Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

∨ The Love from Hell ∧

4

Blockley, though now a village, was once a thriving mill-town. The mills are now residences, and property prices, sky-high. The village is dominated by a square-towered church, and by Georgian terraces of mellow Cotswold stone. The long straggling main street used to be full of little shops, but only the many-paned shop windows, lovingly preserved, remain to show where they once stood.

It is one of the more picturesque of the Cotswold villages, but, because of an absence of craft shops, thatched cottages, and a museum, is mostly free from the tourists and tour buses which crowd other, more popular, places such as Bourton-on-the Water, Stow-on-the-Wold, and Chipping Campden.

Charles and Agatha drove down into the village from the A-44, “Poor Blockley, it must have the worst roads of anywhere around here,” said Charles.

“Why is that?” asked Agatha idly. She was experiencing a rare peace, because at last she was doing something, and did not want her mood shattered by dwelling on thoughts of James’s infidelity.

“The trucks grind through it on their way to Northwick Business Park,” said Charles. “They chew up the two main roads down into the village and leave big pot-holes, and then all that happens is two men fill the holes up with tarry stones, which soon sink back into pot-holes under the weight of the trucks.”

“I think they need a big-wig of some kind, a member of Parliament, Someone like that, to complain. Where’s Parson’s Terrace?”

“Don’t know. There’s a post office. We’ll ask there.”

As in Carsely, the post office was also the general store. The woman behind the counter told them to turn left as they went out of the shop, left and left again. They would find Parson’s Terrace at the top of the hill.

“We may not find him at home,” said Charles. “May be out at work.”

“We can try. A lot of people work at home in these villages, computer stuff,” said Agatha vaguely.

Parson’s Terrace was a row of very small cottages. “This is it,” said Charles, parking outside.

“I wish we had some sort of official badge we could flash,” mourned Agatha.

“Well, we haven’t. Here goes.”

Charles knocked at the door. “Someone at home anyway,” he said, hearing someone approach.

When the door opened, at first they thought they were facing a teenager. She had black hair pulled back in two bunches and tied with red ribbons and was wearing a short print frock, ankle socks and sandals. Her eyes were large, seeming to fill the whole of her small face.

“We’re hoping to talk to Mr. Sheppard,” said Agatha in that slightly cooing voice in which those who don’t have children and don’t much like them either address the species.

“Luke’s out at work. Can I help you? I’m Megan Sheppard.”

“Ah, what time will your father be home, dear?”

Those eyes widened in amusement. “I am Mrs. Sheppard and you are that Agatha Raisin I read about in the newspapers.”

“May we talk to you for a little?” asked Charles.

“Come in. I was just about to have some coffee. We can have it in the garden. It’s a lovely day.”

They followed her through the dark little cottage – narrow kitchen, poky living-room and out into a pretty garden, where a table and chairs had been set out on a patio. “Have a seat,” said Megan. “I’ll get the coffee.”

When she had gone, Agatha hissed, “How old do you think she is?”

“Late thirties?”

“Can’t be!”

“It’s the bobby socks, Agatha. She’s a lot older than she dresses.”

When Megan came back with a tray of coffee jug and cups, which she set down on the table, Agatha studied her face. In full sunlight, Megan’s face now revealed thin lines around the eyes, but she still seemed remarkably young.

“I did not know Mr. Sheppard had married again,” said Agatha. “There was nothing about it in the papers.”

“There wouldn’t be, would there?” said Megan, pouring coffee. “They only print the name of suspects.”

“I am Charles Fraith,” began Charles, accepting a cup of coffee from her. It was a china cup, decorated with roses. “Why wouldn’t your husband be a suspect? I mean, she was married to him.”

“But he had nothing to do with her. Everyone knows that.” Somehow Megan’s voice implied that they should have known it, too.

“Why did he divorce her?” asked Agatha. “Did he discover she was being unfaithful to him?”

“With your husband, you mean?”

“No,” said Agatha sharply. “With someone else.”

“Oh, no. He fell in love with me, you see.” She smiled blindingly at Charles, who smiled back.

“And what does your husband do?” asked Charles.

“He owns The Well-Dressed Gent. It’s a shop in Mircester. You are rather cheeky, you know, to ask all these questions. You’re not the police.”

