The Love from Hell ar-11

by M C Beaton

  “Won’t forget,” said Agatha, planning to think up any lie she could to make sure she never went.

  ∨ The Love from Hell ∧

  11

  Agatha did not speak French. Agatha did not speak any language other than English. And she did like to be in control at all times, but realized she would need to rely on Charles to make all the arrangements once they had crossed the Channel.

  Also, she was nervous about driving on the wrong side of the road, whereas Charles was used to it, so he was doing the driving.

  Then Charles insisted on making a detour to Paris first to visit an old friend and Agatha did not feel as if she had any right to object, because it was Charles’s car that was taking the wear and tear of the mileage.

  Besides, not being in charge of things made her feel inadequate. She decided to take French lessons as soon as she got back. Yes, that would be something to do. Forget detective work; never again.

  Getting off the ferry, they queued behind a long line of cars full of families going on holiday. Would they enjoy themselves? wondered Agatha, looking at the rear window of the car in front, where three children appeared to be having an all-out fight. Or would the husband, who was driving, be marking off the days in his mind until he could get back to the peace of his office?

  Agatha, who had travelled quite a lot, reflected it would be wonderful to speak languages, to be able to put down sniggering waiters and insolent hotel staff, who always retreated behind a wall of incomprehension when she shouted at them in English. She had heard jokes about the British abroad who shouted at foreigners as if they were deaf, but somehow she herself could not stop doing it.

  “This friend of yours,” she asked after they had cleared customs, “does he know we are coming?”

  “It’s a she. And no, I wanted it to be a surprise. I haven’t seen Yvonne in years.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  ♦

  “Maybe you would like to see her on your own?”

  “I say, do you think you could amuse yourself for an hour? Want me to drop you off at the Eiffel Tower?”

  “I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower. Where does she live?”

  “Montmartre. Avenue Junot.”

  “I’ll leave you when we get there and go for a walk.”

  “All right,” said Charles, “if you keep on walking up the hill after you leave me, you’ll come to the Sacre Coeur. Get a super view of Paris from there.”

  Agatha was glad it was Charles driving and not herself as he threw the car into the maelstrom of traffic which hurtled around Paris.

  When he had parked, she said good-bye to him and headed up the Avenue Junot. Up by the Sacre Coeur, there was a square where artists drew tourists. She stood for a while and watched them before going up and into the great church.

  As she stood and looked about her, she began to wonder about what she always thought about the God bit. God, for Agatha, stood for Grand Old-fashioned Disapproval. How could anyone reach out their mind with such pure belief as to cure illness?

  At last, Agatha walked out on the steps in the sunshine and looked over Paris. Tourists moved up the steps and down the steps in a colourful, almost hypnotic, stream. She sat down and lit a cigarette. If I find James, then I’ll quit again, she told herself. I quit before. I can quit again.

  She then rose and went to a café and ordered coffee and a sandwich, realizing she was hungry. She looked at her watch when she had finished. The hour was more than up.

  Agatha walked back to the Avenue Junot to find Charles emerging from a block of flats. He looked smug, and when he got into the car he smelt of fresh soap, as if he had just taken a shower. Had he had sex with the mysterious Yvonne? And if he had, why should the very idea upset her and make her feel old and lonely?

  “How was Yvonne?” she forced herself to ask.

  “Same as ever. Except she got four – four! – noisy brats and one of them puked over me, so a pleasant time was wasted while she and her husband sponged my clothes and I took a shower.”

  Agatha’s spirits lifted. Paris spread before them as they sped downwards through the ever-thickening traffic. Perhaps she should try to put ideas of finding James out of her mind and just enjoy a holiday.

  Charles suggested they should break their journey in Aries and carry on to Agde on the following morning, and Agatha, anxious now to delay what she was sure was going to be a disappointment, readily agreed.

