Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

∨ The Love from Hell ∧

2

THE fact that Agatha and her new husband were living in separate cottages, not speaking to each other, spread round the village like wildfire. Mrs. Bloxby kept quiet about James’s revelation about his brain tumour. She did not even tell her husband, the vicar, Alf Bloxby, who, on hearing the news of the breakdown of Agatha’s marriage, merely remarked sourly, “Don’t know how anyone could live with that woman.”

James was often seen with Melissa Sheppard, Agatha with Charles.

This miserable state of affairs might have gone on forever had not James had a change of heart. He was afraid of dying. He did not want to depart the world and leave bitterness and misery behind. He wanted to be missed. He wanted to be mourned.

He bought a large bunch of red roses and presented himself on Agatha’s doorstep a week after what was known in the village as The Great Scene in the Pub.

Agatha answered the door and stood for a moment looking at him and then at the bouquet he held in his hand. “Come in,” she said, and walked off to the kitchen without waiting to see whether he was following her or not.

“Sit down,” she said, leaning on the kitchen counter. “Why have you come?”

The correct answer, the sensible answer would have been, “Agatha, I have a brain tumour, and I think I am going to die,” but instead James remarked, “You look terrible.”

Agatha had deep pouches under her eyes and her normally glossy hair was dull. She was wearing a shapeless print house-dress and flat sandals.

“I have been working hard. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“It’s the real stuff,” said Agatha, plugging in the electric percolator. “No unleaded in this house.”

“Fine,” said James, stretching out his long legs.

Agatha sat down opposite him. As if by silent consent, both of them waited until the coffee was ready. Agatha filled two mugs and then looked at James.

“You still seeing that tramp, Melissa?”

“I felt I needed company while you were running around with Charles Fraith.”

“Charles is just a friend.”

“That makes a change,” said James sourly. “You had an affair with him in Cyprus.”

“That was before we were married. And you had a fling with Melissa.”

“We are just friends,” said James stiffly. “You shouldn’t be working. You don’t need to work. You look awful.”

“Well, Mr. Health and Beauty, you’ve been nagging me for ages about wearing make-up and heels. You ought to be happy. Why did you come here? To nag me again?”

“I thought we should give the marriage another go,” said James.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a quitter and neither are you.”

“Couldn’t you say it was because you loved me?”

“Oh, Agatha, you know what I’m like. I never was any good at that lovey-dovey stuff.”

“All right. I’ll try again. But you have to stop seeing Melissa.”

“She’s a friend.”

“I’ll stop seeing Charles or any other man, if you stop seeing Melissa.”

“Very well.”

Agatha suddenly smiled at him. “What a pair of chumps we are,” she said happily. “Wait there until I put some make-up on. It’s all right for you, James. The thing I love about you is that you always seem so fit and healthy.” She went out of the kitchen. I should have told her, thought James. But we’ll have dinner this evening. I’ll tell her then.

♦

Happiness is a great rejuvenator. Agatha returned to work that afternoon looking fresh and businesslike. The rambling song was a jaunty whistle-along tune. Delly Shoes proclaimed themselves delighted with Agatha. She was to arrange a concert in Mircester to launch the new boot and the new song. She bought herself a dark blue dress ornamented with glass beads and pearls. It had a square neckline and a very short hemline. She then bought sheer stockings and a garter belt, the latter being an item of clothing which Agatha despised, but she planned a hot night and was prepared to sacrifice her comfort.

She carried her purchases home and proceeded to prepare herself for the evening ahead. James was to drive them into Oxford for dinner at a French restaurant on Blue Boar Street.

She bathed and made up her face with care and then brushed her hair until it gained some of its lost shine. Then she put on the dress and stood in front of the mirror.

And scowled.

The sequins and beads had glittered in the electric light of the shop and had looked beguiling. In the late sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, it looked vulgar, tasteless, and middle-aged. And that same cruel sunlight fell on her face, showing Agatha Raisin that she had an incipient moustache. She tore off the dress and left it on a crumpled heap on the floor. In the bathroom, she applied depilatory to the area between her nose and her upper lip and then went to her closet to rake through her clothes to find something suitable. Five try-ons later, she realized she had forgotten all about the depilatory and was only reminded by a burning sensation on her face. She went back to the bathroom and washed it off. Above her upper lip there was now a scarlet line. “I hate being old,” howled Agatha at the mirror.