“Mrs. Raisin is desperate to find the whereabouts of her husband. We’re asking everyone connected with Melissa. Did you know her?”

“Of course not. Why should I?”

Agatha was becoming increasingly irritated. Among other things, the childlike Megan with her doll’s house, and doll’s china, was beginning to make her feel old and huge and lumbering.

“Well, for a start, I thought Melissa, knowing he was leaving her for you, might have called on you.”

“Oh, no. More coffee, Charles?”

“Thank you. It’s excellent.”

She refilled his cup.

Agatha was suddenly anxious to leave. Megan could not help them. They should be on their way to Mircester to interview the husband. She realized they would really need to know what kind of person Melissa had been. They would need to find out if there had been anything in her behaviour or character to promote murder. In her heart of hearts, Agatha could not believe James had had anything to do with it. Whoever had attacked him had surely gone on to kill Melissa. She looked impatiently at Charles, but he was smiling and relaxed in the sunshine.

“How did you meet your husband?” Charles asked.

“I was working in the shop, as an assistant. We started going out for a drink together after work, and one thing led to another. He wasn’t happy with her.”

“Why?” demanded Agatha.

“Oh, you’ll need to ask him and see if he wants to tell you anything.”

“We’ll do that,” said Agatha. “Come along, Charles.”

“Come back any time,” said Megan, but she addressed the invitation to Charles. “Can you see your way out?”

♦

“Little bitch,” said Agatha as they drove off.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Charles. “Seemed very charming to me.”

“For heaven’s sake! There’s something wrong with a woman who wears ankle socks and her hair tied up like a child.”

“It suited her.”

“Anyway, we’d better go to Mircester. You know, Charles, I was thinking in there that we don’t really know what Melissa was like. I mean, what sort of person was she?”

“Then we should call on Mrs. Bloxby first. Melissa went to that ladies’ society thing, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“So let’s ask Mrs. Bloxby’s opinion of her. She must have formed some sort of opinion.”

Agatha felt an irrational stab of jealousy. She prided herself on being a great judge of character. What could Mrs. Bloxby tell them? If she, Agatha, had not sussed out anything strange or odd about Melissa, how could the vicar’s wife manage to do so?

♦

More coffee in the vicarage garden. With scones, this time, light as feathers. Being a city mouse down to her bones, Agatha often envied the skill of the country mice. Not for them the quick-fix dinner in the microwave. Not for them the instant garden with plants bought fully grown from the nursery.

“You were asking me about Mrs. Sheppard,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Do have some of my cherry jam on your scone, Sir Charles.”

I wish I could produce homemade jam, thought Agatha. Of course, I could buy the good stuff, steam off the labels, and put my own on, and who would know the difference? Yes, I might do that.

“I thought, you see,” said Charles, spooning jam onto a scone, “that with Melissa being such a regular member of the ladies’ society, not like Aggie here, you might have formed some sort of opinion.”

“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I suppose that’s silly, now I come to think of it. Surely much worse to speak ill of them when they are alive. I suppose it comes from some old superstition that one might spoil their chances of getting to heaven.”

“If she’s got there, she’s there by now,” said Agatha, shifting impatiently on her garden chair.

“I hope so.” And only Mrs. Bloxby, thought Charles, could say something like that and really mean it.

“Your garden is lovely,” he said, looking about him with pleasure.

“Thank you. The wisteria was a bit disappointing this year, however. Usually, we have a great show but a wicked frost blighted the blooms.”

“Melissa,” prompted Agatha. “The reason we want to know what you think is because we want to know if there was anything in her character that would make her what Scotland Yard calls a murderee – you know, someone who would incite people to violence.”

“Having an affair with someone else’s husband in an incitement,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Yes, but that would mean Aggie would have to have done it,” said Charles, “and she didn’t, and I don’t believe for a moment it was the absent James. Besides, married women have affairs the whole time and no one bumps them off.”

“I think married women are a lot more faithful than you give them credit for, Sir Charles. Let me think. Mrs. Sheppard. Well, she was quite hard to get to know, considering she was a very chatty lady.”

