The Love from Hell

∨ The Love from Hell ∧

1

IT was supposed to be the end of a dream – the perfect marriage. Here was Agatha Raisin married to the man she had longed for, had fantasized about. Her neighbour, James Lacey. And yet she was miserable.

It had all started with one incident two weeks after they had returned from their honeymoon. The honeymoon in Vienna and then Prague had been taken up with sightseeing and sex, and so no real day-to-day life together had really bothered them. Agatha had kept her own cottage next door to James’s in the village of Carsely in the English Cotswolds. The idea was to make it a thoroughly modern marriage and give each other some space.

Sitting now in her own cottage cradling a cup of black coffee, Agatha remembered the day it had all begun to go wrong.

Anxious to be the perfect wife, she had bundled up all their dirty washing, ignoring the fact that James kept his dirty laundry in a separate basket and preferred to do it himself. It was a brisk spring day with great fleecy clouds being tugged across the sky like so many stately galleons by a breezy wind. Agatha sang as she piled all the dirty clothes into her large washing machine. Somewhere at the back of her mind was a little warning bell telling her that real housewives separated the colours from the whites. She put in washing powder and fabric softener, and then went out to sit in the garden and watch her two cats playing on the lawn. When she heard the washing machine roar to a finish, she rose and opened the door of the machine and tugged all the clothes out into a large laundry basket, preparatory to hanging them out in the garden. She found herself staring down at a basket of pink clothes. Not light pink but shocking pink. Dismayed, she searched through the clothes for the culprit, and at last found it, a pink sweater she had bought at a street market in Prague. All James’s clothes – his shirts, his underwear – were all now bright pink.

But in the rosy glow of new marriage had she not expected to be forgiven? Had she not expected him to laugh with her?

He had been furious. He had been incandescent with rage. How dare she mess about with his clothes? She was stupid and incompetent. The pre-marriage Agatha Raisin would have told him exactly what to do with himself, but the new, demoralized Agatha humbly begged forgiveness. She forgave him, because she knew he had been a bachelor for a long time and used to his own ways.

The next incident had happened after she had picked up two microwaveable dinners in Marks & Spencer, two trays of lasagne. He had picked at his plateful of food and had commented acidly that as he was perfectly well able to make proper lasagne, perhaps in future she had better leave the cooking to him.

Then there was the matter of her clothes. Agatha felt frumpish when not wearing high heels. James had said as they lived in the country, she might consider wearing flats and stop teetering around like a tart. Her skirts were too tight, some of her necklines were too low. And as for her make-up? Did she need to plaster it on?

Yes, there was love-making during the night, but only during the night. No impulsive hugs or kisses during the day. Bewildered Agatha began to wander about in a fog of masculine disapproval.

And yet she did not confide in anyone about the misery of her marriage, not even to her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife. Had not Mrs. Bloxby cautioned her against the marriage? Agatha could not bear to admit defeat.

She sighed and looked out of her kitchen window. Here she was in her own cottage, hiding like a criminal in her own cottage. The phone rang, startling her. She tentatively picked it up, wondering whether it might be James about to deliver another lecture. But it was Roy Silver. Roy had once worked for Agatha when she had owned her own public relations company in London and was now working for a big public relations firm in the City.

“How’s the happily married Mrs. Lacey?” asked Roy.

“I’m still Agatha Raisin,” snapped Agatha. Using her own name seemed to be the last shred of independence she had managed to hold on to. She had not quite realized that using the name of her late husband whom she had heartily despised, was hardly a blow for freedom.

“How modern,” remarked Roy.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Haven’t heard from you since the wedding. How was Vienna?”

“Not very exciting. Not much pizzazz. Prague was all right. Are you sure this is just a friendly call? Nothing up your sleeve?”

“There is one thing that might interest you.”

“I thought there might be. What?”

“There’s a new shoe company opening in Mircester. We’re handling the account. Not a big account, but they want a public relations officer to launch their new line coming out of their new factory. It’s called the Cotswold Way.”

“And what’s that?”

“Those sort of clumpy boots the young like, not to mention those serious ramblers who plague the countryside. Short-term contract, right on your doorstep.”

Agatha was about to say she was a happily married woman and didn’t have time for anything else. She always told everyone in the village how happy she was. But she suddenly felt desperately in need of an identity. She was good at spin, at public relations. Failure as a housewife she might be, but she felt secure in her talents as a business woman.

“Sounds interesting,” she said cautiously. “What’s the company called?”

“Delly Shoes.”

