M.C. Beaton - The Love from Hell

“There wouldn’t be, would there?” said Megan, pouring coffee. “They only print the name of suspects.”

“I am Charles Fraith,” began Charles, accepting a cup of coffee from her. It was a china cup, decorated with roses. “Why wouldn’t your husband be a suspect? I mean, she was married to him.”

“But he had nothing to do with her. Everyone knows that.” Somehow Megan’s voice implied that they should have known it, too.

“Why did he divorce her?” asked Agatha. “Did he discover she was being unfaithful to him?”

“With your husband, you mean?”

“No,” said Agatha sharply. “With someone else.”

“Oh, no. He fell in love with me, you see.” She smiled blindingly at Charles, who smiled back.

“And what does your husband do?” asked Charles.

“He owns The Well-Dressed Gent. It’s a shop in Mircester. You are rather cheeky, you know, to ask all these questions. You’re not the police.”

“Mrs. Raisin is desperate to find the whereabouts of her husband. We’re asking everyone connected with Melissa. Did you know her?”

“Of course not. Why should I?”

Agatha was becoming increasingly irritated. Among other things, the childlike Megan with her doll’s house, and doll’s china, was beginning to make her feel old and huge and lumbering.

“Well, for a start, I thought Melissa, knowing he was leaving her for you, might have called on you.”

“Oh, no. More coffee, Charles?”

“Thank you. It’s excellent.”

She refilled his cup.

Agatha was suddenly anxious to leave. Megan could not help them. They should be on their way to Mircester to interview the husband. She realized they would really need to know what kind of person Melissa had been. They would need to find out if there had been anything in her behaviour or character to promote murder. In her heart of hearts, Agatha could not believe James had had anything to do with it. Whoever had attacked him had surely gone on to kill Melissa. She looked impatiently at Charles, but he was smiling and relaxed in the sunshine.

“How did you meet your husband?” Charles asked.

“I was working in the shop, as an assistant. We started going out for a drink together after work, and one thing led to another. He wasn’t happy with her.”

“Why?” demanded Agatha.

“Oh, you’ll need to ask him and see if he wants to tell you anything.”

“We’ll do that,” said Agatha. “Come along, Charles.”

“Come back any time,” said Megan, but she addressed the invitation to Charles. “Can you see your way out?”

♦

“Little bitch,” said Agatha as they drove off.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Charles. “Seemed very charming to me.”

“For heaven’s sake! There’s something wrong with a woman who wears ankle socks and her hair tied up like a child.”

“It suited her.”

“Anyway, we’d better go to Mircester. You know, Charles, I was thinking in there that we don’t really know what Melissa was like. I mean, what sort of person was she?”

“Then we should call on Mrs. Bloxby first. Melissa went to that ladies’ society thing, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“So let’s ask Mrs. Bloxby’s opinion of her. She must have formed some sort of opinion.”

Agatha felt an irrational stab of jealousy. She prided herself on being a great judge of character. What could Mrs. Bloxby tell them? If she, Agatha, had not sussed out anything strange or odd about Melissa, how could the vicar’s wife manage to do so?

♦

More coffee in the vicarage garden. With scones, this time, light as feathers. Being a city mouse down to her bones, Agatha often envied the skill of the country mice. Not for them the quick-fix dinner in the microwave. Not for them the instant garden with plants bought fully grown from the nursery.

“You were asking me about Mrs. Sheppard,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Do have some of my cherry jam on your scone, Sir Charles.”

I wish I could produce homemade jam, thought Agatha. Of course, I could buy the good stuff, steam off the labels, and put my own on, and who would know the difference? Yes, I might do that.

“I thought, you see,” said Charles, spooning jam onto a scone, “that with Melissa being such a regular member of the ladies’ society, not like Aggie here, you might have formed some sort of opinion.”

“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I suppose that’s silly, now I come to think of it. Surely much worse to speak ill of them when they are alive. I suppose it comes from some old superstition that one might spoil their chances of getting to heaven.”

“If she’s got there, she’s there by now,” said Agatha, shifting impatiently on her garden chair.

“I hope so.” And only Mrs. Bloxby, thought Charles, could say something like that and really mean it.

“Your garden is lovely,” he said, looking about him with pleasure.

“Thank you. The wisteria was a bit disappointing this year, however. Usually, we have a great show but a wicked frost blighted the blooms.”

“Melissa,” prompted Agatha. “The reason we want to know what you think is because we want to know if there was anything in her character that would make her what Scotland Yard calls a murderee – you know, someone who would incite people to violence.”

“Having an affair with someone else’s husband in an incitement,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Yes, but that would mean Aggie would have to have done it,” said Charles, “and she didn’t, and I don’t believe for a moment it was the absent James. Besides, married women have affairs the whole time and no one bumps them off.”

“I think married women are a lot more faithful than you give them credit for, Sir Charles. Let me think. Mrs. Sheppard. Well, she was quite hard to get to know, considering she was a very chatty lady.”

Charles reached for another scone. Agatha, despite a tight feeling at her waistline, which she quickly assured herself must be psychosomatic, followed suit. “What do you mean, chatty?” asked Charles. “She would talk a lot about the weather, about recipes, about flowers, about village life – you know, the decline of the small village shop and all that – but nothing personal.”

“Did she have a close friend in the village?”

“No. I would see her about the village, talking to this one and that, but she was not friendly with anyone in particular.”

“Did you like her?” asked Charles.

“Well, no, I did not.”

“Why?”

“I felt she was acting the part of the village lady. I felt she was restless and discontented and vain. I felt she was afraid of losing her looks. I felt – oh, I don’t know – that she had a craving for excitement. Now, having an affair with James perhaps was her way of making herself feel like a desirable woman. She may have behaved in the same way with other women’s husbands, but I don’t know if she did. She probably enjoyed the power and excitement of an adulterous relationship.”

“We’ve just been to see the present Mrs. Sheppard,” said Agatha. “Funny little woman who dresses like a child.”

“Quite attractive, in fact,” murmured Charles, and Agatha threw him a filthy look.

“I was not aware he had married again. But then, I did not know him. Mrs. Sheppard moved to this village after her divorce from him. Is there any news of James?”

Agatha shook her head. “And I find that very odd. Particularly because of his cancer. You would think he would show up at some hospital somewhere.”

Charles delicately licked a piece of jammy scone from his fingertips. “I think we’d better go to Mircester, Aggie, and see that husband. May I use your bathroom first?”

“You know where it is? Down the corridor and on your right.”