Charles reached for another scone. Agatha, despite a tight feeling at her waistline, which she quickly assured herself must be psychosomatic, followed suit. “What do you mean, chatty?” asked Charles. “She would talk a lot about the weather, about recipes, about flowers, about village life – you know, the decline of the small village shop and all that – but nothing personal.”

“Did she have a close friend in the village?”

“No. I would see her about the village, talking to this one and that, but she was not friendly with anyone in particular.”

“Did you like her?” asked Charles.

“Well, no, I did not.”

“Why?”

“I felt she was acting the part of the village lady. I felt she was restless and discontented and vain. I felt she was afraid of losing her looks. I felt – oh, I don’t know – that she had a craving for excitement. Now, having an affair with James perhaps was her way of making herself feel like a desirable woman. She may have behaved in the same way with other women’s husbands, but I don’t know if she did. She probably enjoyed the power and excitement of an adulterous relationship.”

“We’ve just been to see the present Mrs. Sheppard,” said Agatha. “Funny little woman who dresses like a child.”

“Quite attractive, in fact,” murmured Charles, and Agatha threw him a filthy look.

“I was not aware he had married again. But then, I did not know him. Mrs. Sheppard moved to this village after her divorce from him. Is there any news of James?”

Agatha shook her head. “And I find that very odd. Particularly because of his cancer. You would think he would show up at some hospital somewhere.”

Charles delicately licked a piece of jammy scone from his fingertips. “I think we’d better go to Mircester, Aggie, and see that husband. May I use your bathroom first?”

“You know where it is? Down the corridor and on your right.”

When he had left, Mrs. Bloxby looked seriously at Agatha. “Have you considered, Mrs. Raisin, that you have been under a great deal of stress lately? That perhaps if you went away on holiday and tried to relax, it might be better for you?”

“Why?” asked Agatha, surprised. “You know I’ve got to find out about this murder. Apart from anything, James is still the prime suspect. I’ve got to keep asking questions.”

Mrs. Bloxby wanted to say that she feared Agatha might find out more about James than she wanted to hear, but she said, “Just be careful. You have put yourself in danger before.”

“I’ll be careful. I wish you could meet the present Mrs. Sheppard. I didn’t like her at all.”

“Did Sir Charles?”

“Oh, him! He was all over her like a rash.”

“Oh, well.”

“I am not jealous of her,” snapped Agatha. “I do not care what woman Charles fancies.”

“If you say so. Ah, here is Sir Charles. Can I expect you at our ladies’ society meeting tomorrow night, Mrs. Raisin?”

“I suppose so,” muttered Agatha, wishing she had never joined in the first place. She had only signed up when she had first arrived in the village as part of playing some sort of role as a villager, like trying to bake and going to church.

♦

“I wonder if they’ve bugged your phone,” said Charles, as they headed towards Mircester.

“Would they do that?”

“Seems likely. I mean, they’ll be hoping he’ll get in contact with you.”

“I don’t like that idea. Charles, do you really think James is dead?”

“No. If James was dead, we’d have had a report by now. He can’t hide away forever. And when he comes back, you’ll need to face up to the fact that you should never have married him.”

“We were working things out. It would have worked out. He’ll need nursing, taking care of.”

“I can’t see you as a ministering angel, Aggie.”

“Then you’ve never been in love.”

“I think you fell in love with a dream James who does not exist.”

“I am not a fanciful person!”

“I think you are, under that crusty exterior.”

“Shut up and drive, Charles.”

They completed the rest of the journey in silence.

“I wonder if he’s handsome,” said Agatha as she walked across the main car-park with Charles.

“Luke Sheppard? You mean because Melissa was an attractive woman?”

“If you like stringy, faded blondes and itsy-bitsy little middle-aged women who dress like schoolgirls.”

“Late thirties isn’t middle-aged these days. If it is, you’re ancient, Aggie.”

A tear rolled down Agatha’s cheek and she gave a choked sob. “Here, now!” said Charles, alarmed, handing her a handkerchief as Agatha attempted to brush the tear away on her blouse sleeve. “You’re falling apart. Do you want to go somewhere for a drink? Something to eat? We’ve only had scones.” Agatha blew her nose defiantly. “I’m all right. It’s just that I keep wondering and wondering how the hell James could cheat on me like that.”