She returned to the bedroom and gloomily selected a white satin blouse and a short black velvet skirt. Now to do something about her face. She had planned to wear only a little light make-up, but heavy foundation cream would be needed to cover that red mark.

♦

When she finally got into James’s car, although he glanced at her without comment, she could sense his disapproval. She should tell him what had happened, but somehow to confess that she had reached the shaving age seemed impossible.

James actually thought Agatha had put on too much make-up as an act of defiance. His cancer treatment was to start the following week. He would start to lose his hair and men he would need to tell her something. He had meant to tell her that evening, imagining a soft and sympathetic and womanly Agatha. But Agatha, he thought sourly, had never been soft or womanly.

So on the road to Oxford and throughout dinner, he talked about his new book, which was to be about the Normandy landings in World War II. Agatha ventured that surely enough had been written on them already and then promptly realized that, once again, she had said the wrong thing. As usual with James, she felt she was facing an unbreakable wall of resentment.

“We should be talking about what we really need to talk about,” said Agatha abruptly, cutting through one of James’s history lessons. “I can assure you, Charles is just a friend. Nothing has been going on. What about you and Melissa? What prompted you to take her for a drink in the first place?”

That usual look of distaste and weariness which always crossed James’s face when confronted with any intimacy of conversation was back again. “I told you, I happened to meet her in the pub. Then I knew Charles was with you, and so…Do we really need to go through all this?”

“Yes, we do,” said Agatha. “Did you sleep with her?”

“No,” said James. He despised the euphemism. What he had done with Melissa could hardly be described as sleeping.

“Do I have your word on that?”

“I have to trust what you say about Charles and you have to trust what I say about Melissa, or there is no point in going on.” He suddenly smiled at her. “Let’s forget about the whole sordid quarrel.”

Agatha melted before that smile. “About my job. The concert is next week and after that I will be a lady of leisure again.”

“Good,” said James. I should tell her about the cancer, he thought. Maybe tomorrow.

♦

They made love that night. Pillow talk had never been James’s forte and yet Agatha tried. “It seemed a good idea keeping our separate cottages, James, but now I don’t think it very sensible. Why don’t we sell our cottages and buy somewhere bigger?”

James thought of Agatha being perpetually underfoot, Agatha with her bad cooking and her smoking. He manufactured a faint snore.

Agatha rose on one elbow and peered in the moonlight al his apparently sleeping face, and then fell back on her pillow with a little sigh. Perhaps she should settle for a James-type marriage. James, it appeared, would rather they lived separately and dated. She had this job to finish. Yes, perhaps she would try things his way.

♦

For the next couple of days, harmony reigned. James worked al his computer and Agatha worked at her public relations. In the evenings they met up for dinner, and then retired to bed and made love. I’ve cracked this marriage business, thought Agatha gleefully.

But on the third day, she decided to take her washing along to her own machine and check on her garden. She had just put the first load in when the doorbell rang. If that’s Charles, thought Agatha uneasily, I’ll need to tell him to go away. But when she opened the door, it was to find her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, standing on the step. Bill was a young man in his twenties, with an oriental cast of face inherited from his Chinese father. Normally chubby, he was looking trim and fit, and so Agatha led him into the kitchen and said, “You’ve got a new romance.”

“How did you know?”

“You’re looking fit and you always look fit when you’re in love. Who is she?”

“She’s a saleswoman. Works in that Miranda boutique.” I’ve been in there, thought Agatha, and was served by a hard-faced redhead. “Not the one with red hair?”

“That’s her. My Mary.”

“She’s a lot older than you, surely.”

“A bit. I like mature women. So how’s marriage?”

“It’s okay. We had a few rocky bits but we’ve settled down nicely. Any juicy murders?”

“Nice and quiet. Just the usual drug busts, car thefts, and burglaries. Why have you kept on your cottage?”

“It’s a modern marriage, Bill. We like our own space.”

“The pair of you could afford a big house and have all the space you need.”

Agatha bit her lip in vexation. She had ventured her suggestion again that they buy one big place, but James had stonewalled it by murmuring, “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, we’re happy as we are.”

The doorbell rang again. “I wonder who that is?” Agatha went to answer it and found herself facing Melissa Sheppard. She made to slam the door in the woman’s face, but Melissa cried, “We need to talk. Poor James.”

