by M C Beaton
“Easier to call her Mrs. Hardy,” prompted Mrs. Bloxby.
“Mrs. Hardy, then. She had persuaded Helen Warwick that she had nothing to do with the murders, and if she kept quiet, she would call on her with ‘a gift’. If the silly woman had gone straight to the police, she would be alive today. And you are lucky to be alive, Agatha. She hit you on the back of the head. Did you know who she really was?”
“Yes, I found a photo of her and Jimmy in the kitchen drawer. I had such a cold – that seems to have been beaten out of me – that nothing seemed quite real and like a fool I confronted her and said I was going to phone the police. She seemed so resigned to it all. The one thing that infuriates me is that Roy Silver of all people was sure Mrs. Hardy was the culprit. He’ll crow over me until the end of time. But what about Mrs. Comfort? Why on earth did she suddenly run off to Spain?”
“Plain and simple. She’s back and explained she didn’t want to be mixed up in a murder inquiry. She was frightened of her ex-husband. Said she dreamed of having him back but then she fell for Basil and found her ex had grown irrationally bad-tempered and violent and was hitting the bottle. Geoffrey has grown eccentric to say the least and the neighbours are complaining about his drunken threats.”
“Silly woman,” said Agatha bitterly. “What a lot of our time she wasted.” She suddenly looked anxiously at them. “Where is James? Has he called?”
Bill and Mrs. Bloxby exchanged looks.
“Where is he?” demanded Agatha.
“We’d best tell her the truth,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“She didn’t murder hirri! Oh. God, is he all right?”
Mrs. Bloxby reached out and grasped Agatha’s hand. “He’s all right,” said Bill. “He found out that Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Gore-Appleton were one and the same person. That detective of Roy’s had found the mysterious Lizzie and James found a photo of Jimmy Raisin and Mrs. Hardy in his effects. Then he realized he had told her to look after you and called me.”
“So where is he?”
Mrs. Bloxby’s grip grew tighter. “He made his statement,” said Bill. “He checked with the hospital to find if you were okay and then he took off for northern Cyprus. He said he felt he just had to get away. The removal firm that Mrs. Hardy had ordered up called for her stuff and the police have taken away any evidence they needed. James put your stuff from his cottage into yours. I’m sorry, Agatha. I had a bit of a row with him. I suggested the least he could do was wait until you regained consciousness.”
“Well, that’s that,” said Agatha brightly, although her eyes glittered. “You win some, you lose some. I’m feeling a little tired now, so…”
“Of course.” Mrs. Bloxby got to her feet.
“I’ll be round tomorrow for that statement,” said Bill.
Agatha smiled weakly. “Don’t bring Maddie.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
When they had left, Agatha began to cry. How could James have done something so callous and vile?
She finally sobbed herself to sleep, her last conscious, miserable thought was that she was the most unloved woman in the world.
As the days passed, Agatha slowly recovered her strength, health, and spirits. Roy Silver called and she sent him off with instructions to phone the storage company, get them to bring all her goods back and put them in her cottage.
Roy was all too eager to help. Had not Mr. Wilson promised him a large bonus if he could lure Agatha back into the fold of public relations?
He returned again two days later to tell her brightly that everything was back as it should be and that Doris Simpson, her cleaner, was looking after the cats.
“And I found this on your kitchen table,” said Roy, handing her a letter.
Agatha opened it. It was from James. She put it down. “I’ll read it later.”
“So it’s all been quite an adventure,” said Roy, “although that friend of yours, Bill Wong, got all the credit in the newspapers, not a word about us.”
“You deserved a mention,” said Agatha, “but no credit to me that the case was solved. What a fool I was! A few more bodies and that wretched woman would have gone down in history as a serial killer.”
Roy sat down on the edge of the bed. “I tell you, Aggie, this village life is not for you. Much too dark and dangerous.”
Agatha grinned. “I know what you are up to, Roy, and I know why you are being so helpful. I’m grateful to you for arranging all my bits and pieces, but I do not think I really want to go back to work again.”
“I think you owe me something,” said Roy. “Who got the detective in the first place?”
“You did. And for a very nasty reason’. ‘I did it out of friendship,” said Roy huffily. “You would have been lying dead in your own garden pushing up the daisies if it hadn’t been for little old me. Come on, Aggie. Now that that total shit, Lacey, has cleared off the scene, you’ll need something to take your mind off all this. What about just another six months?” Agatha had previously worked for six months at Pedmans.
Agatha frowned. It just might work. Every time she thought about James, she got a dull ache in her stomach. Hearts did not break, but it sometimes felt that guts could be torn apart.
“All right,” she said. “But only a six-month stretch’. ‘Aggie, you’re a wonder. I’ll just go off and phone Wilson.”
When he had gone, Agatha opened the letter again, “Dear Agatha,” she read,
I know you are going to think me every kind of a rat, running off to Cyprus like this, but I did stay long enough to see that you were recovering. The fact is, I desperately need some time to myself, and I am afraid if I stay around to see you again, I might not leave, and I really do not honestly think I am ready for marriage yet. Please forgive me. I think I love you as much as it is possible for me to love anyone. Do remember that.
Yours,
James.
Agatha put the letter down and stared into space. Hope flared up again in her damaged soul. She read that one bit over and over again. “I think I love you as much as it is possible for me to love anyone.”
She rang the bell beside the bed.
“Am I getting out of here tomorrow?”
“Yes, Mrs. Raisin,” said the nurse.
“Well, be an angel and get me the necessary signing-off forms because I’m leaving today.”
“If you think that’s wise…”
“Oh, very, very wise.”
“Very well.”
As she left, Roy Silver came in. “Wilson’s delighted, Agatha. Start in a month’s time?”
“Sure, sure,” said Agatha, and he looked at her suspiciously. “Don’t glare at me, Roy. I’m here until tomorrow anyway. Aren’t you expected back in London?”
“Yes, but don’t run away.”
“I’m here in a hospital bed, aren’t I?”
Roy left and walked slowly down the corridor. As he passed a nurse who was talking to a doctor, he heard her say, “That Mrs. Raisin in room five wants to check out today. She’s not due to leave until tomorrow. I don’t suppose a day matters.”
They walked off. Roy stood stock-still. Then he turned back and stopped again. If Agatha had changed her mind, she might not tell him. He would wait until she left and see that she went straight home.
He waited an hour in the car-park until he saw Mrs. Bloxby, that vicar’s wife, arrive. After another half hour’s wait, Agatha emerged with Mrs. Bloxby and got into her car. Roy got into his own car and followed. Instead of going to Carsely, they went straight to Moreton-in-Marsh and stopped outside a travel agent’s. Again Roy waited until they emerged. Then he breezed into the travel agent’s and said blithely, “I just saw my friend Mrs. Raisin. Off to foreign parts.”
“Yes,” said the travel agent brightly. “Off to northern Cyprus.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Now how can I help you, sir?”
“The old, sly, double-dealing bitch,” screamed Roy, thinking of his lost bonus and lost triumph.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” The travel agent, a smart brunette, looked at him, appalled.
“And stuff you too,” yelled Roy. “God, I hate women!”
EOF