“Sounds as if they ought to be selling liverwurst and submarine sandwiches.”

“So can I fix up an interview for you?”

“Why not? The sooner the better.”

“Usually I have to spend ages into talking you back into work,” said Roy. “Sure the marriage is okay?”

“Of course it is. But James is usually writing during the day and doesn’t want me underfoot.”

“Mmm. I called his number and he told me you were on the old number.”

“I kept on my cottage. These little cottages can be claustrophobic. This way we have two of everything. Two kitchens, two bathrooms and so on.”

“Okay. I’ll fix an appointment and call you back.”

When she had rung off, Agatha lit a cigarette, a habit James detested, and stared off into space. How would he react to her rejoining the work force? Despite a feeling of trepidation, she felt her emotional muscles hardening up. He could like it or lump it. Agatha Raisin rides again!

♦

And yet she had not really thought he would object. No man, not even James, could be that old-fashioned. When Roy told her he had managed to get her an appointment for the following afternoon at three o’clock, she called to her cats and, with Hodge and Boswell following behind, made her way to James’s cottage next door. Never our cottage, she thought sadly as she opened the door and shooed the cats inside.

James was sitting in front of his computer, scowling at it. He had managed to have one military history published and had felt sure the next one would be easy, but he seemed to spend days frowning at a screen on which nothing was written but ‘Chapter One.’ He had his hand on his forehead, as if he had a headache.

“I’ve got a job,” said Agatha.

He actually smiled at her. His blue eyes crinkled up in his tanned face in that way that still made her heart turn over. “What is it?” he asked, switching off the computer. “I’ll make us some coffee and you can tell me about it.” He headed for the kitchen.

All Agatha’s misery about their marriage disappeared. The old hope that all they were doing was experiencing some initial marital blips lit up her soul. He came in carrying two mugs of coffee. “This is decaf,” he said. “You drink too much of the real stuff and it’s not good for you. Your clothes smell of smoke. I thought you’d given up.”

“I just had the one,” said Agatha defensively, although she had smoked five. When would people grasp the simple fact that if you wanted people to stop smoking, then don’t nag them and make them feel guilty. People are told when dealing with alcoholics not to mention their drinking or pour the stuff down the sink because it only stops them looking at their problem. But smokers were hounded and berated, causing all the rebellion of the hardened addict.

“Anyway,” said James, handing her a cup of coffee and sitting down opposite her, “what’s the job? Who are you fund-raising for now?”

“It’s not a village thing,” said Agatha. “I’m taking on a contract to promote some new shoes, or boots, rather, for a firm in Mircester.”

“You mean, a real job?”

“Why, yes, of course, a real job.”

“We don’t need the money,” said James flatly.

“Money’s always useful,” said Agatha cheerfully. Then her smile faded as she looked at James’s angry face.

“Oh, what’s up now?” she asked wearily.

“You have no need to work. You should leave employment to those who need a job.”

“Look, I need this job. I need an identity.”

“Spare me the therapy-speak. In proper English, please.”

Agatha cracked. “In proper English,” she howled, “I need something to bolster my ego, which you have been doing your best to destroy. Nit-picking all day long. Yak, yak, yak. “Don’t do this, don’t do that.” Well, stuff you, matey. I’m going back to work.”

He rose abruptly and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” demanded Agatha. But the slamming of the door was her only answer.

♦

The following day, Agatha put on a charcoal-grey trouser-suit, pleased that the waistline was now quite loose. There was something to be said for marital misery. James had stayed away the whole of the previous day and had not arrived back home until Agatha had fallen into an uneasy sleep. Breakfast had been a doom-laden, silent affair. She could feel herself weakening. She had prepared breakfast but everything had gone wrong. She had burnt the toast and the scrambled eggs were lumpy and hard. And she could feel the atmosphere weakening her. She longed to say, “Forget it. You’re quite right. I won’t take the job.” But somewhere she found a little bit of courage to help her ignore his mood.

♦

It was another fine late spring day as she motored along the Fosse to Mircester. Following Roy’s directions, she cut off before the town to an industrial estate on the outskirts. It was a new estate, the ground in front of the factories still having a raw, naked look.

She thought it a good sign that she was not kept waiting. In Agatha’s experience, only unsuccessful business people massaged their egos by keeping people waiting. She was ushered into a boardroom by an efficient middle-aged secretary – another good sign, in Agatha’s opinion. She was introduced to the managing director, the advertising manager, the sales director and various other executives.