  ♦

  When they started out from Aries the following morning, it had begun to rain, cold, drizzling, chilly rain. The weather seemed like a bad omen. The windscreen wipers clicked backwards and forwards like a metronome.

  Then Charles said, “There’s a little bit of blue sky just ahead. In my youth they used to say that if you saw a bit of blue sky, enough to patch a sailor’s trousers, then it was going to get sunny.”

  “Huh,” grunted Agatha, who was beginning to feel depressed again.

  But Charles was right. As they headed ever south, the rain stopped, the clouds parted and a warm Provencal sun shone down on red-tiled roofs, vineyards and fields. They stopped in Agde for a meal, and Charles in his impeccable, if English-accented French, asked for directions to the monastery of St. Anselm.

  “South a bit from here, towards the Pyrenees,” he said cheerfully.

  “I don’t know if I said so, but this is very good of you,” said Agatha awkwardly. “I mean, it is a bit of a wild-goose chase.”

  “Worth a try,” said Charles amiably. “You’ll need to start trying to drive on the other side of the road, Agatha. Delicious sea food and no wine to go with it. Only water for me.”

  “I’ve only had water as well. I didn’t want to arrive at the monastery smelling of booze.”

  “Those monks probably smell of booze the whole time. Right, let’s go.”

  Charles, under instructions from the restaurant owner, had drawn a map. After they had been following the coast road for some miles, he turned off onto a narrower road and the car began to climb up a steep gradient.

  “That must be it at the top,” said Charles after a while. “It looks more like a medieval fortress.”

  He parked outside the main door of the monastery. There was one of those old bell-pulls at the side. Charles gave it a tug.

  “Charles,” said Agatha urgently, “maybe it’s not such a good idea, you being with me. I mean, if James is here, it might upset him.”

  “If James is here, I’ll make myself scarce.”

  A panel in the door opened and a monk looked out at them through the grille.

  In French, Charles asked if they had a Mr. James Lacey in the monastery.

  “I do not recall anyone of that name,” said the monk courteously, replying in English.

  Agatha pushed forwards. “I am Agatha Raisin,” she said eagerly. “And he has been missing, and we knew he came here before and we wondered…” Her voice faltered and died. She suddenly felt silly. What on earth was she doing outside a monastery in the south of France?

  The monk bowed his head. “I will make inquiries.”

  They waited. A cloud passed over the sun and the cicadas set off a droning chorus.

  They seemed to have been waiting for quite a long time when the monk came back. “I am sorry,” he said. “I cannot help you.”

  They walked slowly back to the car.

  “That’s that,” said Agatha gloomily. “All this way for nothing.”

  Charles stood frowning. “He was away a long time, and when he came back, he did not say, “We have no one of that name here.” He said, ‘I cannot help you.’”

  “Forget about the whole thing,” sighed Agatha.

  “I could do with a bit of a holiday after all we’ve been through,” said Charles. “We passed through a village before we turned off to climb up here. I saw a little auberge. Let’s book in. Do no harm to ask a few questions before we call it quits. I saw monks working in the fields. They have to sell their produce. Maybe someone’s heard of an Englishman at the mo
nastery.”

  He swung the car round, and as they drove down, Agatha saw the monks working in the fields. But she did not think James could be one of them. James was probably lying dead in a ditch somewhere in England.

  The landlord of the auberge said that, yes, he had one double room vacant. His wife was an excellent cook. Would they want dinner?

  Charles said cheerfully, yes, they would. The landlord replied that as they were such a small inn, the guests ate en famille. Would they mind? Charles, with a grin, said, “Of course not,” although wondering what Agatha would make of a dinner during which she would not be able to understand a single word.

  The room was clean and dominated by a double bed. “You on your side and I on mine,” said Agatha firmly.

  “The bathroom’s along the corridor. No en-suite bathrooms here, Aggie.”

  Agatha felt better after a soak in a deep and ancient tub. She had carried her clean clothes to the bathroom, so she dressed there and made her face up in an old greenish mirror.