“Maybe if I thought I were dying, it might affect my morals.”

“Couldn’t. You haven’t got any.”

“That’s more like my Aggie. Come on. Here’s the gents’ outfitters. Oh, God, just look at that awful blazer with the improbable crest on the pocket.”

A-slim dark-haired woman was arranging piles of shirts at the back of the shop. She was dressed all in black – short black skirt, black stockings, and low-cut black blouse. “Maybe the third Mrs. Sheppard,” murmured Charles.

Agatha sailed forward. “We’re looking for Mr. Sheppard.”

“I’ll get him. You are…?”

“Agatha Raisin and Sir Charles Fraith.”

She undulated into the back shop. They could hear the murmur of voices and then Luke Sheppard appeared. He was a small, powerfully built blond-haired man with small red-veined blue eyes and a large thick-lipped mouth. His broad chest was encased in one of the crested blazers that Charles despised.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“Are you very busy?” asked Charles. “Is there somewhere we can go and talk?”

“There’s the pub next door. Can you take care of things, Lucy?”

“Of course, Luke,” said the dark-haired assistant. She gave him a languorous smile.

They walked together into the beer-smelling darkness of The Green Man next door. The pub was nearly empty. Charles said he had left his wallet, which Agatha did not believe for a moment, but she paid for their drinks and then they all sat down around a table. “I assume this has to do with the death of my former wife,” said Luke Sheppard. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing new,” said Agatha. “You see, my husband is under suspicion and I am anxious to clear his name.”

“I don’t see how you plan to do that. Can’t think of anyone else with any reason to have done it.”

Agatha looked ready to flare up, so Charles said quickly, “It’s just that we’re trying to build up a picture of Melissa. No one seems to have known her very well. You see, if we get an idea what she was like, we might think of a reason why she was murdered.”

“The reason,” said Luke, “is that she was messing around with James Lacey.”

“Humour me,” said Charles. “What was she like?”

Luke’s accents, which were a sort of refined Midlands, suddenly coarsened. “She was a bloody actress, that’s what she was. She lived in a private soap opera. In fact, she watched as many soap operas as she could. I went to see her about a month before she was killed. She wanted more money. God knows why. She had enough of her own. I pointed out that when we divorced, she’d settled for a lump sum. She was playing at being the perfect villager, rambling on about recipes and plants and how to make loose covers. She was even wearing an apron!”

“So why did you marry her?” asked Agatha.

“Because the act she was playing when I met her was lady-tart. She promised everything.” He nudged Charles. “Know what I mean?”

“And she wasn’t?”

“She thought she was good in bed and she was lousy.”

So what did James see in her? wondered Agatha.

“Doesn’t help us a bit,” mourned Charles. “Just because a woman’s a bit of an amateur actress doesn’t mean she would necessarily inspire someone to murder her.”

Agatha covertly studied Luke Sheppard. She did not like him, and yet she had to admit he exuded a strong air of animal sexuality.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” said Luke, draining his glass. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Here’s my card,” said Agatha.

He stood up and then said, “Why don’t you pair let the police do the work?”

“I’ve managed to solve cases in the past,” said Agatha.

He gave a bark of laughter. “Melissa did that as well. When she wasn’t watching the soaps, she was watching Miss Marple or Morse on the telly. Another of her fantasies.” He strode off before the fulminating Agatha could answer him.

“So that’s put you in your place,” said Charles. “Let’s grab a bite to eat Give me some money, Aggie, and I’ll get it.”

“No,” said Agatha. “You get it.”

“I told you, I forgot my wallet.”

She leaned across quickly, thrust her hand inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “There you are.”

“Bless me, I was sure I had forgotten it.”

“Good try, Charles. Get food.”

He came back with two ploughman’s, those bread-and-cheese rolls which are the cheapest thing on a pub menu.

“So we haven’t got very far,” said Charles. “Except maybe for the Miss Marple bit. I mean, what if Melissa, fancying herself a detective, had dug up something that someone didn’t want her to know?”