In the middle of the boardroom table was a large leather boot. The managing director, Mr. Piercy, began right away. “Now, Mrs. Raisin, that boot on the table is our Cotswold Way model. We want to promote it. Mr. Hardy, our advertising manager, suggests we should get one of the rambling groups and kit them out.”

“Won’t do,” said Agatha immediately. “Round here, people think of ramblers as hairy militant types. How much is a pair of boots?”

“Ninety-nine pounds and ninety-nine pee.”

“That’s quite expensive for the youth market and it’s the young who go for boots like that.”

“We’ve done our costing and we can’t bring down our price.”

“What about television advertising?”

“We’re a small company,” said Mr. Piercy. “We want a simple launch and then the boot will sell on its merits.”

“In other words,” said Agatha brutally, “you can’t afford to pay for much hype.”

“We can afford a certain amount but not nationwide coverage.”

Agatha thought hard. Then she said, “There’s a new group in Gloucester called Stepping Out. Heard of them?”

Heads were shaken all round.

“I saw a documentary about them on Midlands Today,” said Agatha. “They’re an up-and-coming pop group – three boys, three girls – all clean-cut, good image. They recently had a record that was number sixty-two in the charts, but they’re being tipped for stardom. If we could get them fast, kit them out in the boots, get them to write a song about rambling – they write their own songs – and give a concert, you might catch them just before they become famous. Then your boots will be associated with success.”

The advertising manager spoke. “How do you know about this group, Mrs. Raisin?”

“It’s a hobby,” said Agatha. “I automatically look out for who I think is going to be famous. I’m always right.”

They thrashed her idea around, Agatha bulldozing them when they seem tempted to reject it. In the back of her mind, she wished she were working for a large company and not this hick outfit, as she privately damned it. Something to really impress James. But James was not going to be impressed by anything she did, she thought sadly.

They finally decided to accept Agatha’s scheme. “Just one thing, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mr. Piercy. “Your name was given to us as Mrs. Lacey.”

“That’s me.”

“Don’t you use it?”

“No, I’ve used the name Raisin in business for years. Easier to keep it.”

“Very well, Mrs. Raisin. Would you like an office here?”

“No, I’ll work from home. I’ll try to set up something with the pop group and arrange to meet you tomorrow.”

♦

Agatha drove back to Carsely feeling exhilarated. But as her car wound down to the village under a green archway of trees, her mood darkened. She let herself into her own cottage where she still kept her business papers and computer. She had logged the name of the pop group and their manager into her computer, a sort of public relations reflex. She then went to a stack of telephone directories. She selected the Gloucester directory and began to look up the manager’s name, Harry Best. There were several H. Bests listed. She settled down to phone them all. One of the H. Bests turned out to be the father of the manager she was looking for. He gave her Harry Best’s number and she dialled that. She crisply outlined her plan for publicizing the Cotswold Way boot.

“I dunno,” said Harry Best in that estuary-English accent that Agatha found so depressing. “We’re hot stuff. Cost you a lot.”

Agatha took a deep breath. “This needs to be discussed face to face,” she said firmly. “I’m coming over to Gloucester. Give me your address.”

He gave her a Churchdown address. Churchdown is actually outside Gloucester. As Agatha drove off again, past James’s cottage, past the white blur of his face at the window, she reflected she would not be back in time for dinner. A good wife would phone and say she was going to be late.

“But I am no longer a good wife,” said Agatha out loud, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

♦

The traffic was heavy and there were not only road-works on the A-40 to contend with but various lethargic men driving tractors at ten miles per hour. By the time she found Harry’s address, she was feeling weak and disheartened. She longed to chuck it all up and return to James, try to conciliate him, try to make the marriage from hell work somehow. But a weedy, balding man with what was left of his hair worn in a ponytail was standing outside a shabby villa waiting for her.

Agatha studied him as she approached. He had those little half-moon glasses perched on a beaky nose which drooped over a small pursed mouth. She judged him to be nearly forty and he was wearing that clinging-on-to-youth outfit of cowboy boots, jeans, and a black leather jacket.

Mr. Harry Best was as little impressed with Agatha as she was with him. He saw a stocky woman with shiny brown hair worn in a French pleat. Her round face had a good mouth and a neat nose, but her eyes were wary, brown and bearlike.

“I’m Agatha Raisin.” Agatha gave one of his limp, clammy hands a firm shake. “May we go inside to discuss business?”

“Sure. Follow me.”