  The landlord, his wife, and two sons and one daughter were at the dinner table when they entered. Charles rattled on in French while Agatha ate a delicious fish soup followed by roast guinea fowl.

  As the wine passed round, Charles, taking a chance, began to talk about the reason for their visit. The family listened electrified to the story of murder and lost husband. Then, when he had finished, the landlord began to talk. Charles listened carefully and then at last turned to Agatha.

  “The landlord says he buys vegetables from the monastery from an old boy called Pierre Duval. Duval comes at six in the morning. He says if I’m up and about by then, I can question him. I gather that Duval doesn’t talk much, but our host is hinting that for a little bit of money, he might tell all he knows.”

  “I don’t know how you can keep on hoping that James is there when I’ve given up hope,” said Agatha.

  “Just a hunch.”

  The meal ended with an apricot tart with lashings of cream. How on earth did they manage to produce such first-class food in such a tiny place? wondered Agatha.

  ♦

  She had been sleepy after the long drive and all she had eaten and drunk, and when the alarm went off at five-thirty she would have gone back to sleep had not Charles shaken her awake again.

  “May as well do our investigations thoroughly,” he said, stripping off his pyjamas and searching in his suitcase for underwear. It must be great to be able to be so unselfconscious in one’s nakedness, thought Agatha, as she retreated to the bathroom. Or maybe men didn’t bother. Maybe it was only women who worried about love handles and unshaven legs.

  When she emerged, it was to find Charles had already gone downstairs. She walked down, following the sound of voices, and found Charles at the kitchen door talking to a wizened old man while the landlord listened intently. Correctly assuming the old man to be Pierre Duval, Agatha saw him repeatedly shaking his head.

  Then Charles took his wallet out of his back pocket. He opened it and slowly began counting out notes. Some deal seemed to have been struck. The old man took the money and counted it with maddening slowness, and then he began to speak.

  Agatha waited impatiently. He must be telling Charles something. Charles would never have paid up unless he was sure of getting some hard information.

  At last the old man shuffled off.

  “Well?” demanded Agatha.

  “It seems as if there is an Englishman at the monastery,” said Charles. “Sounds a bit like James. He should be working in the vegetable garden at ten this morning.”

  “But how do we get near him?”

  “There’s a little lane leads up to the back of the monastery. If we go up there, there’s only a low wall at the back. We climb over that and we’re in the vegetable garden.”

  Agatha clasped her hands. “Do you really think it might be him?”

  “I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high. Duval says there are all sorts of nationalities amongst the monks. We’ll try anyway. Plenty of time for breakfast.”

  As they ate buttery croissants and drank bowls of milky coffee, Charles told their landlord of what he had learned.

  Then the landlord fetched a piece of writing paper and began to draw a sketch map.

  “He suggests we leave the car at the foot of the side road and walk,” said Charles. “The back of the monastery sprawls down the hillside and it would be easy to miss the lane if we were driving. It’s a bit overgrown.”

  They set out at nine o’clock. Charles parked the car at the side of the road and locked it. Agatha found her heart was beating so hard that she was beginning to pant as they made their way up the steep side road, looking for the lane. She forced herself to be calm. James was probably not there. They would be ticked off if any other monk found them trespassing, and that would be that.

  “There it is,” said Charles. “Hasn’t been used for anything in ages. Those bushes in front of the lane have practically grown across it.”

  They climbed on up. The lane was rutted and grassy and at times almost seemed to disappear. The sun was hot. Stunted pines growing out of the rocky outcrop on either side afforded some shade at the start of their climb, but now they were out in an unshaded bit.

  After what seemed an age, the monastery towered up before them and they plodded on.

  “Is that what you call a low wall?” asked Agatha in dismay as the lane ended against the stonework of an eight-foot-high wall. There were newer stones set into the ancient ones where the lane came up against the wall, as if there had once been an entrance and it had been sealed off.

