The Love from Hell ar-11

by M C Beaton

  Charles and Agatha walked out to the car-park. “Two of them,” said Agatha excitedly. “What was James on to? And who’s the other one?”

  “Maybe one of the husbands.”

  “If only we could find out. Perhaps we could break in and have a look at – ”

  “NO! Absolutely not.”

  “Just an idea. It’s early yet. If we went to Cambridge, how long would it take us?”

  “Let me see,” said Charles. “If we take the by-pass which will get us onto the A-40 to Oxford, then out to the M-40, then the M-25 and then the M-11 right up to Cambridge, maybe about two and a half hours.” He fished a card out of his pocket. “Let’s see where she lives. Boxted Road. Have you a Cambridge map?”

  “No, but we can pick one up in Mircester before we set off.”

  ♦

  Even though she was not driving herself, Agatha found motorway journeys wearisome. After they had left the outskirts of Oxford, she closed her eyes and thought of everyone who might be connected with the murder. She fell asleep and into a dream where Dewey was approaching her with a sharp knife, saying, “Pretty dolly, you need new eyes.” She awoke with a start and looked around groggily. “Where are we?”

  “M-11,” said Charles. “Not far now. When we get to Cambridge, we turn off the Madingley Road, just before Queen’s Road, go down Grange Road and turn off about the third street down on the right. Maybe we should have phoned first. I mean, she might not be home.”

  “We’ve come this far now. May as well try. I mean, if we’d phoned her, she might have put us off, particularly if she feels guilty.”

  They had left the sunshine behind in the Cotswolds. A uniformly grey sky stretched over the university city of Cambridge. “Cambridge is outstripping Oxford when it comes to brains,” commented Charles.

  “Why is that?”

  “For years now, Oxford’s gone in for inverted snobbery. They turn down bright pupils from private schools in order to favour pupils from comprehensive ones. Big mistake. It’s not only the rich who pay for the children’s education, but often it’s caring parents who are prepared to take out a second mortgage to pay school fees, and caring parents produce bright children. But Oxford still holds a lot of charm for people. Must be the weather. It can be a lousy climate over here and in winter cold mist creeps in from the fens and blankets everything. Let me see, this is the Madingley Road. Keep your eyes peeled for Grange Road.”

  “There it is,” said Agatha, “over on the right.”

  “So it is. Here we go. One, two, three. Ah, here’s Boxted Road. Very nice, too. You’d need a bit of money to live in one of these villas. What’s the number?”

  “Thirteen, and, no, I am not superstitious.”

  Charles parked the car and they both got out. “I wish I’d brought a jacket,” said Agatha, hugging her bare arms. “It looks almost misty at the bottom of the street. You can’t get fog in summer.”

  “You can in Cambridge,” said Charles. “Let’s see if she’s at home.”

  They walked up a path through a front garden without a single flower. Only laurel bushes lined the brick path. “Sounds of activity coming from inside,” said Charles. He rang the bell.

  A young man opened the door. “Mrs. Fraser?” asked Charles.

  He turned round and yelled, “Julia!” at the top of his voice. A door in the dark hall opened and Julia Fraser appeared.

  “Good heavens, what are you two doing in Cambridge?” she asked. “Come in.” She ushered them into a pleasantly cluttered sitting-room.

  “Was that your son?” asked Agatha.

  “No, I rent rooms to students. Now, I suppose you’ve come to ask more questions, and I think it’s a bit thick. I know you” – she looked at Agatha – “must be anxious to find out about your husband, but I cannot help you any further. I told you it was years since I had anything to do with Melissa.”

  “It’s not that,” said Charles. “James Lacey seems to have been doing a bit of investigating before he left; we don’t know why. You said your sister had been diagnosed as a psychopath. James asked a psychiatrist at Mircester Hospital if it was usual for two such personalities to get together.”

  “And you’ve come all this way to ask me if she had a mad friend? How would I know?”

  Agatha looked around the pleasant but shabby sitting-room and heard the noise made by the resident students filtering down through the ceiling. “What interests us as well is how much money Melissa had. I mean, she seemed to have lived comfortably. She didn’t need to take in students.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can,” said Julia, “if the pair of you will promise to go away and not trouble me again. You bring up things I would rather forget.”

  Charles looked at Agatha, who nodded.

  “It’s a deal,” he said.

  Julia leaned back in her chair and half-closed her eyes. “Our father…do you know about him?”

  They shook their heads.

  “He was a Colonel Peterson, a rich landowner with a big estate in Worcestershire. He was the law at home. My mother was dominated by him and had little say in our upbringing. From an early age, Melissa contrived to make me look like the bad child. Father adored her. He could see no fault in her. It was a blow to him when Melissa was found to be taking drugs. She was living in a flat in Chelsea that he had bought for her. My mother died when we were still in our early teens. Melissa was found to have taken an overdose. Father had her transferred from a London hospital to a pyschiatric unit at Mircester Hospital so that he could keep an eye on her. His disappointment in Melissa affected his health. Shortly after she came out, he had a massive stroke. He left everything to Melissa. He left a letter for me with his will, which he had recently changed. He said I had always been wicked and the fact that I had introduced his dear child, Melissa, to drugs had proved that I was evil. I challenged Melissa. I was incandescent with rage. I’ll never forget that scene. She laughed and laughed until the tears streamed down her face. Of course she put the family home and the land up for sale.”

