The Love from Hell ar-11

by M C Beaton

“Nothing more than that,” said Agatha. Charles looked at her, wondering whether she had forgotten about the psychiatrist or was deliberately withholding that information.

  They could hear cars drawing up outside. “That’ll be the forensic team,” said Bill, getting to his feet. “They can start with James’s cottage.” He turned to Fred Griggs. “Ask around the village and see if someone heard or saw something.”

  The phone rang. Agatha picked up the extension in the kitchen.

  It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I heard you had been burgled. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Agatha, “unless you can ask around and see if anyone was seen lurking around Lilac Lane during the night.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Cambridge,” said Agatha. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “So you were in Cambridge,” said Bill when she put down the phone. “Asking the sister questions?”

  “Just a chat,” said Agatha, “and then the fog was so bad we had to stop somewhere for the night. The thing is, who would know that I wasn’t coming home? It was a last-minute decision.”

  “Someone was lurking about and got lucky,” said Bill. “It couldn’t be the sister, because you saw her over in Cambridge and I cannot imagine she would drive through that dreadful fog and back again.”

  “Unless,” said Charles suddenly, “she followed us. I didn’t check whether anyone was following us. Why should I?”

  “And why would she do that?” asked Bill patiently.

  “She’s got the best motive, and if she were guilty, she’d follow us to see if we were ferreting around Cambridge for more clues.”

  “Why? She’s got a good alibi. The students who lodge with her swear she was there the whole time Melissa was being murdered.”

  “But would they really know? I mean, if she took off in the middle of the night, took the motorways, she could do it in two and a half hours.”

  “Each way,” said Bill. “That makes five hours. A long time to be away.”

  “Students don’t get up early,” said Charles. “Say she left at two in the morning, and allowing time for the murder, got back at eight, say. Her students might not have noticed anything. I mean, if someone says good night to you and there they are again at breakfast time, of course you think they’ve been there all night. We were driving very slowly through the fog. She could have followed us easily and seen us turn off at that road-house.”

  “You could have been going for a meal.”

  “She could have waited in the car-park. There’s a good view of the reception, all lit up, and despite the fog, she would have seen us making a booking.”

  Bill passed a hand across his face. “You’ll need to do a lot better than that.”

  “What I can’t understand,” Agatha burst out, “is why you couldn’t come up with at least one fingerprint or footprint when James was attacked and Melissa killed. I watch loads of forensic TV programmes and they seem to be able to tell from hair and fibres and footprints and fingerprints – ”

  “It takes a long, long time these days to get results back from the lab. But in all cases, the perpetrator wore gloves. In James’s case, the footprints were scuffed; in Melissa’s case, whoever did it was very thorough. The place had been wiped clean of fingerprints and vacuumed thoroughly.”

  “Maybe if you checked the vacuum bag, there might be – ”

  Bill shook his head. “Here’s a thing. We have a feeling that whoever did it brought their own vacuum cleaner.”

  “This is getting madder and madder,” wailed Agatha. “How could anyone lug a vacuum cleaner through the village without being seen?”

  “It could have been one of those hand ones people use for cars,” said Bill. “We get the feeling the murder was cold-blooded and calculated.”

  ♦

  Agatha and Charles decided after the questioning was over to go and visit Mrs. Bloxby and leave the forensic team a clear field. “We’ll probably find the place covered in fingerprint dust,” complained Agatha. “I thought they used lights these days.”

  “Don’t ask me,” replied Charles. “It’s all a closed book to me.”

  “I thought you had to be home today?”

  “I’ll hang on a bit longer. Things were getting a bit boring, but now they’ve picked up.”

  Agatha felt a pang of dismay. Although she often suspected that all she meant to Charles was a diversion, she didn’t like to have it confirmed.

  Mrs. Bloxby was just arriving back at the vicarage as they walked up. “Oh, you poor things,” she said. “Do come inside. I’ve just been visiting Mrs. Allan.”

  Agatha remembered vaguely that Mrs. Allan was a battered wife who lived on the council estate. “She back with her husband?”