Agatha hesitated and then said curtly, “Come in.” She led the way into the kitchen, introduced Melissa to Bill, and then said to the detective, “I think it’s a private matter, Bill.”

“All right. I’ll phone you and we’ll have lunch sometime.” Agatha saw him out and reluctantly returned to the kitchen. Melissa was wearing a tight tube top which exposed her tanned midriff. Her skirt was short and her bare tanned legs ended in high-heeled sandals.

“What?” demanded Agatha.

“I had to see you. I wondered how poor James was getting on with his treatment. He won’t speak to me.”

Agatha sat down slowly. In that moment, she felt as if part of her had floated to the ceiling and was looking down at two women sitting at a cottage kitchen table.

“What treatment?” she asked. Her voice sounded dry and dusty to her ears.

“For his cancer, of course.”

“Oh, that,” said Agatha. Her heart was hammering hard and blood was drumming in her ears. “Very well.”

“I’m so glad. You must have been devastated when you heard the news so soon after you got married.”

“I’ve got used to the shock. Do you mind leaving?”

Melissa got to her feet. “We should be friends, Agatha. We have so much in common.”

Agatha looked up at the hard, tanned face above her and said, “Look, sweetie, we have bugger-all in common. Just move your scrawny arse out of my kitchen and never come here again. And stay away from James!”

“If James will stay away from me,” mocked Melissa. She stood for a moment, but Agatha sat, rigid and unmoving.

Melissa shrugged and walked out. Agatha heard the front door slam shut.

James. Cancer. James. Cancer. Over and over it sounded in her head. And he hadn’t told her. He had told Melissa.

The doorbell went again. She rose like a robot and went to open it.

“Christ,” said Sir Charles Fraith. “You’re as white as a sheet.”

“Something terrible has happened,” said Agatha. “Come in.”

“James?”

Agatha nodded dumbly.

In the kitchen, Charles pressed her down into a chair and went and fetched a goblet of brandy. “Drink that.”

“I don’t understand.” Agatha began to cry, great gulping sobs racking her body.

Charles took one of her hands in his and waited patiently until she recovered.

“Tell me about it, Aggie.”

So, in a halting voice, Agatha did, ending with a wail of “He told her. He didn’t tell me.”

“The main point, Aggie, is that the man has cancer. It must have been a hell of a shock to him. Shock makes people behave in strange ways. Maybe it was easier to tell someone who wasn’t close. Maybe he felt that telling you would somehow confirm the horror.”

“I’ll kill him,” said Agatha. “I’ll kill the bastard.”

“He might already be on his way to death. What kind of cancer?”

“I don’t know! Oh my God, if it’s cancer of the lung, he’ll blame my smoking!”

“Aggie, this is silly. Please just walk next door. I know it must have been awful hearing the news from Melissa, but the chap’s got cancer, and surely that cancels out any jealousies or resentments. Look, I’ll wait here and if you’re not back in an hour, I’ll take myself off. But I’ll wait here in case you need me. Go on.”

“I’ll just put some make-up on.”

“It’s hardly the time for make-up. Go on!”

♦

James was in the local village store. He reached up and took down a packet of coffee. “How are you, darling?” cooed a voice beside him.

He turned and saw, facing him, Melissa. His face darkened. “Just leave me alone, Melissa. I told you, I made a mistake. I just want to get on with my marriage.”

“Agatha seems very upset about your illness.”

He stared at her in dismay. The packet of coffee fell to the shop floor.

“You told her!”

“You wouldn’t talk to me and I was worried about you, so I went to ask Agatha how your treatment was coming along.”

“You silly bitch,” he roared. “I could kill you, strangle you, shut that malicious gossipy mouth of yours.”

The listening, shocked silence behind them in the shop was almost tangible.

Melissa gave a nervous little laugh. “You didn’t tell her. That’s it, isn’t it?”

James walked straight out of the shop. When he turned into Lilac Lane, the first thing he saw was Charles’s BMW parked outside Agatha’s door.

♦

“He wasn’t home,” said Agatha miserably to Charles when she returned. “And this is the day of the concert. I’ve got to rush to Mircester. I don’t know how I’ll cope.”

“Let’s get it over with. I’ll take you. You’re in no fit state to drive.”