  “But surely her father was told that she was a psychopath?”

  “Probably, but he probably thought it was the effect of the drugs that the wicked Julia had pushed on her. I was married by then. My husband wasn’t very good with money. When he died, I really only had this house. That’s why I started letting out rooms to make a living.”

  “But surely now you have inherited the money, you don’t need to do that any more?”

  “True. I’m still recovering from it all, so I haven’t made any changes. Melissa had gone through very little money indeed. To be honest, I thought she would have squandered most of it.”

  “So how much did she leave?” asked Agatha eagerly.

  “Mind your own business. I’ve told you enough.”

  “It’s very good of you to give us this time,” said Charles, bestowing a charming smile on her. “But you, too, must be anxious to find out who killed your sister?”

  “Not really. Except to shake him by the hand. I hated Melissa from the bottom of my heart. I adored my father and she took his love away and she made my childhood a misery. But, no, I didn’t kill her, and in case you are getting any ideas about that, I was here with my students the night she was killed. Please go, now.”

  “Is there anyone way back then, I mean around the time she was being sectioned, that she might have harmed? I mean, perhaps someone from her past murdered her.”

  “I did not know any of her friends. Come to think of it, she never seemed to have any. People would take to her, but as she could never sustain her act for very long except with Father, they soon drifted off. Now, I really do want you to leave.”

  As they walked down the path, Agatha said, “It’s a pity she’s got an alibi. What a motive!”

  “I know,” agreed Charles. “I say, look at the fog! Let’s find somewhere to eat and see if it thins out.”

  He drove to the multi-storey car-park off Pembroke Street and then they walked round into the ma
in shopping area and found an Italian restaurant.

  “So,” said Agatha, after they had ordered pizza, “where are we? Not much further.”

  “If only this were a detective story,” mourned Charles, “and we were ace detectives, dropping literary quotations right, left, and centre, we would prove that Julia placed a dummy of herself in the window of her sitting-room to fool her students while she drove to Carsely and murdered her sister. I mean, think of the money she must have got.”

  “We haven’t even stirred anything up,” said Agatha. “I mean, if one of the people we’ve been questioning were guilty, you would think they’d have shown their hand by now.”

  “You mean, like trying to kill you?”

  “Maybe not that. Just warning us off.”

  “Julia more or less did that.”

  “No, by warning us off, I mean someone saying something like, “Stop now, or it will be the worse for you.” We haven’t rattled anyone. Gosh, why did we order pizza, Charles? This tastes like a wet book.”

  “Get it down you.” Charles peered out of the window at wraithlike figures moving through the mist. “I think we’re going to have to stay here the night, Aggie. We can’t drive home in this.”

  But Agatha did not want to spend a night in a hotel with Charles. “We can try,” she said. “I mean, you said Cambridge was a foggy place. I bet when we get to the outskirts, it’ll start to clear.”

  Charles opted to take the road which went back through Milton Keynes and Buckingham, saying that he did not want to drive on the motorways in fog.

  By the time they had crawled as far as the Bedford bypass, the fog was getting worse. “There’s one of those road-house places,” said Charles, swinging off the road. “We’d better check in for the night.”

  “I’ll pay,” said Agatha quickly. “You’ve done all the driving.”

  Once inside, she firmly booked two rooms. “Honestly,” complained Charles, oblivious of the stare of the desk clerk, “a double room would have been cheaper. And more fun.”

  Agatha ignored him. She took the keys from the clerk and handed one to Charles.

  “If you think of anything, let me know. I’ll be in my room.”

  “I’m thinking of food for this evening. Have you a restaurant here?” he asked the clerk.

  “Certainly, sir. You’ll find it through those doors on the left.”

  “We’ll go there at seven,” said Charles. “That pizza didn’t go very far.”

  Agatha, when she let herself into her room, was glad for the first time to be on her own. She undressed and had a leisurely bath and then washed out her underwear and dried it as best she could with the hair dryer.

  Before she could get dressed again, there was a knock at her door. She whipped the coverlet off the bed and wrapped it around herself and opened the door. Charles handed her a sweater. “I just remembered I had a spare one in the car.”

  Agatha took it gratefully. “Any sign of the fog lifting?”

  “No, as thick as ever.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Going on for seven.”

  “Won’t be long.”

  When he had gone, Agatha put on her damp underwear and clothes and then pulled Charles’s sweater over her head. It was blue cashmere. James had one like it. She wished she could stop the sharp pain she felt every time she thought of James.

  The restaurant was crowded with other stranded travellers. They managed to get a corner table.

  “What now?” asked Agatha, after they had ordered fish and chips.

  “I don’t know,” said Charles. “Bit of a dead end all round, if you ask me.”

  “If only we could prompt someone into showing their hand. I know, maybe we could see that editor again and give him a story saying we know who the murderer is and we are just trying to find one final bit of proof.”

