The Love from Hell ar-11

by M C Beaton

  “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?” call
ed 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.