Agatha wearily went upstairs and made up her face and put on a charcoal-grey business suit and a striped cotton blouse. She did not know what to do. She had promised not to see Charles again, but the news about James’s cancer had shaken her.

As Charles drove her to Mircester for the concert, he suddenly said, “You know, Aggie, James is a weird bird, but a good sort. Forget, please, about the fact that he told Melissa. Help him cope with this cancer business. If you love him, you’ll do that. Aggie?”

But Agatha stared numbly at the passing scenery and did not reply.

Once they arrived at the marquee where the concert was to be held, Agatha threw herself into her work, chatting to the press, to the representatives of record companies. The group already had a recording company, which was, in Agatha’s opinion, pretty small beer.

The weather had held up and it was a perfect evening. Agatha had urged Delly Shoes to charge as little as possible for the tickets. Midlands Television was setting up its cameras and Agatha wanted as large a crowd as possible.

Only once she had taken her seat in the front row and the concert had begun did a great wave of dark misery engulf her. Stepping Out ended their show with the new rambling song. It was effervescent and jaunty. “Got a winner,” whispered Charles, but Agatha sat like stone.

The group played encore after encore. Then the managing director of Delly Shoes, Mr. Piercy, took the microphone. He talked about the glories of the new boot, and then he said, “I’m glad you all enjoyed yourself. I am sure we would all like to put our hands together and thank the organizer of this evening, Mrs. Agatha Raisin. Agatha, come on up.”

Charles nudged her to her feet. Like a sleep-walker, she walked up the steps at the side of the stage.

“I think you should make a short speech,” hissed Mr. Piercy.

Agatha looked out over the crowd in a dazed way. Then she adjusted the microphone.

But before she could speak, a voice called from the back of the hall, “Police! Make way, there.”

Agatha shielded her eyes and peered out over the audience. Police and detectives were making their way down the centre aisle.

“It’s another stunt, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Piercy.

Agatha felt the world had just come to an end. She was sure they had come to tell her James was dead.

Detective Inspector Wilkes of Mircester CID came up to her and took her elbow. “Come with us, Mrs. Raisin.”

She let him lead her down the steps, through the now silent crowd and out into the night.

“What is this?” she asked, aware that Charles had appeared beside her.

“If you will accompany us to Carsely, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Put her out of her misery,” shouted Charles. “Is James dead?”

“We don’t know,” said Wilkes. “He’s missing and there’s signs of a fight.”

Agatha was never to forget the journey home. She seemed to be moving through some sort of black nightmare. She prayed to a God she only half believed in, promising everything she could think of, doing deals, anything, if only James would turn out to be still alive.

♦

They went to Agatha’s cottage because the Scene of Crimes Operatives were busy at work in their white overalls behind the taped-off front of James’s cottage.

“The situation is this,” began Wilkes. “A certain Mrs. Melissa Sheppard was passing Mr. Lacey’s cottage and saw the door open. She was going to walk past, when she saw a dark stain on the front step. She went to examine it, touched it, and found it was fresh blood. She looked inside and saw furniture overturned. She called us. Mr. Lacey’s car is missing. We are searching the countryside for any trace of him. Preliminary questioning reveals that you had been heard threatening to kill him, Mrs. Raisin. I also learn that you preferred to keep your previous married name and that you and Mr. Lacey, although recently married, preferred to live in separate cottages. Mrs. Sheppard also tells us that Mr. Lacey was about to undergo treatment for a brain tumour and that he had told her but not you. Is that the case?”

“I threatened to kill him because I was jealous of what I believed to be a relationship with Mrs. Sheppard,” said Agatha. “But James, who does not lie, assured me that he had not slept with her. We were reconciled.”

“Mrs. Sheppard, who has been very frank, tells us that she had sexual relations with Mr. Lacey twice since his marriage to you.”

“That’s not true,” said Agatha flatly.

“I must ask you for your movements today.”

Agatha felt some other woman was answering all these questions. She described her day and Charles said he had been with her all afternoon and all evening. Agatha had been in full view of press and television all evening.

“It looks as if there was some sort of fight. We cannot establish yet whether the blood belongs to Mr. Lacey or his assailant. We will need to take your fingerprints and a blood sample, Mrs. Raisin. You too, Sir Charles. Mr. Lacey was heard threatening Mrs. Sheppard in the village shop. He was overheard saying he could strangle her.”

