by M C Beaton
When Doris had gone off upstairs, Agatha said, “Typing. I wonder what she was typing? Who inherits? We didn’t ask Bill.”
“Let’s ask Mrs. Bloxby. Did Melissa have any children?”
“Don’t know that either.”
“So let’s get along to the vicarage.”
“After I’ve had something to eat. You might have made me some breakfast as well, Charles.”
“You were asleep.”
“Oh, I’ll fix something.”
Charles watched, amused, as Agatha took a packet of frozen curry out of the fridge and put it in the microwave. “You’re surely not going to eat curry for breakfast?”
“Why not?”
Charles waited while Agatha took the curry out of the microwave when it was ready and ate the unappetizing-looking mess, accompanied by strong black coffee, with every appearance of enjoyment.
Then she lit up a cigarette. “Can I have one of those?” asked Charles.
Agatha gave him a steely look.
“Have you heard of enabling, Charles?”
“Sounds like therapy-speak.”
“I mean you can buy your own. I may smoke but I do not encourage other people to do so, particularly when they show every sign of being able to do without it.”
“You’ll be a saint yet, Aggie. And talking of saints, let’s go and see Mrs. Bloxby.”
♦
Mrs. Bloxby was watering the vicarage garden. “So many greenfly and aphids,” she mourned. “It’s these warm summers. Said on the radio it would be cooler today, that it would go down to about seventy degrees Fahrenheit. I never thought I’d live to see the day when seventy degrees in England was considered getting cooler.”
“There’s rain forecast,” said Charles. “We’re still on the hunt for Melissa’s character.”
Mrs. Bloxby turned off the hose and joined them at the garden table. “What have you found out?”
They told her all they knew. She listened carefully and then she said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about Mrs. Sheppard since I saw you last. My first impression of her, I remember, was that she was a psychopath.”
“What!” exclaimed Agatha. “You mean like a serial killer!”
“No, no. There are different degrees of psychopathy. It was something about the eyes. She often had a blank fixed stare which reminded me of someone I once knew. I thought at the time I was being over-dramatic, but what you have told me seems to add up to the character of a certain sort of psychopath – the compulsive lying, the total lack of conscience. Also, looking back, I don’t really think Mrs. Sheppard liked anyone at all.”
“That’s interesting,” said Charles. “Why we came to see you was we wondered if anyone had inherited her cottage?”
“I heard through village gossip that she had not left a will and that there are no children.”
“I would like to have a look inside,” said Agatha. “I’d like to see what she was typing.”
“It’s probably at Mircester police headquarters in an evidence box.”
“I’d still like to get inside that cottage.”
“Mrs. Simpson cleaned for her. She may still have a key.”
“She says she gave it back.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “but I Mrs. Simpson was always worried about losing clients’ keys and she once let slip that she always makes a copy.”
“Bingo!” cried Agatha. “Come on, Charles. Let’s go back and see Doris.”
♦
Doris Simpson insisted mulishly that she never would dream of copying her customers’ keys, until Agatha shouted at her that they damn well knew she did. Doris said huffily that, well, perhaps she might still have a key to Melissa’s cottage, and was promptly bundled into Agatha’s car and driven to her home and asked to find it.
“I feel we’re doing the wrong thing,” said Charles, as they walked to Melissa’s cottage.
“Why?”
“Because if Fred Griggs comes strolling past, we’ll be in bad trouble if we’re caught.” Fred Griggs was the local policeman.
“Look,” said Agatha as they parked outside. “No police tape. It’s been removed. We can just say she borrowed something of mine and I wanted it back.”
“And Fred will say, ‘What’s all this? Why didn’t you ask the police?’”
“And I’ll say that we know the police are too busy. Stop worrying, Charles.”
They walked up to the cottage door. “See. It’s just a simple Yale key,” said Agatha, inserting it in the lock. “Anyone could break in.”