  Charles cupped his hands. “I’ll give you a leg up. When you get to the top, tell me what you can see.”

  Agatha struggled to the top and heaved herself up until she was straddling the top. “There isn’t a garden here,” she said. “That old man tricked us. Nothing but a weedy field.”

  “Go over anyway,” said Charles, “and I’ll join you. The gardens might be on the other side of the field.”

  Agatha tried to climb down, missed her footing and fell heavily. As nimbly as a cat, Charles climbed over and dropped easily to the ground beside her. “Haven’t you got any sensible shoes?” he complained.

  “I’m wearing flats,” said Agatha, struggling to her feet and brushing herself down.

  “Thin sandals with thin straps are hardly suitable for a walk in the country. Okay, look over there at the end of the field. There’s another wall with a gate. That could be the vegetable gardens. I gather they’re pretty extensive.”

  They walked across the field, trying to keep clear of thistles and nasty jagged bits of dried plants. Agatha felt her tights rip on a particularly evil thorny plant. Why on earth had she decided to go on this hike wearing designer sandals and ten-denier tights? Madness. But it had been cool in the darkness of the inn and she had envisaged nothing more arduous than a gentle stroll.

  They came up to a wrought-iron gate set into the wall. “Locked,” said Charles. “Sorry, Aggie, it’s another wall and a higher one. But it’s so broken in places with bits of stones sticking out, we should find an easy way of getting over.”

  “Why are you whispering?” demanded Agatha.

  “It’s very quiet and sound carries a long way here.”

  “If it carries a long way, then everyone in that monastery is dead. No chanting, no prayers, and worse, no sounds of digging coming from anywhere.”

  “Here’s what looks like an easy bit,” said Charles. “The wall has broken away at the top and it makes it lower and it’s bulged here with age and bits of stone are sticking out. Should be like walking up a ladder.”

  ♦

  James Lacey had retreated to the quiet calm of the herb garden to rest and contemplate. He had not yet told Brother Michael the truth about his marriage. He had told him everything else, about the attack on him, about his shame and fear of death. He would shortly be taking leave from the monastery. He said he had to return to put his affairs in order, to sell his cott
age. He was afraid Agatha would not agree to a divorce. If she did not, then he would simply return and carry on as a single man. The monastery was where he had been cured and he did not want anything to stand in his way of joining the order.

  He tried to conjure up a picture of Agatha, but could not quite remember what she looked like.

  And then there was a great thump from the bed of orange thyme behind the stone bench on which he was sitting. He leaped up in alarm and turned round.

  Agatha Raisin was lying among the crushed plants. She straightened up, her face flushed and hot.

  She looked at the robed figure of the monk standing in front of her and said in a faint voice, “James?”

  Charles, who had reached the top of the wall, saw the scene below him and quietly backed down again. Let Agatha get on with it. But what a strange pair they made. What a tableau! Agatha, hot and dusty, struggling to her feet. James, thin and robed, his eyes very bright blue in his tanned face. Charles sat down and prepared to wait. Agatha’s cigarettes and lighter had fallen out of her pocket when she was climbing the wall. He leaned his back against the warm stone and lit a cigarette. He hoped for Agatha’s; sake that this was the end to her romance.

  ♦

  “You are not supposed to be here,” James was saying sharply. “There are official visiting days twice a year, and this is not one of them.”

  “Is that all you have to say?” demanded Agatha, her hands on her hips. “Melissa gets herself murdered, there’s a police hunt for you, I think for ages you’re probably dead, and all you can I come up with is that it’s not a visiting day!”

  James sat down suddenly on the bench and put his head in his hands. Agatha sat down beside him, suddenly weary.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  So Agatha told him all about Melissa’s murder and how she had finally discovered that Megan was the culprit. “If you had not run away,” she said waspishly, “then Megan would have been arrested for assault and Melissa would still be alive.”

  James looked at her. Under his tan, his face had gone quite white.