  “No, he disappeared. But would you believe it, she actually misses him and keeps saying he wasn’t so bad and she should never have reported him.”

  “At least there aren’t any children,” said Agatha. “I hate it when children are involved.”

  “That reminds me,” said the vicar’s wife, ushering them in, “we have the concert and fête to raise funds for Save the Children in two weeks’ time. I wondered if you could help, Mrs. Raisin. We’re having a cake sale as well.”

  “I’m not good at cakes.”

  “But you are good at publicity. We need to get a lot of visitors.”

  “You’ve left it a bit late. I’ll do what I can. Give me the exact date, time, and what’s on offer and I’ll see what I can do with the local papers.”

  “Perhaps that friend of yours, Mr. Silver, could help. He was awfully good before.”

  “It would mean inviting him down and he’d expect to be here for the whole weekend. Don’t think I could face it at the moment. But I’ll do what I can.”

  “And we have no one to man the white elephant stall, yet. Perhaps you, Sir Charles…?”

  “Sorry. I haven’t been home for a bit and I can’t stay away much longer. Besides, you know what these white elephant sales mean? People buy stuff one year to help out and then they put it in the next year, until no one really wants to buy anything.”

  “But with Mrs. Raisin doing the publicity and attracting visitors to the village, I’m sure it will be a big success.”

  “Sorry, not my scene.”

  “Sit down,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Did you have any breakfast?”

  “No, we haven’t had time with all this,” said Agatha.

  “I made some fresh rolls. I’ll make you rolls and bacon.”

  When she had gone off to the kitchen, Agatha leaned her head back against the feather cushions of the old sofa and closed her eyes. “This can’t go on,” she said. “I don’t think whoever broke in was bothered whether they would find me there or not. I keep thinking of some faceless man, armed with a vacuum and a hammer.”

  “I’ve a nasty feeling we’re never going to get anywhere on this one, Aggie,” said Charles.

  “But we’ve got to! We’ve got to clear James’s name.” She opened her eyes and looked at him accusingly.

  “Fact is,” said Charles. “I really should be at home. Before we came along here, I phoned my aunt. She’s got some people coming to stay today. They’re bringing Tara with them.”

  “Who the hell’s Tara?” grumbled Agatha.

  “A very gorgeous girl.”

  “Imagine naming someone after a plantation in Gone with the Wind.”

  “Well, you know what parents are like. Boys get traditional names like John, Charles and David. But when it comes to girls, they call them really daft names.”

  Mrs. Bloxby came back bearing a laden tray.

  Charles took an appreciative bite of a bacon roll. “Bliss,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

  “I might,” said Mrs. Bloxby with a flirtatious laugh. Agatha glared at her. She was a vicar’s wife. She should behave like a vicar’s wife.

  “So have you any idea who might have broken into your house?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.


  “My money’s on Sheppard,” said Agatha.

  “Oh, why?”

  “I think he really hated her. He exudes an air of threat and violence.”

  “What about the other husband? Dewey,” said Charles. “He’s sneaky and creepy enough to have got into your cottage without being noticed.”

  “I just don’t know,” said Agatha.

  “Don’t you think you should move out of the village for a little?” suggested Mrs. Bloxby. “I do not like to think of you being there, a target for some murderer.”

  “I’ll be all right,” said Agatha. She was about to add, “I have Charles,” and then remembered that the fickle Charles would soon be off in pursuit of some gorgeous girl called Tara, and he would probably forget about her for weeks.

  ∨ The Love from Hell ∧

  8

  ROY Silver was delighted to accept Agatha’s invitation. He felt it was very trendy to tell his colleagues in the office that he was popping down to the Cotswolds for the weekend.

  Agatha met him at Moreton-in-Marsh station on the Friday evening. “Not much of a glad welcome,” said Roy, looking at her sour face. “What’s up?”