  “Dangerous, that. Not only will he come after us, but the whole of Mircester police will be down on our heads. We’ll be asked to explain ourselves and when they find out we haven’t a clue, we’ll look ridiculous and the murderer will feel safer than ever.”

  “Oh, well, maybe I will be able to think of something after a night’s sleep. What time should we ask for a call?”

  “Eight o’clock. Go straight off and have breakfast on the road.”

  ♦

  But when they set out the following morning, Agatha could not think of any bright ideas at all. A weak sun was shining through a hazy mist, and the dreadful fog of the day before had gone. She kept racking her brains. She felt that if she did not come up with something, then Charles would leave. Agatha hated being dependent on anyone, and yet she was afraid that without Charles, she would give up the hunt and sink into a depression.

  They decided not to stop for breakfast, but to go straight to Carsely. Agatha stifled a yawn. She had slept badly.

  Then Charles said the words she had been dreading to hear. “I’d better go home and see how things are. I mean, we seem to have come to a dead end.”

  Agatha said nothing. Her pride would not allow her to beg him to stay, or ask him if he was coming back.

  “So here we are,” said Charles, pulling up outside Agatha’s cottage. “I’ll get my stuff and be off. Don’t worry about any breakfast for me.”

  “Charles,” said Agatha in a thin voice, “the door’s open.”

  “Doris Simpson?”

  “It isn’t her day for cleaning.”

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “No, I don’t think whoever did it would break in in broad daylight.”

  They got out of the car and together they went up to the door. “It’s been jemmied open,” said Agatha. “Look at the splinters.”

  “But what about that expensive burglar alarm system of yours?”

  “I forgot to set it,” wailed Agatha. “Oh, my cats. What’s happened to my cats? I’ve got to go in.”

  She strode into the house and into her sitting-room. “The television set and the radio haven’t been taken. Oh, look at this.”

  Charles followed her into the sitting-room. The drawers of Agatha’s desk in the corner of the room were lying open and papers lay about the floor and her computer was still switched on.

  “That’s it!” said Charles. “We’ve finally rattled someone. They were searching your papers, Aggie, to see if you had come up with anything. Look for your cats and I’ll call the police.”

  Agatha went through to the kitchen, calling for her cats. Then she noticed the kitchen door was standing open. Her cats were rolling on the grass in the sunshine. She crouched down beside them and stroked their warm fur.

  Then she heard Charles calling, “Fred Griggs is on his way. I’ll make some coffee.”

  Agatha went into the kitchen. “Should we touch anything? I mean, they’ll want to dust everything for fingerprints.”

  “I don’t think our criminal stopped to make coffee.” Charles filled the kettle and plugged it in.

  Fred Griggs loomed up in the doorway, making them jump.

  “Anything been taken?” he asked, pulling out his notebook. “I’ve phoned headquarters. They’ll be along soon.”

  “Maybe I’d better wait for them to arrive,” said Agatha, “and it’ll save me going over the whole thing twice. I haven’t looked upstairs.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Charles to Fred. “You make the coffee, Aggie.”

  After some time, they came back downstairs. “I had some papers in my suitcase, some farming accounts I meant to go over,” said Charles. “They’ve been tossed over the floor. Your bedside table’s been ransacked.”

  “What about Mr. Lacey’s cottage?” asked Fred, and Agatha and Charles stared at each other in consternation.

  “We’d better have a look,” said Charles.

  “Do you have a key?” asked Fred.

  “Yes, I keep it on a hook by the stove. Oh, it’s gone.”

  “Of all the stupid places…” began Charles, but Agatha was already hurrying out the door
.

  Fred and Charles followed her to James’s cottage. “The door’s closed,” said Fred. He tried the handle. “And locked.”

  “The key fits the back door,” said Agatha, “and whoever it was left my cottage by the back door.”

  They went round the side of James’s cottage to the back door. It was standing open with the key in the lock. They crowded inside and through to James’s sitting-room. Papers were spread everywhere. It had been ransacked, just like Agatha’s cottage.

  Agatha sat down suddenly and put her head in her hands. Fred heard the wail of sirens. “I think we’d better go back to your cottage.”

  Agatha rose, helped by Charles and followed Fred next door. Bill Wong came to meet mem, his round face creased with anxiety. “What have you been up to, Agatha?”

  “I haven’t been up to anything!” said Agatha, her voice shrill with shock. “I’ve been burgled.”

  “Let’s sit down and go over it,” said Bill. He was flanked by a policewoman and a detective constable.

  They all gathered round the kitchen table. Wearily, Agatha began to talk, explaining that she had forgotten to set the burglar alarm and yes, she had been stupid enough to leave a key to James’s cottage on a hook in the kitchen. “What I can’t understand,” she said, “is how someone knew the burglar alarm wasn’t set.”

  Bill nodded to the detective constable who went outside. After a few moments he was back. “The wires have been cut.”

  “And nothing of value has been taken?” asked Bill.

  “Not at first glance,” said Agatha. “Whoever it was must have been trying to find out if we knew anything about the murders.”

  “And had you?” asked Bill sharply. “Apart from what you’ve told me.”