“That awful dead smell is still hanging about,” said Charles. “There’s still fingerprint dust over everything. If we touch anything, Aggie, they’ll have clear marks of our fingerprints. We haven’t got gloves.”
“We just look. If she was typing something, she’d need to have a desk. Not in the living-room. Maybe she used one of the bedrooms as an office.”
They went up the stairs. “I don’t like this,” muttered Charles.
“Oh, do shut up. You’re making me nervous. What could possibly happen?”
They gingerly pushed open doors: bathroom, a double bedroom, a box-room, linen cupboard; and then, finally, a small room containing a desk and a computer was revealed.
“This is it!” said Agatha excitedly. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Too eager to find clues to worry about fingerprints, she jerked open the desk drawers. “Nothing,” she said. “Must all be still at Mircester.”
“I hate to suggest this, but there might be something in the computer.”
“Right!” Agatha sat down in front of the screen and switched it on. “Let’s see what we have on file. Would you believe it? Just one file headed ‘Chick-fic’”
“Bring it up,” said Charles. “She might have been writing a book. Chick-fic are those women’s books, all shopping and bonking. You know, where everyone gets laid in Gucci and Armani.”
Agatha moved the mouse. “Here we are. Plot.”
They both read. “Bitch!” said Agatha. The plot concerned a beautiful and sophisticated woman who comes to live in a Cotswold village and falls in love with a handsome man who is married to a cold and domineering wife. The description of the man, although badly written, was definitely that of James.
“Is that supposed to be me?” demanded Agatha, stabbing a finger at the screen. Charles peered over her shoulder.
“‘Mrs. Darcy’,” she read, “‘was a squat bullying woman with no dress sense and beady little eyes.’”
Charles stifled a laugh. “Surely not.”
Agatha stiffened. “What’s that? I heard something drawing up outside.”
Charles looked out of the window. “It’s a removal van and a woman getting out of a car who looks a bit like Melissa and around the same age. She must have had a sister. We’ve got to get out of here without her finding us.” He jerked up the window and said over his shoulder to the stricken Agatha, “Shut that bloody computer off!”
He hung out the window. “There’s a creeper. I’ll go first and catch you if you fall.”
Agatha switched off the machine and hitched a leg over the sill just as she heard the door opening downstairs. She edged down, clutching handfuls of creeper. She felt her tights rip.
“A bit more,” she heard Charles whisper. The creeper gave way and she tumbled into his arms and flattened him into a soft flower-bed.
“Come on,” urged Charles as she rolled off him, panting. They scrambled up and ran to the bottom of the back garden, which was surrounded by a high wall. Charles pushed her up and she grabbed wildly at the top of the wall and, with a groan, heaved herself up until she was straddling the top of it. Underneath was a bed of nettles. She shut her eyes and jumped and then stifled her screams as she landed among the nettles.
Soon Charles joined her and they stood in the lane which ran along the back of the cottage.
“I’m stung all over,” said Agatha. “What a mess I am. I’d better g
et home and put some ointment on.”
“You do that,” said Charles, “and I’ll stroll round to the front of the cottage and chat her up.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“She’ll wonder what you’ve been up to,” said Charles. “You’ve got nettle stings all over your arms and legs. Your tights are torn and your blouse has green streaks on it from the creeper. I’m a bit dusty, but my clothes are dark. Go on, Aggie. I’ll be along soon.”
Agatha reluctantly started to walk home, but was less reluctant as she neared her cottage and felt the pain from the stings increasing.
Once inside her cottage, she went upstairs and stripped off her clothes, showered and covered her stings in anti-histamine cream. She donned clean underwear and a loose cotton dress, applied fresh make-up and went downstairs to wait for Charles.
She waited and waited and then, growing impatient, decided to walk up to Melissa’s cottage and find out what was going on.
When she got there, removal men were carrying out furniture. “Where’s the lady of the house?” asked Agatha.
