Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell (8 page)

‘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 is 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 can 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 two 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. ‘
Yo u
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 two 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 use to be like this before,’ said Agatha mournfully. ‘You used to be glad of my help.’