by M C Beaton
He thought briefly of Agatha, but closed his eyes again and willed himself to sleep.
∨ 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?”