“Gone off with some fellow to the pub for lunch,” said the foreman.
Agatha swung round and headed for the Red Lion. She was very angry. Charles should have phoned her and asked her to join them.
Charles was sitting with a woman who bore a family resemblance to Melissa. Her hair was dark, probably the real colour of Melissa’s hair, thought Agatha.
“I was waiting for you, Charles,” said Agatha truculently.
“About to phone you,” said Charles. “Just getting to know Julia here. Julia Fraser is Melissa’s sister.”
“Sorry to hear about your loss,” said Agatha.
“Are you?” she said coolly. “I wasn’t.”
Agatha sat down. “Do you want something to eat?” asked Charles. “We’re having egg and chips.”
“That’ll do,” said Agatha. When Charles went to the bar to give her order, Agatha looked curiously at Julia. “So you didn’t like your sister?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She was a lying bitch. She made a dead set for my husband and I told her I never wanted to see her again.”
“Oh. But she left you everything in her will?”
“Yes, that was a surprise. I’m cleaning that cottage out and then I’m going to sell it.”
So there had been a will! Mrs. Bloxby didn’t know everything after all, thought Agatha with a certain degree of satisfac-tion.
“So who are you?” asked Julia.
“Sorry. I forgot to introduce myself,” said Agatha as Charles came back to join them. “I’m Agatha Raisin.”
“Poor you. I heard Melissa got her claws into your husband. Read a bit about it in the papers. Any word of…who is it?”
“James Lacey. No.”
“Have you reverted to your maiden name?”
“No, I’ve always done business under the name of Raisin and so I kept using it. Have you any idea who would have wanted to murder your sister?”
“Lots of people. Your husband, for one.”
“He can’t have done it. He was attacked and we think it was the same person who killed your sister.”
“I can’t think of anyone in particular. She was always trouble. Do you know, my father had her sectioned once?”
“No, what for?”
“She was in her late teens and she was on drugs.”
Drugs again, thought Agatha.
“She was diagnosed as a psychopath. She was a compulsive liar and just didn’t know right from wrong. She liked to get control of men and manipulate them. She was a bit of a chameleon. She would try to be everything she thought some man wanted her to be and they always fell for it and then soon found out their mistake, but she could never sustain an act for long. And it was never her fault. I was amazed that she’d actually gone to the trouble of making a will. She was the sort that thought she would live forever. I know I must sound hard. But she drove out any affection. When I heard she was dead, my first thought was one of relief. I hate to think there’s some murderer out there, but on the other hand, she could drive people batty and she had a vicious tongue.”
“Did you know her husbands, Sheppard and Dewey?”
Julia shook her head. She pushed away her barely touched plate of egg and chips. “I’d broken off relations with her ages ago. Look, thanks for the food and drink. But I’d better get back. No, don’t move. I feel like a walk.”
When she had gone, Agatha turned accusing eyes on Charles. “Why didn’t you let me know you were both going to the pub?”
“I was getting on so well with her and I thought it would take you ages to clean yourself up.”
“Well, don’t try to cut me out again. That’s what you were doing. Oh, Lord!”
“What?”
“That open window in the office. What if she reports it to the police?”
“I shut it. When I got there and we’d been chatting for a bit, I asked her if I could use the loo, and when I was upstairs I shut it.”
“Clever you,” said Agatha, mollified.
“So am I forgiven?”
“I suppose. Don’t do it again. You know, all that stuff about Melissa being a psychopath makes it worse. There must be so many suspects and we haven’t got a clue who did it.”
“I don’t know much about psychopaths. I thought they were people like Hannibal Lecter.”
“When you’ve finished eating, we’ll go home and look it up in the encyclopaedia.”
♦
After looking it up in the encyclopaedia and running reams of information off the Internet, Agatha groaned, “Why can’t they use simple language?”