Did I ever really know James? wondered Agatha. Could he have been in love with Melissa?

“Are you charging Mrs. Raisin with anything?” asked Charles.

“Not at present.”

“Not at present,” jeered Charles. “She has an excellent alibi. She was in full view of several hundred people. Can’t you see she’s nearly dead with shock? She’s not going anywhere. Leave her alone.”

But Agatha and Charles had to give blood samples and fingerprints and promise to report to police headquarters the following day before they were left alone.

“You’d better go, Charles,” said Agatha.

“Sure? You’re not going to do anything silly?”

Agatha shook her head. Charles would have insisted on staying had not the vicar’s wife arrived.

“You poor thing,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“I can’t believe it. He has cancer and he never told me.”

“He talked to me about that,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Of course he did. He probably told the whole world!”

“He said he did not want to tell you because telling you would make it real.”

Agatha put her head in her hands. “What am I going to do?”

“He appears to have driven off, which means he was not badly hurt. The blood in the cottage may not even be his.”

“Who would attack him? James didn’t have any enemies.”

“I am afraid the police are going to be concentrating on you for a bit.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve been heard threatening him.”

“What about Melissa? God, that woman says she slept with James twice since we were married. How could James do such a thing?”

“I think the fright of cancer made him behave most oddly. I’ve brought a bag. I’ll stay with you tonight.”

“But I should be out there looking for him!”

“Come, now. There is nothing you can do. The police will be searching everywhere. He took his car, so he’s still alive.”

Agatha allowed herself to be led upstairs. Mrs. Bloxby ran her a bath and sat on the bed until Agatha emerged from the bathroom.

“Now, into bed with you,” said the vicar’s wife. “I’ll only be next door. Call me if you need anything.”

Agatha lay awake a long time, clutching the duvet, horrors racing through her mind. She began to blame herself. Somehow, if she had been a better wife, then James would have confided in her. Something told her that James had indeed lied to her, that he had slept with Melissa. Melissa had no reason to lie to the police. And James would not have gone to Melissa for comfort if she, Agatha, had treated him better. Just when she thought she would never sleep again, she plunged down into a nightmare where she was searching the lanes and woods for James, dressed in her nightgown.

The next thing Agatha knew, Mrs. Bloxby was shaking her by the shoulder and saying, “The police are here again, Agatha. They insist on seeing you. James’s car has been found.”

Agatha struggled out of bed, tore her night-gown off and began to scramble into clothes. “And James? Have they found him?” she asked.

“No sign of him, yet.”

Agatha went downstairs. Wilkes was there with Bill Wong and a woman police constable.

“You’ve found his car,” said Agatha. “Where?”

“Up in the woods, just before you reach the A-44,” said Bill.

“Was there any clue in the car?”

“Only more blood-stains,” said Wilkes, and Agatha groaned. “It does look as if he was injured.”

“May I see the car?”

“No, it’s been taken away for examination. Do you know of anyone with any reason to attack him?”

“None whatsoever,” said Agatha. “I’ve thought and thought.”

“You had better come with us to Mircester and make a full Statement.”

“I’ll just phone my husband,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I’m coming with her.”

♦

As Agatha was driven past James’s cottage, she could see men in white overalls dusting for prints and searching everywhere. A numbness had settled on her. Once at police headquarters, she answered all questions like a dutiful child while Mrs. Bloxby sat beside her and held her hand.

The vicar’s wife wondered if Agatha realized how odd her story sounded. Yes, she had tried to marry James before but had forgotten to tell him that she did not know whether her husband Jimmy Raisin was alive or dead. Yes, Jimmy had turned up and cancelled the wedding ceremony. Yes, Jimmy was subsequently found murdered. No, relations between herself and James had not been very amicable. No, she did not know he had cancer. Mrs. Bloxby did not know that, numb and shocked as she was, Agatha was not going to admit she had learned of James’s illness from Melissa.

Mrs. Bloxby knew that videos of the concert would be scanned and people interviewed to establish Agatha’s alibi. Could they establish from the blood-stains when James was attacked? Villagers often walked their dogs along Lilac Lane. If the attack had taken place in daylight, surely someone would have seen something or heard something. Melissa was more of a suspect than Agatha. She was the other woman. What did anyone in the village know of her? She was a fairly recent incomer. She must have been very keen on James to have had an affair with him in such a small village.