“Could be,” said Agatha, opening up her roll and looking gloomily at a piece of sweating cheese and a leaf of limp lettuce. “It all seems hopeless, but I’ve got to go on. Somehow, if I stop ferreting around, I’ll sink back into misery again.”

“I know,” said Charles. “When we finish this, we’ll call in at police headquarters and ask for Bill. Maybe he’s heard something.”

Agatha ate what she could. Charles finished his and then ate what she had left on her plate.

“Getting hot,” he said as they emerged into the sunlight.

They walked to police headquarters, asked for Bill Wong and were told to wait. Some attempt had been made a long time ago to brighten up the reception area, but various potted plants were dying or dead and the magazines on the scarred table in front of them were years old.

Finally the desk sergeant called them over and pressed a buzzer so they could go through to the back. Bill was waiting for them in the corridor. “We’ll use this room,” he said, pushing open the door of an interview room. When they were seated, he asked, “What’s new?”

“We came to ask you that,” said Agatha.

He spread his hands. “Nothing. No news of James at all. His photo’s been in all the newspapers and on television. We’ve checked the ports and airports. Nothing.”

“Are you concentrating solely on him?” asked Agatha. “I mean, if you do that, you’ll be letting the real murderer escape.”

“We’ve interviewed everyone we can think of. I mean, we don’t understand it. Those villages like Carsely are gossip shops. Yet, we get this murder, Lacey is attacked, no one sees a thing. Agatha, are you sure you didn’t just have one of your rows with James and throw something at him?”

“No, I did not. And I was away all that evening.”

“So you were.”

“You bugging my phone?”

“If we were, I wouldn’t tell you. But I don’t know. I’m still too low down the ranks to know that sort of thing. If someone’s phone is bugged, they need to get permission from the Home Office.”

“We’ve got a likely suspect,” said Agatha.

“I thought I told you pair not to interfere. Anyway, who is it?”

“Luke Sheppard.”

“Oh, him. He’s got an alibi for the time James was attacked. We cannot exactly pin-point the time of Melissa’s death, but it was sometime during the night five days before her body was found.”

“And what was Luke Sheppard’s alibi for the evening James disappeared?”

“He was at a Rotary Club meeting all that evening.”

“And the night Melissa was killed?”

“He and his missus were having a romantic night in the Randolph Hotel in Oxford. It was her birthday celebration.”

“Rats!” Agatha stared at him moodily.

“We were trying to build up a picture of Melissa,” said Charles. “You know, trying to find out if there was anything in her character or behaviour that would cause someone to murder her. Did you find out anything?”

“Only that she was regarded as the perfect village lady. Divorced two times and both amicable divorces.”

“What we did find,” said Charles, “was that, according to Sheppard, she was a fantasist, acted out roles she saw on television. She was addicted to soaps and detective series, and fancied herself as bit of a Miss Marple. She may just have dug up something that someone didn’t want her to find out.”

“It’s a possibility, but a remote one. If only we could find James Lacey, we might have a clearer picture. But we are trying. We haven’t given up on the case. So keep out of it.”

“You didn’t used to be like this before,” said Agatha mournfully. “You used to be glad of my help.”

“That was before you nearly got yourself killed on several occasions. You may not realize it, but I am fond of you, Agatha.”

“Now you’ve done it,” said Charles, as fat tears began to spill down Agatha’s cheeks.

“What did I say?” asked Bill, as Agatha mopped her face.

“She’s a bit fragile. Come on, Aggie, let’s get going.” Charles put a hand under her arm and helped her to her feet.

♦

Turnpike Lane, Worcester, where Melissa’s first husband lived, turned out to lie in the outskirts of the town in a modern housing development. “You want to go on with this?” asked Charles, as he parked outside number 5.

“Yes, I’m all right.”

“You’ve got a soft centre after all, Aggie.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Aggie? My husband may be dead, he is suspected of murder, and that’s enough to upset anyone. Now are we going to talk to this man or not?”

They got out of the car and stood looking at the house. It was raw-looking, the stone a harsh yellowish colour, and was surrounded by identical houses. “He hasn’t bothered much about the garden,” commented Charles, looking at the weedy earth in front of the house, which was still dotted with bits of builders’ rubble.