  “May I refresh your memory? James is God knows where and suspected of murder and I’m not in the clear myself. My house and James’s were ransacked. The murderer is out there, and for all I know, I’m the next victim. Furthermore, Charles was supposed to help me in my moment of peril and he’s buggered off to his estates.”

  Roy slung a thin arm around her shoulders. “Never mind, you’ve got me.”

  Agatha repressed a sigh. Roy looked thinner and weedier and more white-faced than ever. He was wearing designer jeans and fake crocodile boots with high heels. She had not warned him about the fête, worried that if she did, he would not come, and she did not like being on her own.

  “You must tell me all about the murder,” said Roy, teetering on his heels towards her car.

  “Aren’t those boots terribly uncomfortable?” said Agatha.

  “Yes, but they give me height.”

  “You don’t need height. You’re tall enough. Not really suitable for down here.”

  Roy paused, one hand on the car door, looking stricken. “You think so?”

  “Great for London,” said Agatha consolingly, “but not here. Sling your case in the back.”

  “I’ve got moccasins and sneakers in my case,” said Roy, as Agatha drove off. “So who did it?”

  “I don’t know. But when we get home, I’ll fix you a drink and tell you all I know.”

  They chatted about people they knew in the PR business, but as Agatha swung off the A-44 and down the Carsely road, Roy saw a large board: VILLAGE FETE.

  “What a coincidence, sweetie,” said Roy in a suspicious voice. “There always seems to be a fête on when I come down here.”

  “Isn’t the weather hot and stuffy?” said Agatha.

  She was conscious of Roy glaring at her. “The fête. You’re working at it and you’ve put me down to work as well. Remember that time you had me dressed up as a jester and had me cavorting around? Never again.”

  “It’s just the tombola stand,” said Agatha soothingly. “Only an hour or two.”

  “Or three or four,” said Roy waspishly. “And the prizes! Old tins of sardines, brunette hair shampoo, plastic flowers.”

  “Well, I’m doing the white elephant stall.”

  “I must say, that’s worse.”

  “Not this year. I went round the rich of Gloucestershire and got them to contribute something worthwhile. It is for charity. The nouveau riche don’t give a damn, but the old guard of the county always feel obliged to give something. Then I spread the word around that there were treasures to be found at the white elephant stall. The buyers will be turning up in droves, and not only them. So many people watch the Antiques Roadshow on telly, and think that they too can be the lucky one with the bit of priceless Staffordshire that they just managed to pick up at a boot sale. Cheer up, Roy. Gives you a bit of cache. I’ll see if I can get you a write-up in one of the locals: ‘Young London Exec Does His Bit at Village Fête.’“

  Roy brightened. “That would do me no end of good at the office.”

  Agatha parked outside her cottage. “James’s cottage looks as if it’s about to fall down,” commented Roy as he got out of the car.

  “It’s the thatch. Needs doing,” said Agatha. “But thatching costs a mint, so I keep putting it off in the hope that he’ll turn up and do it himself.”

  Once they were both settled in the sitting-room with large drinks, Agatha began to tell Roy about the murder and all she and Charles had found out.

  “It’s Dewey,” said Roy, when she had finished. “Mark my words: it’s Dewey. How creepy! I mean, the police think the murder wasn’t committed in a burst of passion. Someone took the trouble to bring a vacuum with them, for heaven’s sake. Look at the way Dewey drugged Melissa and then threatened her.”

  “But he was clear of her,” said Agatha patiently.

  “You don’t know that,” exclaimed Roy, wriggling with excitement. “I mean, she could have turned up to pester him, for all you knew. I would like to meet him. Why don’t I go over to his shop tomorrow – ”

  “There’s the fête.”

  “Let me off the hook. This is important.”

  “I can’t let you back out now.”

  “Can’t you just imagine I didn’t turn up? They’d have to find someone else.”

  “Let’s compromise,” said Agatha. “You work at the fête and I’ll take you to where Dewey lives. Or you can phone him on Sunday and say you’re an avid collector and only down for the day.”

  “Oh, all right. What’s for dinner?”

  “I’ll have a look in the freezer.”