The questioning went on and on. Agatha’s in bad shock, thought Mrs. Bloxby. They must know that.

At last, Agatha signed her statement and the interview was over. She was cautioned not to leave the country and to hold herself in readiness for further questioning.

When they emerged from police headquarters it was to find Charles waiting for them. “I’ve been grilled as well,” he said cheerfully. “Fancy some lunch?”

“I must get back,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Alf will be wondering what’s happened to me.”

“That’s all right,” said Charles. “I’ll take her home. We’d better talk.”

Mrs. Bloxby looked doubtful. She drew Charles aside. “Be very careful,” she whispered. “Mrs. Raisin has had a bad shock.”

“I’ll deal with her.”

He took Agatha’s arm and she allowed herself to be led across the square and into Mircester.

“When did you eat last?” he asked Agatha.

“I can’t remember. I meant to have a late supper after the show.” She plucked nervously at his arm. “The concert! I should get the newspapers.”

“Forget it. We’ve got more important things to talk about.” Charles suddenly saw Melissa walking in front of them. “In here,” he said, dragging her into a place called Pam’s Pantry. “I’m sure the food is good.”

They sat down at a corner table. “I’ll order us something,” said Charles. The menu was of the snack variety. He ordered two club sandwiches and a bottle of mineral water.

“Now, Aggie,” he said. “What on earth could have happened?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha. “I’ve thought and thought. I’m sure if I had been a better wife, he would have told me things. He didn’t even tell me he had cancer.”

“Absence is making the heart grow fonder,” said Charles brutally. “Snap out of it. We won’t get anywhere if you start blaming yourself for everything. The trouble is that James is a tight-arsed tick. That was what caused the problems in your marriage. It would help if you could get angry. I was asked if I knew anything about his affair with Melissa. Was he really having an affair with Melissa?”

“She says he slept with her a couple of times since we were married. I asked James if he had slept with her and he denied it.”

“So he’s an adulterer and a liar. You worked on some murder cases with James before. Anyone from the past likely to have surfaced?”

“I thought about that. They’re all still locked up or dead.”

“Maybe relatives? Friends?”

“Could be.”

“Here’s your sandwich. Eat.”

“I can’t.”

“So what are you going to do to help James? Sit wallowing in some unreal world where it’s all your fault?”

“Charles!”

“Snap out of it, sweetie. Martyrdom is ruining your looks.”

Agatha glared at him. “My husband is missing, maybe dead, and all you can do is insult me?”

“That’s what friends are for.”

Agatha proceeded to tell him between bites of sandwich exactly what she thought of him.

Charles listened amiably and, seeing she had finished eating, called for the bill. “We’d better get back,” he said. “There may be more news.”

♦

James Lacey stumbled in a daze along the waterfront at Bridport in Dorset. Night was falling. His head throbbed and he had no idea how he had got there, only that he seemed to have been wandering for days.

Suddenly a squat little woman wearing a yachting cap appeared in front of him. “Why, it’s James, James Lacey! You look a mess.”

Somehow his dazed mind registered her identity. “Harriet,” he said.

“We’re about to set sail for France. Tubby’s on the yacht. Look at your head. There’s dried blood in your hair. What have you been up to?”

“Bar fight,” said James, fighting away a memory of a swinging hammer and crashing furniture. “I’ll be all right.”

He knew some awful memories of what had so recently happened to him were about to come flooding back. And in that moment he remembered a monastery he had visited once in Agde, in the south of France. He remembered the cloistered peace, the sun slanting through the cloisters. He suddenly felt if he could get there, he would be safe.

“Can you take me to France?”

“I think you should go to a doctor and get that head examined.”

“It’s just a bit of blood. Worse than it looks. I’d really like to get away, Harriet.”

“Got your passport?”

James searched in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Yes, I have,” he said with something like surprise. He tried to remember why he had his passport but could not.

“Luggage?”

“No luggage. I sent it on ahead,” said James, improvising.

“You look as if you’ve been sleeping in those clothes. It’s a good thing I know you to be a respectable gentleman or I would start to think you were on the run from the police.”

“Not from them,” said James. Harriet looked up at him curiously and then gave a little shrug.

“Come along, then. We’re nearly ready to set sail.”