Charles rang the white bell-push on the white-painted door. Agatha was once more struck by the fact that there were no children playing about. Children rushed indoors after school these days to surf the Internet or watch television or play computer games.

A woman walking a dog stood at the garden gate and studied them. “Want anything?” called Agatha.

“I represent Neighbourhood Watch in this area,” she said, “and I haven’t seen you before.”

“Well, now you have,” snapped Agatha. “And I’ve got a gun. Bang, bang, you’re dead!” She turned back and stared impatiently at the closed door.

She was just about to say to Charles that it did not look as if their quarry was at home, when the door opened a crack and one pale eye surveyed them.

“Mr. Dewey?” said Agatha.

“I’m not buying anything.”

“We’re not selling anything,” said Agatha crossly. “I am Mrs. Agatha Raisin and this is Sir Charles Fraith. We would like to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Melissa Sheppard.”

“Oh, her.” The door swung open.

“Everything all right, Mr. Dewey?” called the woman at the garden gate and her dog gave a shrill bark.

“We’re only here to shoot him,” called Agatha to the woman. She turned back. “Do let us in, Mr. Dewey. We can’t talk on the doorstep with that tiresome woman watching us.”

“Come in.”

Charles took a look back down the garden path and saw the representative of Neighbourhood Watch pull a mobile phone out of her pocket. He felt he should say something, but Agatha was already walking into the house, so he gave a shrug and followed her.

The small living-room into which Mr. Dewey led them was as characterless as the outside of the house. Fitted brown carpet covered the floor. There was a new three-piece suite, the sofa having a shell-shaped design. One coffee-table in plain wood. No pictures, photographs, books or magazines softened the starkness of the room. Agatha wondered if he lived in the kitchen.

“Mr. Dewey,” she began when they were seated.

“John,” he said. “You may call me John.”

A small, slight man with closed features and gold-rimmed glasses, he was wearing a white T-shirt, jeans with ironed creases down the front, glittering white sneakers and, over his clothes, a plastic apron decorated with fat roses which reminded Agatha of Megan’s cups.

“Well, John,” she said, “you may have read about us in the papers.”

“Yes, you’re that woman whose husband killed Melissa.”

“That’s just the point. We don’t think he did. Before he disappeared, he was attacked and we think that whoever attacked him killed Melissa.”

“I don’t see the point of these questions,” he said. “I mean, I’ve told the police all I know.”

“We’re asking a different sort of question,” said Agatha. “We would like to find out what Melissa was really like. I mean, if there was anything in her character that would drive anyone to murder her.”

“She was just an ordinary sort of person, bit irritating.”

“But you divorced her.”

“No, she divorced me. We didn’t quarrel about it, you know. I didn’t argue. I bought this house after the divorce. Suits me to have my own way. She was a cluttery sort of person.”

“Cluttery?”

“You know, she always had some fad or other – dressmaking one day, flower-arranging the other, house full of bits and bobs. She was a bad cook.”

“She must have changed since she left you,” said Agatha. “Everyone in Carsely praised her cakes.”

“Oh, that. She probably did what she did when she was married to me.”

“Which was?”

“She’d find a good bakery and buy cakes and then put homemade wrappings on them and say she had baked them herself. I mean, only rather sneaky and mean people would do a thing like that.”

Charles glanced at Agatha’s face, for Agatha was notorious for trying to pass off shop goods as her own work.

“Was she unfaithful to you?”

“Stands to reason, she must have been. She married Sheppard right after the divorce. She would say she was going out to some flower-arranging class or cookery class or something. Come to think of it, she was one hell of a liar.” He gave a nervous giggle and put one well-kept hand up to his mouth. “Pardon my French.”

The wail of police sirens approaching sounded from outside the house.

“Thank you,” said Charles, getting to his feet. “Come along, Agatha.”

“No, wait a bit, Charles. This is getting interesting. I mean – ”

She broke off, suddenly aware of the sirens, the screech of tyres. Then a stentorian voice called, “The house is surrounded. Come out with your hands above your head.”

John Dewey threw them one terrified look, darted out of the living-room and locked the door behind him.

Charles looked out of the window. “It’s the police, Aggie. That damn woman took you seriously when you said you were going to shoot Dewey.”