  “I thought you’d moved on from the microwave.”

  “I’ve moved back.”

  Agatha rose and went into the kitchen and lifted the lid of the deep freeze. There were things down there, she thought, that must have been bought ages ago. She wished she had put labels on them. She decided to defrost two freezer boxes from the bottom.

  “We’re having pot luck,” she called out, putting the two boxes into the microwave to defrost.

  She set the kitchen table – Agatha hardly ever used the dining room – and then, when the microwave pinged, she took the two packages out and prised open the lids.

  “Jackpot,” she said cheerfully. She remembered Mrs. Bloxby giving her an enormous casserole of savoury stew and dumplings and she had put the remainder into the two freezer boxes. No need for Roy to know she hadn’t cooked the stew herself. She tipped the contents into an attractive oven dish she had never before used and lit the oven. Then she put two baking potatoes in the microwave and joined Roy.

  “Won’t be long,” she said. “I was only joking about the microwave. I’ve been slaving away all day over a casserole on your behalf. It’s a recipe I got from Mrs. Bloxby.”

  Roy admitted that dinner had impressed him. Agatha, after she had stacked the dishwasher, was anxious to return to talking about the murder because during dinner they had chatted about old times, but all Roy would say was that he was sure Dewey had done it, and did not want to discuss Agatha’s favourite – Sheppard.

  At last, Agatha suggested an early night because they both had to get up in time to set up their stalls in the morning. She set the newly repaired burglar alarm, and with a feeling of relief that she was not alone in the house, fell into a deep and refreshing sleep.

  ♦

  In the morning, murder and mayhem seemed very far away. It was a perfect English summer’s day, bright sunlight and not too hot. After breakfast, she and Roy walked to the church hall. To Agatha’s relief, Roy was so depressed at the idea of working at the fête that he was wearing an old pair of jeans with a shirt and sweater and sensible shoes. She herself was wearing a pale biscuit-coloured trouser-suit with high-heeled strapped sandals. A warning voice in her head was telling her she would regret the high heels bef
ore the end of the day, but she had a nagging dream that the missing James would walk into the fête and she did not want the frumpish feel that flat shoes always gave her.

  The white elephant stand was next to the tombola. While Roy made acid comments about the cheapness of the items contributed to his stall, Agatha unpacked her collection, putting the usual old recycled Carsely junk to the front of the stall and the good items at the back. As she had guessed, the collectors and antique dealers were circling around early. Agatha unpacked slowly. She had invited the local press and did not want to start selling until they had arrived. She unpacked a box from a local manor-house that had been contributed at the last minute and so far she had not had time to examine the contents. There was a small dark oil painting of ships on the sea, badly in need of restoration. Agatha suddenly wished she knew more about antiques. The picture might turn out to be valuable. There were several china ornaments, most of them cracked or chipped, and then, at the bottom of the box, something wrapped in tissue. She took it out and unwrapped it – and then nearly dropped it. Looking up at her out of the tissue-paper wrapping was an eighteenth-century doll. It was either the twin of the doll that Dewey loved so much, or somehow he had decided to sell it to the owners of the manor-house and they had given it to the sale.

  She called Roy over and showed him the doll. “This is the one Dewey is in love with,” she hissed.

  “Where did it come from?” asked Roy.

  “A manor-house over Longborough way. Rats! I just knocked at the door and asked for contributions. Don’t even know their name.”

  Roy looked excited. “Phone Dewey and get him over here. Can it be the same one?”

  “It looks the same to me. But I can’t imagine Dewey parting with it. Get me a phone book. There should be one over at the back of the church hall next to the kitchen.”

  She waited impatiently until Roy came back with the phone book. She scanned the pages until she found the number of Dewey’s shop and phoned it. Roy fidgeted impatiently while Agatha spoke rapidly into the phone. When she rang off, she turned gleaming eyes to him. “It’s not his but he’s locking up the shop and coming over. I don’t know the price of these things. I wish I knew more about antiques. I could be selling old masters for a few pounds, for all I know.”