M.C. Beaton - The Love from Hell

When he had left, Mrs. Bloxby looked seriously at Agatha. “Have you considered, Mrs. Raisin, that you have been under a great deal of stress lately? That perhaps if you went away on holiday and tried to relax, it might be better for you?”

“Why?” asked Agatha, surprised. “You know I’ve got to find out about this murder. Apart from anything, James is still the prime suspect. I’ve got to keep asking questions.”

Mrs. Bloxby wanted to say that she feared Agatha might find out more about James than she wanted to hear, but she said, “Just be careful. You have put yourself in danger before.”

“I’ll be careful. I wish you could meet the present Mrs. Sheppard. I didn’t like her at all.”

“Did Sir Charles?”

“Oh, him! He was all over her like a rash.”

“Oh, well.”

“I am not jealous of her,” snapped Agatha. “I do not care what woman Charles fancies.”

“If you say so. Ah, here is Sir Charles. Can I expect you at our ladies’ society meeting tomorrow night, Mrs. Raisin?”

“I suppose so,” muttered Agatha, wishing she had never joined in the first place. She had only signed up when she had first arrived in the village as part of playing some sort of role as a villager, like trying to bake and going to church.

♦

“I wonder if they’ve bugged your phone,” said Charles, as they headed towards Mircester.

“Would they do that?”

“Seems likely. I mean, they’ll be hoping he’ll get in contact with you.”

“I don’t like that idea. Charles, do you really think James is dead?”

“No. If James was dead, we’d have had a report by now. He can’t hide away forever. And when he comes back, you’ll need to face up to the fact that you should never have married him.”

“We were working things out. It would have worked out. He’ll need nursing, taking care of.”

“I can’t see you as a ministering angel, Aggie.”

“Then you’ve never been in love.”

“I think you fell in love with a dream James who does not exist.”

“I am not a fanciful person!”

“I think you are, under that crusty exterior.”

“Shut up and drive, Charles.”

They completed the rest of the journey in silence.

“I wonder if he’s handsome,” said Agatha as she walked across the main car-park with Charles.

“Luke Sheppard? You mean because Melissa was an attractive woman?”

“If you like stringy, faded blondes and itsy-bitsy little middle-aged women who dress like schoolgirls.”

“Late thirties isn’t middle-aged these days. If it is, you’re ancient, Aggie.”

A tear rolled down Agatha’s cheek and she gave a choked sob. “Here, now!” said Charles, alarmed, handing her a handkerchief as Agatha attempted to brush the tear away on her blouse sleeve. “You’re falling apart. Do you want to go somewhere for a drink? Something to eat? We’ve only had scones.” Agatha blew her nose defiantly. “I’m all right. It’s just that I keep wondering and wondering how the hell James could cheat on me like that.”

“Maybe if I thought I were dying, it might affect my morals.”

“Couldn’t. You haven’t got any.”

“That’s more like my Aggie. Come on. Here’s the gents’ outfitters. Oh, God, just look at that awful blazer with the improbable crest on the pocket.”

A-slim dark-haired woman was arranging piles of shirts at the back of the shop. She was dressed all in black – short black skirt, black stockings, and low-cut black blouse. “Maybe the third Mrs. Sheppard,” murmured Charles.

Agatha sailed forward. “We’re looking for Mr. Sheppard.”

“I’ll get him. You are…?”

“Agatha Raisin and Sir Charles Fraith.”

She undulated into the back shop. They could hear the murmur of voices and then Luke Sheppard appeared. He was a small, powerfully built blond-haired man with small red-veined blue eyes and a large thick-lipped mouth. His broad chest was encased in one of the crested blazers that Charles despised.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“Are you very busy?” asked Charles. “Is there somewhere we can go and talk?”

“There’s the pub next door. Can you take care of things, Lucy?”

“Of course, Luke,” said the dark-haired assistant. She gave him a languorous smile.

They walked together into the beer-smelling darkness of The Green Man next door. The pub was nearly empty. Charles said he had left his wallet, which Agatha did not believe for a moment, but she paid for their drinks and then they all sat down around a table. “I assume this has to do with the death of my former wife,” said Luke Sheppard. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing new,” said Agatha. “You see, my husband is under suspicion and I am anxious to clear his name.”

“I don’t see how you plan to do that. Can’t think of anyone else with any reason to have done it.”

Agatha looked ready to flare up, so Charles said quickly, “It’s just that we’re trying to build up a picture of Melissa. No one seems to have known her very well. You see, if we get an idea what she was like, we might think of a reason why she was murdered.”

“The reason,” said Luke, “is that she was messing around with James Lacey.”

“Humour me,” said Charles. “What was she like?”

Luke’s accents, which were a sort of refined Midlands, suddenly coarsened. “She was a bloody actress, that’s what she was. She lived in a private soap opera. In fact, she watched as many soap operas as she could. I went to see her about a month before she was killed. She wanted more money. God knows why. She had enough of her own. I pointed out that when we divorced, she’d settled for a lump sum. She was playing at being the perfect villager, rambling on about recipes and plants and how to make loose covers. She was even wearing an apron!”

“So why did you marry her?” asked Agatha.

“Because the act she was playing when I met her was lady-tart. She promised everything.” He nudged Charles. “Know what I mean?”

“And she wasn’t?”

“She thought she was good in bed and she was lousy.”

So what did James see in her? wondered Agatha.

“Doesn’t help us a bit,” mourned Charles. “Just because a woman’s a bit of an amateur actress doesn’t mean she would necessarily inspire someone to murder her.”

Agatha covertly studied Luke Sheppard. She did not like him, and yet she had to admit he exuded a strong air of animal sexuality.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” said Luke, draining his glass. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Here’s my card,” said Agatha.

He stood up and then said, “Why don’t you pair let the police do the work?”

“I’ve managed to solve cases in the past,” said Agatha.

He gave a bark of laughter. “Melissa did that as well. When she wasn’t watching the soaps, she was watching Miss Marple or Morse on the telly. Another of her fantasies.” He strode off before the fulminating Agatha could answer him.

“So that’s put you in your place,” said Charles. “Let’s grab a bite to eat Give me some money, Aggie, and I’ll get it.”

“No,” said Agatha. “ You get it.”

“I told you, I forgot my wallet.”

She leaned across quickly, thrust her hand inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “There you are.”

“Bless me, I was sure I had forgotten it.”

“Good try, Charles. Get food.”

He came back with two ploughman’s, those bread-and-cheese rolls which are the cheapest thing on a pub menu.

“So we haven’t got very far,” said Charles. “Except maybe for the Miss Marple bit. I mean, what if Melissa, fancying herself a detective, had dug up something that someone didn’t want her to know?”