“How can we get out?” said Agatha, tugging at the door. “He’s locked us in.”

“We’d better get out through the window,” said Charles, “before they break down that door and start spraying us with CS gas.”

He began to tug ineffectually at the window. “Would you believe it? They’re painted shut. He never opens them.”

Agatha picked up a brass poker from beside the empty fireplace, where obviously no fire had ever been lit. She began smashing at the glass. “We’re coming out!” yelled Charles, seeing a police marksman taking aim. “Don’t shoot!”

When Agatha had smashed out all the glass, they climbed out into the glare of police lights and television lights. “Down on the ground,” yelled a voice.

“Do as they say, Aggie,” said Charles wearily, “or we’ll never get out of here.”

They were both handcuffed and led to the police cars. Agatha looked out of the window of the police car and saw the triumphant face of the Neighbourhood Watch woman. She was talking avidly to a television reporter.

♦

“What a mess!” groaned Agatha when they finally emerged from Worcester police station several hours later. “I’ll pay half your lawyer’s fee, Charles, considering he represented me as well.”

“You should pay the whole bill. Whatever possessed you to tell that woman we were going to shoot Mr. Dewey?”

“It was a joke!”

“That backfired. I’ll drop you off home.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow. I’ve got things to do.”

“Oh.” He’s sick of me, thought Agatha. Now I’m on my own. With a great effort she managed to stop herself from crying.

♦

To her surprise, she slept deeply that night and woke, for the first time since James’s disappearance, feeling strong and well.

She made herself a hearty breakfast, fed her cats and let them out into the garden and then wondered what to do with the rest of the day. She heard her doorbell ring. Charles, she thought with a feeling of gladness that he had not abandoned her.

But it was Bill Wong who stood there when she opened the door.

“Come in,” said Agatha. “I suppose you’ve learned all that fuss about nothing last night in Worcester.”

“It’s a good thing Charles dug up a hot-shot lawyer or you might both have been charged with wasting police time. That Neighbourhood Watch woman, Miss Harris, has, fortunately for you, a record of seeing villains behind every bush. You’re interfering again, Agatha. I warned you.”

“Have coffee, sit down, and listen,” said Agatha. “Despite the police interruption, I felt I was getting somewhere.”

“Oh, yes? We’d already interviewed him.”

“But what did you ask, eh? Usual police stuff, where were you on the night of, and so on. What I’m trying to find out is what Melissa was like. I told you about that. I mean, surely that would give us some idea. If I could find out what she was like and who she knew, then I might be able to find out who murdered her.”

She handed Bill a cup of coffee. He studied her, his almond-shaped eyes curious in his round face.

“So what did you find out?”

“That she lived in a fantasy world and thought she was a detective, among other things, but I told you that. She was also prepared to cheat to maintain the fiction of being a perfect housewife. She would buy cakes and then say she had baked them.”

Bill laughed. “Do you remember how we first met? You’d entered a quiche in a baking competition, the judge dropped dead eating it, and we found out that you’d bought it and tried to pass it off as your own baking.”

Agatha flushed.

“So you’ll need to do better than that.”

“Why did you call, Bill?”

“I’ve been sent along to find out what you’re up to. Now, Wilkes, he says, give her her head. She’s blundered around before and unearthed a murderer. But I don’t want you to do that.”

“I’ll be all right. I can’t do anything the police can’t do, Bill. But you can’t stop me asking questions. Do you remember that television game, “What’s My Line?” When they would call something like, “Will the real airline pilot stand up?” That’s how I feel about Melissa. Will the real Melissa Sheppard please stand up?”

“How are you and Charles getting along?”

“As usual. He’s good company, but, well, you know, lightweight. Can’t really rely on him. He comes and goes. He reminds me of my cats. I think they like me, especially when I’m feeding them. I think Charles likes me, particularly on the occasions when he says he’s forgotten his wallet and I pay to feed him.”

“You’re just bitter. He’s a better friend than that.”

“If you say so.” Agatha suddenly felt weary. “How’s your love life?”

“All right. I’m taking it slowly this time. No pressing her for too many dates. No rushing her home to meet the parents.”

