Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage (23 page)

‘Yes, I found a photo of her and Jimmy in the kitchen drawer. I had such a cold – that seems to have been beaten out of me – that nothing seemed quite real and like a fool I
confronted her and said I was going to phone the police. She seemed so resigned to it all. The one thing that infuriates me is that Roy Silver of all people was sure Mrs Hardy was the culprit.
He’ll crow over me until the end of time. But what about Mrs Comfort? Why on earth did she suddenly run off to Spain?’

‘Plain and simple. She’s back and explained she didn’t want to be mixed up in a murder inquiry. She was frightened of her ex-husband. Said she dreamed of having him back but
then she fell for Basil and found her ex had grown irrationally bad-tempered and violent and was hitting the bottle. Geoffrey has grown eccentric to say the least and the neighbours are complaining
about his drunken threats.’

‘Silly woman,’ said Agatha bitterly. ‘What a lot of our time she wasted.’ She suddenly looked anxiously at them. ‘Where is James? Has he called?’

Bill and Mrs Bloxby exchanged looks.

‘Where is he?’ demanded Agatha.

‘We’d best tell her the truth,’ said Mrs Bloxby.

‘She didn’t murder
him?
Oh, God, is he all right?’

Mrs Bloxby reached out and grasped Agatha’s hand. ‘He’s all right,’ said Bill. ‘He found out that Mrs Hardy and Mrs Gore-Appleton were one and the same person. That
detective of Roy’s had found the mysterious Lizzie and James found a photo of Jimmy Raisin and Mrs Hardy in his effects. Then he realized he had told her to look after you and called
me.’

‘So where is he?’

Mrs Bloxby’s grip grew tighter. ‘He made his statement,’ said Bill. ‘He checked with the hospital to find if you were okay and then he took off for northern Cyprus. He
said he felt he just had to get away. The removal firm that Mrs Hardy had ordered up called for her stuff and the police have taken away any evidence they needed. James put your stuff from his
cottage into yours. I’m sorry, Agatha. I had a bit of a row with him. I suggested the least he could do was wait until you regained consciousness.’

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Agatha brightly, although her eyes glittered. ‘You win some, you lose some. I’m feeling a little tired now, so. . .’

‘Of course.’ Mrs Bloxby got to her feet.

‘I’ll be round tomorrow for that statement,’ said Bill.

Agatha smiled weakly. ‘Don’t bring Maddie.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

When they had left, Agatha began to cry. How could James have done something so callous and vile? She finally sobbed herself to sleep, and her last conscious, miserable thought was that she was
the most unloved woman in the world.

As the days passed, Agatha slowly recovered her strength, health and spirits. Roy Silver called and she sent him off with instructions to phone the storage company, get them to
bring all her goods back and put them in her cottage.

Roy was all too eager to help. Had not Mr Wilson promised him a large bonus if he could lure Agatha back into the fold of public relations?

He returned again two days later to tell her brightly that everything was back as it should be and that Doris Simpson, her cleaner, was looking after the cats.

‘And I found this on your kitchen table,’ said Roy, handing her a letter.

Agatha opened it. It was from James. She put it down. ‘I’ll read it later.’

‘So it’s all been quite an adventure,’ said Roy, ‘although that friend of yours, Bill Wong, got all the credit in the newspapers, not a word about us.’

‘You deserved a mention,’ said Agatha, ‘but no credit to me that the case was solved. What a fool I was! A few more bodies and that wretched woman would have gone down in
history as a serial killer.’

Roy sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I tell you, Aggie, this village life is not for you. Much too dark and dangerous.’

Agatha grinned. ‘I know what you are up to, Roy, and I know why you are being so helpful. I’m grateful to you for arranging all my bits and pieces, but I do not think I really want
to go back to work again.’

‘I think you owe me something,’ said Roy. ‘Who got the detective in the first place?’

‘You did. And for a very nasty reason.’