The room into which he led her showed signs of hasty and not thorough house-cleaning. A wastepaper basket was bulging with empty Coke cans. Under a cushion on an armchair Agatha could see a pile of newspapers and magazines which had been thrust underneath to hide them.

Agatha got down to business. She outlined the promotion, the idea of writing a song to go with the new boots and then they haggled over price. He tried to drive the price up by saying if the group advertised something, people would think they were unsuccessful. Agatha pointed out that many successful pop stars had appeared on advertisements. “What about Michael Jackson?” she asked crisply.

Harry Best began to visibly weaken under her onslaught. Agatha reminded him of his grandmother, a forceful woman who had terrified his early childhood. At last, the deal was struck. The one good thing he felt he had got out of Agatha was that she agreed to hire a rehearsal hall for the group, as they were shortly to be evicted from the friend’s garage they were using.

When Agatha finally left, it was dark and late and she was hungry. She stopped at a pub on the road home and had a simple meal and a glass of water. Now to deal with James.

♦

Residents of Carsely, walking their dogs along Lilac Lane where Agatha and James had their cottages, were to describe later how they had heard Agatha shouting, and then the sound of breaking china. James had decided to put his foot down. Agatha was told in no uncertain terms that she had to give up this stupid job and start trying to behave like a married woman.

If he had been angry at that point, Agatha might, just might have capitulated. But it was the calm scorn in his voice that got to her. He looked pained, as if she were giving him another headache. She had never thought of herself before as a china-smashing woman, but the row took place in the kitchen and so Agatha swept a whole shelf of dishes to the floor and danced with rage on the shards.

“You disgust me,” said James quietly. And then he had walked out, leaving Agatha red-faced, panting, and totally demoralized.

Wearily, she packed up her belongings and carried them next door to her own cottage. She went back and cleaned up the mess of broken china, boxed it up, and left it out for the garbage collection. She collected the same number of plates she had broken from the supply in her own cottage and placed them on James’s kitchen shelf. Then she called to her cats who followed her next door, their raised fur only just beginning to settle after the fright they had received from their mistress’s noisy scene. Once in her own house, Agatha forced herself to relax. She would apologize to James for the broken china.

♦

Next day she was kept busy – reporting to the shoe company, hiring a rehearsal hall and meeting the pop group. Agatha had dealt with pop groups before and found Stepping Out refreshingly pleasant. The group consisted of three young men and three girls. All were in their late teens. They had a clean-cut, happy look. Agatha felt she was on a winner. She plunged into work, but always at the back of her mind was a black cloud of misery. If only she could confide in someone – but no one, no one, must know that Agatha Raisin’s marriage was a failure.

Several times she thought about phoning James, to clear the air, to apologize. But each time she held back. How on earth could he be so old-fashioned? And yet, and yet, she thought weakly, she had made a dreadful scene, had broken his china, behaved like a fish-wife. Why did people still blame fish-wives for violence and bad language? she wondered. What fish-wives, anyway? Probably from the old days of Billingsgate fish market.

Harry Best studied her. She was quite a girl, he thought. Look at the way she had set to and helped load the equipment into the rehearsal room. Look at the way she had established a rapport with the young people. She wasn’t nearly as hard-boiled as he had first imagined. In fact, he thought, there were times when she looked almost on the edge of tears. Funny woman.

Agatha was sorry when the long day was over. Two of the young men were already working on a sort of rambling pop song. “Don’t be scared of being old-fashioned,” Agatha had urged. “Make it sound like something cheery – something people will want to whistle as they walk along a country road.”

When she drove back to Carsely, she braced herself for a confrontation with James. But when she let herself into his cottage – she never thought of it as their home – it was to find it dark and silent. With a beating heart, she ran up to the bedroom and checked the closet. All James’s clothes were still there.

She sat down on the bed and wondered what to do. Where would James be? Probably in the pub.

Perhaps it might be an idea to follow him there. He could hardly make a scene in front of the villagers, thought Agatha, forgetting that she was the one who usually made the scenes.

She went to her own cottage and changed into a blond silk trouser-suit and wrapped a deep-bronze lamb’s-wool stole about her shoulders, then walked slowly along to the pub. She would be breezy, cheerful, as if nothing had happened.

Somehow, the fact of taking some action brightened her immensely as she strode along the lane under the heavy blossom of the lilac trees which gave it its name. Agatha’s great weakness was that not for one minute would she admit to herself that she was afraid of James. She would admit to being afraid of losing him, but to being actually scared of him was something that Agatha, who had laminated her soul over the years with layers of hardness, could not even begin to contemplate. Nor would she realize that love had made the unacceptable almost acceptable – the put-downs, the scorn, the silences, the lack of easy, friendly affection.

