man she became involved with would be someone who really loved her, not someone she irritated every minute of the day as she had irritated James, or a fickle lightweight like Charles.

If Charles comes around again, she told herself, I’ll tell him to get lost.

But when she turned the corner into Lilac Lane, and saw Charles’s car parked outside her cottage, she experienced a feeling of relief. Not yet, she told herself. I’ll tell him to get lost when all this is over.