‘I did it out of friendship,’ said Roy huffily. ‘You would have been lying dead in your own garden pushing up the daisies if it hadn’t been for little old me. Come on,
Aggie. Now that that total shit, Lacey, has cleared off the scene, you’ll need something to take your mind off all this. What about just another six months?’ Agatha had previously
worked for six months at Pedmans.

Agatha frowned. It just might work. Every time she thought about James, she got a dull ache in her stomach. Hearts did not break, but it sometimes felt that guts could be torn apart.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘But only a six-month stretch.’

‘Aggie, you’re a wonder. I’ll just go off and phone Wilson.’

When he had gone, Agatha opened the letter again. ‘Dear Agatha,’ she read,

Agatha put the letter down and stared into space. Hope flared up again in her damaged soul. She read that one bit over and over again. ‘I think I love you as much as it is possible for me
to love anyone.’

She rang the bell beside the bed.

‘Am I getting out of here tomorrow?’

‘Yes, Mrs Raisin,’ said the nurse.

‘Well, be an angel and get me the necessary signing-off forms because I’m leaving today.’

‘If you think that’s wise . . .’

‘Oh, very, very wise.’

‘Very well.’

As she left, Roy Silver came in. ‘Wilson’s delighted, Agatha. Start in a month’s time?’

‘Sure, sure,’ said Agatha, and he looked at her suspiciously. ‘Don’t glare at me, Roy. I’m here until tomorrow anyway. Aren’t you expected back in
London?’

‘Yes, but don’t run away.’

‘I’m here in a hospital bed, aren’t I?’

Roy left and walked slowly down the corridor. As he passed a nurse who was talking to a doctor, he heard her say, ‘That Mrs Raisin in room five wants to check out today. She’s not
due to leave until tomorrow. I don’t suppose a day matters.’

They walked off. Roy stood stock-still. Then he turned back and stopped again. If Agatha had changed her mind, she might not tell him. He would wait until she left and see that she went straight
home.

He waited an hour in the car park until he saw Mrs Bloxby, that vicar’s wife, arrive. After another half-hour’s wait, Agatha emerged with Mrs Bloxby and got into her car. Roy got
into his own car and followed. Instead of going to Carsely, they went straight to Moreton-in-Marsh and stopped outside a travel agent’s. Again Roy waited until they emerged. Then he breezed
into the travel agent’s and said blithely, ‘I just saw my friend Mrs Raisin. Off to foreign parts?’

‘Yes,’ said the travel agent brightly. ‘Off to northern Cyprus.’

‘When?’

Tomorrow. Now how can I help you, sir?’

‘The old, sly, double-dealing bitch,’ screamed Roy, thinking of his lost bonus and lost triumph.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ The travel agent, a smart brunette, looked at him, appalled.

‘And stuff you too,’ yelled Roy. ‘God, I hate women!’

If you enjoyed
The Murderous Marriage,
read on for the first chapter of the next book in the
Agatha Raisin
series . . .

Agatha Raisin was a bewildered and unhappy woman. Her marriage to her next-door neighbour, James Lacey, had been stopped by the appearance of a husband she had assumed –
hopefully – to be dead. But he was very much alive, that was, until he was murdered. Solving the murder had, thought Agatha, brought herself and James close again, but he had departed for
north Cyprus, leaving her alone.

Although life in the Cotswold village of Carsely had softened Agatha around the edges, she was still in part the hard-bitten businesswoman she had been when she had run her own public relations
firm in Mayfair before selling up, taking early retirement and moving to the country. And so she had decided to pursue James.

Cyprus, she knew, was partitioned into two parts, with Turkish Cypriots in the north and Greek Cypriots in the south. James had gone to the north and somewhere, somehow, she would find him and
make him love her again.

North Cyprus was where they had been supposed to go on their honeymoon and, in her less tender moments, Agatha thought it rather hard-hearted and crass of James Lacey to have gone there on his
own.

When Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, called, it was to find Agatha amidst piles of brightly coloured summer clothes.

‘Are you taking all those with you?’ asked Mrs Bloxby, pushing a strand of grey hair out of her eyes.

‘I don’t know how long I will be there,’ said Agatha. ‘I’d better take lots.’

Mrs Bloxby looked at her doubtfully. Then she said, ‘Do you think you are doing the right thing? I mean, men do not like to be pursued.’

‘How else do you get one?’ demanded Agatha angrily. She picked up a swimsuit, one-piece, gold and black, and looked at it critically.

‘I have doubts about James Lacey,’ said Mrs Bloxby in her gentle voice. ‘He always struck me as being a cold, rather self-contained man.’

‘You don’t know him,’ said Agatha defensively, thinking of nights in bed with James, tumultuous nights, but silent nights during which he had not said one word of love.
‘Anyway, I need a holiday.’

‘Don’t be away too long. You’ll miss us all.’

‘There’s not much to miss about Carsely. The Ladies’ Society, the church fêtes, yawn.’

‘That’s a bit cruel, Agatha. I thought you enjoyed them.’

But Agatha felt that a Carsely without James had suddenly become a bleak and empty place, filled from end to end with nervous boredom.

‘Where are you flying from?’

‘Stansted airport in Essex.’

‘How will you get there?’

‘I’ll drive and leave the car in the long-stay car park.’

‘But if you are going to be away for very long, that will cost you a fortune. Let me drive you.’

But Agatha shook her head. She wanted to leave Carsely, sleepy Carsely with its gentle villagers and thatched-roof cottages, behind – and everything to do with it.

The doorbell rang. Agatha opened the door and Detective Sergeant Bill Wong walked in and looked around.

‘So you’re really going?’ he remarked.

‘Yes, and don’t you try to stop me either, Bill.’

‘I don’t think Lacey’s worth all this effort, Agatha.’

‘It’s
my
life.’

Bill smiled. He was half Chinese and half English, in his mid-twenties, and Agatha’s first friend, for before she moved to the Cotswolds she had lived in a hard-bitten and friendless
world.

‘Go if you must. Can you bring me back a box of Turkish delight for my mother?’

‘Sure,’ said Agatha.

‘She says you must come over for dinner when you get back.’

Agatha repressed a shudder. Mrs Wong was a dreadful woman and a lousy cook.

She went into the kitchen to make coffee and cut cake and soon they were all sitting around and gossiping about local matters. Agatha felt her resolve begin to weaken. She had a sudden clear
picture of James Lacey’s face turning hard and cold when he saw her again, but thrust it out of her mind.

She was going and that was that.

Stansted airport was a delight to Agatha after her previous experience of the terrible crowds at Heathrow. She found she could smoke not only in the departure lounge but at the
gate itself. There were a few British tourists and expatriates. The expatriates were distinguishable from the tourists because they wore those sort of clothes that the breed always wear – the
women in print frocks, the men in lightweight suits or blazers, the inevitable cravats – and all had those strangulated sons – and daughters-of-the-Raj voices. Colonial Britain seemed
to be alive and well on Cyprus Turkish Airlines.

As she sat near the gate, she was surrounded mainly by Turkish voices. Her fellow passengers all seemed to have great piles of hand luggage.

The flight departure was announced. Those in the smoking seats were called first. With a happy sigh Agatha made her way on to the plane. She had burnt her boats behind her. There was no turning
back now.

The plane soared above the grey, rainy skies and flat fields of Essex and all the passengers applauded wildly. Why were they applauding? wondered Agatha. Do they know something I don’t? Is
it unusual for one of their planes to take off at all?

The minute the plane wheels were up, the ‘No Smoking’ sign clicked off and Agatha was soon surrounded by a fog of cigarette smoke. She had a window-seat and next to her was a large
Turkish Cypriot woman who smiled at her from time to time. Agatha took out a book and began to read.