She walked into the Red Lion with a smile on her face.

Her smile faded.

James was sitting at a corner table by the log fire, laughing and smiling at a slim, blonde-haired woman whom Agatha recognized as Melissa Sheppard. As she watched, Melissa leaned forward and squeezed James’s hand.

As Miss Simms, secretary of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, was to describe it later, Agatha Raisin went ‘ape-shit.’ Sour jealousy rose like bile in her throat. In seconds, the misery she had endured flashed across her mind. She strode across and confronted the startled Melissa. “Leave my husband alone, you trollop.”

Melissa rose and grabbed her handbag and sidled around Agatha and made for the door. Agatha leaned across the table. “You bastard,” she shouted. “I’ll kill you and that philandering bitch!”

James rose, his face dark with anger. He seized her wrists. “Stop making a scene,” he hissed.

Agatha broke free of his grip, picked up his half tankard of beer and poured it over his head and then turned and ran out. She ran all the way to her cottage, stumbling over the cobbles. Once safely inside her own cottage, she sat down in her kitchen and cried and cried.

Then she went upstairs and carefully washed her face in cold water and put on fresh make-up. James would call to continue the row and she wanted to be armoured against him.

The doorbell rang. Agatha gave a pat to her hair, squared her shoulders and marched down the stairs.

“Now, see here…” she began as she opened the door. But it was not James who stood there but her old friend, Sir Charles Fraith.

“I called next door but James told me you were here,” said Charles. “Can I come in?”

“Why not?” said Agatha bleakly, and walked back into the cottage, leaving him to follow her.

“What’s up?” asked Charles, following her into the kitchen. “Don’t tell me the marriage has broken up already.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Agatha. “We’re divinely happy. Would you like a drink?”

“Whisky, if you’ve got it.”

Agatha was torn between telling him to leave in case James came and yet wanting him to stay in case James did not. She led the way into the sitting-room, lit the fire which she had set earlier, poured him a generous measure of malt whisky and then one for herself.

Charles sat down on the sofa and surveyed Agatha, who had slumped into an armchair opposite him.

“Been crying?”

“No. I mean, yes. I cut myself.”

“Where?”

“What d’you mean, where?”

“Aggie, cut the crap. This act of being a happily married woman must be killing you.”

She looked at him in silence. He sat there in her sitting-room where he had sat so many times before, neat, groomed, well-tailored, as self-contained as a cat.

Agatha gave a weary shrug. “Okay, you may as well have it. The marriage is a disaster.”

“I won’t say I told you so.”

“Don’t dare.”

“I suppose the problem is that James is just being bachelor James and wants his usual lifestyle and you are getting in the way with your rotten cooking and your nasty cigarettes. Criticized your clothes yet?”

“Never stops. How did you know?”

“It is a well-known fact that stuffy men, once they are married to the object of their desire, start to criticize the very style of dressing that attracted them in the first place. I bet he told you not to wear high heels and that your make-up was too heavy.”

“Am I such a fool? I should have known this. But it seemed to me we had so much in common.”

Charles took a sip of his drink and eyed her sympathetically.

“People never realize that love is indeed blind. They feel like a soul mate of the loved one. No awful loneliness of spirit. Two against the world. So they marry, and what happens? After a certain time, they look across the breakfast table and find they are looking at a stranger.”

“But there are happy marriages. You know there are.”

“Some are lucky; most go in for compromise.”

“You mean, I should dress the way James wants and live the way James wants me to?”

“If you want to stay married. Or go to one of those marriage counsellors.”

“I don’t see how a bachelor like you can know anything about marriage.”

“Intelligent observation.”

Agatha clutched her hair. “I don’t know what to do. I made such a scene in the pub. James was flirting with this Melissa woman and I happen to know he once had a fling with her.”

“James is not a bad sort, you know. You probably rub him up the wrong way. You’re a bit of a bully.”

“You haven’t heard the whole story. He doesn’t want me to work!”

“And are you? Working, I mean.”

“I’ve got a short-term contract with a shoe company in Mircester. James hit the roof. He said I should leave work for those that need it.”

“Maybe the pair of you should go back to separate lives and date occasionally.”

“I’ll make it work,” said Agatha suddenly. “I love James. He must be made to see reason.”

“Does he talk to anyone about his troubles?”

Agatha laughed. “James! Not on your life.”