“It seems to me,” said Charles, “as if psychopath was a sort of blanket diagnosis until fairly recently. It seems as if our Melissa, sectioned at a later date, would have been diagnosed as having ASPD, antisocial personality disorder. Here are some of the features, apart from not having a conscience: lack of empathy, inflated and arrogant self-appraisal, and glib, superficial charm. Tendency to be hooked on drink or drugs or both and…um…”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“What are you keeping from me?”
“Deviant sexual practices.”
“I don’t love James any more,” said Agatha in a shaky voice.
“Not one bit. How could he even spend a minute with such a creature?”
“Never mind. Here we are knowing lots and lots about ASPD and not a bit nearer finding out who did it or where James is.”
♦
James Lacey was feeling strong and well. His headaches had gone. He now attended prayers and worked in the extensive vegetable gardens of the monastery. He felt a miracle had happened and that somehow his brain tumour had gone. But his counsellor, Brother Michael, knew nothing of this. He only heard of James’s desire for a quiet religious life. He knew James had spent most of his years in the army. But James mentioned nothing of his marriage or what had made him flee. If any thoughts of Agatha entered his mind, he banished them quickly. He blamed the brain tumour on the mess of his old life. In the monastery, with its rigid discipline, it was rather like being in the army again. He intended to serve a period of probation and then join the order. Somehow, sometime in the future, he would tell Brother Michael the truth about his life. But not yet.
∨ The Love from Hell ∧
6
THE following day, Agatha said, “We’ve got to try Mr. Dewey again.”
“We’ve only got to show our faces near his house and that damned woman will start shouting for the police.”
“I don’t think so. She’s already made a fool of herself.”
“Oh, really? I thought it was you who had made a fool of yourself, saying you had a gun.”
“Never mind that. I paid Dewey a generous amount to repair his window. Let’s try. I can’t just sit here and worry about James.”
“I thought you didn’t love James any more.”
&nb
sp; “I just want to get my hands on him and give him a piece of my mind. Come on, Charles.”
As they drove towards Worcester, Agatha said, “Now there’s this new bypass, I miss seeing Broadway. I keep thinking I must turn off one day and see what the old place looks like.”
“Tell you what. If we ever find out who did this murder, I’ll treat you to dinner at the Lygon Arms.” The Lygon Arms was Broadway’s famous and expensive hotel.
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” remarked Agatha. “You promising me an expensive dinner makes me think you don’t believe we’ll find anyone.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll just blunder about in our usual way and unearth something.”
They were approaching Evesham when Charles muttered something and pulled over by the side of the road and got out. “What’s up?” asked Agatha when he got back in the car.
“Slow puncture. Anywhere around here can fix it?”
“Don’t you have a spare?”
“No, I used that last year and forgot to get a new one.”
“Well, if you go round that next roundabout and into the Four Pools Estate, there’s a place called Motorways. They’ll fix a new wheel in minutes.”
By the time they parked at Motorways, the wheel was nearly flat. They sat down in the office and waited. A mechanic came in and said, “Your other tyres are nearly bald.”
Agatha fixed Charles with a steely glare. “Do get all your tyres fixed. What if one blew out when we were speeding along some motorway?”
Charles said he would like all new tyres and one spare.
“I like seeing you spending money,” said Agatha with a grin.
The man behind the counter said, “The coffee in the machine over there is free, if you’d like some.”
Charles brightened visibly, as if the thought of something free had allayed some of the dismay he had felt at having to shell out for new tyres.
Agatha sat nursing a cup of coffee and staring dreamily about her. It was funny, she thought, not for the first time, how one never got the city out of one’s bones and how even industrial waste had a certain sort of comforting beauty. The rain had started to fall outside and she breathed in that old familiar smell of rain on hot dusty concrete. In the village, she was surrounded by flowers: lavender and hollyhocks, impatiens, roses, delphiniums, gladioli, and pansies, and yet she could still see beauty in willow-herb thrusting up out of the cracks in an industrial estate.