“Good plan,” said Agatha, who had met Bill’s parents and thought they were enough to kill any budding romance. “Anyway, I think Charles has dropped out. I got a very good cheque for my PR work on that boot. Would you believe it? The boss, Mr. Pier-cey, thought for a bit that I had arranged the police arrival to give the whole thing maximum publicity.”

“So what are you going to do today?”

“Oh, potter about. Got the ladies’ society tonight. I thought I’d take a cake along.”

“Not baking one, are you?”

“I might try. It can’t be that difficult.”

♦

Agatha played safe, or thought she had, by buying one of those cake mixes which said, just add water. But the oven must have been too hot, for the chocolate cake she had intended to produce came out crisp on the outside and soggy and runny on the inside. She scraped it into the bin and then went next door to James’s cottage to check his answering machine, but there were no messages. She sternly resisted going upstairs to bury her face in his pillow. All that did was bring savage waves of hurt. Any decent worries she might have about his brain tumour always seemed to get swamped out by feelings of rejection and loss.

She prepared herself carefully for the evening at the Carsely Ladies’ Society, putting on a pretty summer dress with slits up each side to reveal what Agatha considered her last good feature, her legs.

When she sat in the vicarage garden, balancing a cup of tea and a plate with a wedge of cake, she listened with only half an ear to Carsely’s unmarried mother, Miss Simms, read the minutes of the last meeting. Unmarried mothers in villages were hardly unusual, but Agatha always found it amusing that Miss Simms should have been elected secretary by this bunch of very conventional, middle-aged and middle-class ladies.

Mrs. Bloxby, who was now chairwoman – no PC rubbish about chairpersons in Carsely – rose to put forward the arrangements for the forthcoming village fête. For once, Agatha did not volunteer to do anything. She was tired of village affairs and felt she had done enough in the past.

The other women there did not cut her dead once the business part of the evening was over. But they would ask her if she had any word of her husband and then move quickly away. Only Miss Simms pulled up a chair next to Agatha and said, “Wouldn’t you feel better doing something at the fête, dearie? I mean, we need someone for the tombola. Take your mind off things.”

“The way I feel at the moment,” said Agatha, “a village fête would be incapable of taking my mind off things.”

Miss Simms tugged ineffectively at her short skirt, which was riding up over her lace-topped stockings. “Anything I can do to help?”

“I keep trying to find out what sort of person Melissa Sheppard really was.”

“Bit of a tart, if you ask me.”

“How come?”

“Went up to London with her a couple of months ago. I don’t have a gentleman friend at the moment, and she says there’s this singles’ bar with good talent and why don’t I come along. So I did. Well, it was really rough stuff, if you get me. I like my gents in suits and with their own car. We get tied up with three bikers, all leather and medallions, and Melissa, she says, “We’re all going back to Jake’s place,” Jake being one of the blokes. I take her aside and say, “What you on about, Liss? They’re a bit common and there’s three of them.” She’d drunk a bucketful, pretty quick, and she says, says she, “The more the merrier.” So I got the hell out of there and had to find me way to Paddington and pay for me fare home, ‘cos we’d come up in her car. I asked her later how she’d got on, and she says, “Okay, and I didn’t take you to be a Miss Prim,” so I never spoke to her again.”

At last I’m getting somewhere, thought Agatha. “I’d like to speak to those bikers,” she said. “Would you like to go to London with me and spot them for me? Did they seem like regulars?”

Miss Simms looked at her doubtfully from under a pair of improbably false eyelashes. “They did seem to be regulars, but…”

“Don’t worry,” said Agatha. “I’ll pay for everything, even for your baby-sitter, and I’m not looking for a fellow.”

“Right. You’re on.”

“What time did you turn up there before?”

“Bout nine in the evening.”

“Right. We leave about seven. Should make it in good time. The rush-hour traffic should be thinning out by then.”

Shortly after Agatha got home, the phone rang. It was Charles. “How’s it going?” he asked.

Agatha, glad that he had not abandoned her after all, felt relieved and told him about the singles’ bar.

“I’ll come with you.”

“Okay,” said Agatha after a little hesitation. “It’s a bit rough, so don’t look too posh.”

He laughed. “As if I could.”

And he really believes that, thought Agatha. How odd.