♦

James at that moment was sitting in the vicarage parlour facing the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bloxby.

“It’s not too late to call?” James was asking.

“No, not at all,” said Mrs. Bloxby, amused that James had not seemed to notice that she was in her night-gown and dressing-gown.

“I really don’t know what to do about Agatha,” James said. “I am a very worried man.”

“What is the matter? Would you like some tea or something stronger?”

“No, I feel if I don’t talk to someone, I’ll burst. You’re a friend of Agatha.”

“I hope a very good one.”

“Has she said anything to you about our marriage?”

“If she had complained to me, I would not tell you. But as a matter of fact, she has not. What was the scene in the pub about? It’s all round the village.”

“I went along to the pub and Melissa was there, so we had a drink together. Agatha came in and threw a jealous scene.”

“That is understandable. It is well know in the village that you had an…er…episode with Melissa before your marriage.”

“Well, it’s all the other things. She’s a lousy housekeeper.”

“She has Doris Simpson to clean for her, that is, her own cottage. Why not let Doris do yours?”

“But Agatha should do it.”

“You are very old-fashioned. You cannot expect a woman who has been successful in business and who has always paid someone to do her cleaning to do yours.”

James went on as if she had not spoken. “Then, she knows I hate the smell of cigarette smoke. She smells of cigarettes.”

“Mrs. Raisin was smoking when you first met her and when you were married.”

“But she promised to give up. She said she would. And she said she would never smoke in my cottage. But she puffs away when she thinks I’m not looking.”

“You said, “my cottage.” It’s a very odd marriage. Why did you encourage Mrs. Raisin to keep her own cottage?”

“Because mine is too small.”

“The pair of you have surely enough money to sell your homes and move into a bigger house.”

“Perhaps. Now she’s taken a job. A public relations job for some shoe company in Mircester.”

“What is up with that?”

“Agatha doesn’t need to work.”

“I think Mrs. Raisin does need to work from time to time, perhaps you made her feel like a failed wife. Do you complain a lot?”

“Only when she does something wrong, and she always glares at me and says something rude.”

“And does she often do something wrong?”

“All the time – bad meals, sloppy housekeeping, tarty clothes…”

Mrs. Bloxby held up one hand. “Wait a minute. Mrs. Raisin’s clothes tarty? Really, I cannot allow that. She is always smartly dressed. And it does seem as if you complain a lot and you are not prepared to compromise on anything. I know you have been a confirmed bachelor, but you are married now, and must make certain allowances. Why are you so angry and touchy?”

There was a long silence and then James gave a sigh. “There’s something else. I have been having these recurring headaches, so I got a scan. It says I have a brain tumour. I have to go in soon for treatment.”

“Oh, you poor man. It is operable?”

“They are going to try chemotherapy first.”

“Mrs. Raisin must be distressed.”

“She does not know and you are not to tell her.”

“But you must tell her. That is what marriage is all about, sharing the bad times as well as the good.”

“I feel if I tell her, then somehow there will be no hope for me. It will make the brain tumour very, very real. I must get through this on my own.”

“But I can see the whole thing is putting you under a great deal of stress. In fact, you are ruining your marriage by not telling Mrs. Raisin.”

“You must not tell her! You must promise me you will not tell her!”

“Very well. But I beg you to reconsider. Mrs. Raisin does not deserve the treatment you have been meting out to her. Tell her.”

He shook his head. “It is my cross and I must bear it alone. Agatha is very independent. Why, she even still uses her old married name, as if mine isn’t good enough for her. You even call her Mrs. Raisin.”

“That’s because she asked me to. You see, she might have listened to you if you had only complained about that one thing, but you do seem to have criticized her a great deal.”

“It’s her fault,” said James stubbornly. “I’d better go.”

“Please stay a moment longer. You must be terribly frightened and worried.”

James, who had half risen from his chair, sank back again and buried his head in his hands.

“Mrs. Raisin would be a great help,” said Mrs. Bloxby gently.

“I should never have married her,” muttered James.

“I assume you were in love with her.”

“Oh, yes, but she’s so messy and infuriating.”

“I think you are very hard on her because you are frightened and ill.”

James got to his feet. “I’ll think about it.”

♦

As he walked home, he thought guiltily that he had seemed to go on and on too much about Agatha’s faults. All he had to do was tell her what was up with him. But when he turned into Lilac Lane, he recognized the car outside Agatha’s cottage. Sir Charles Fraith. And still there! So Agatha had gone back to her old ways. Two could play at that game!