M.C. Beaton - The Love from Hell

“We just look. If she was typing something, she’d need to have a desk. Not in the living-room. Maybe she used one of the bedrooms as an office.”

They went up the stairs. “I don’t like this,” muttered Charles.

“Oh, do shut up. You’re making me nervous. What could possibly happen?”

They gingerly pushed open doors: bathroom, a double bedroom, a box-room, linen cupboard; and then, finally, a small room containing a desk and a computer was revealed.

“This is it!” said Agatha excitedly. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Too eager to find clues to worry about fingerprints, she jerked open the desk drawers. “Nothing,” she said. “Must all be still at Mircester.”

“I hate to suggest this, but there might be something in the computer.”

“Right!” Agatha sat down in front of the screen and switched it on. “Let’s see what we have on file. Would you believe it? Just one file headed ‘Chick-fic’”

“Bring it up,” said Charles. “She might have been writing a book. Chick-fic are those women’s books, all shopping and bonking. You know, where everyone gets laid in Gucci and Armani.”

Agatha moved the mouse. “Here we are. Plot.”

They both read. “Bitch!” said Agatha. The plot concerned a beautiful and sophisticated woman who comes to live in a Cotswold village and falls in love with a handsome man who is married to a cold and domineering wife. The description of the man, although badly written, was definitely that of James.

“Is that supposed to be me?” demanded Agatha, stabbing a finger at the screen. Charles peered over her shoulder.

“‘Mrs. Darcy’,” she read, “‘was a squat bullying woman with no dress sense and beady little eyes.’”

Charles stifled a laugh. “Surely not.”

Agatha stiffened. “What’s that? I heard something drawing up outside.”

Charles looked out of the window. “It’s a removal van and a woman getting out of a car who looks a bit like Melissa and around the same age. She must have had a sister. We’ve got to get out of here without her finding us.” He jerked up the window and said over his shoulder to the stricken Agatha, “Shut that bloody computer off!”

He hung out the window. “There’s a creeper. I’ll go first and catch you if you fall.”

Agatha switched off the machine and hitched a leg over the sill just as she heard the door opening downstairs. She edged down, clutching handfuls of creeper. She felt her tights rip.

“A bit more,” she heard Charles whisper. The creeper gave way and she tumbled into his arms and flattened him into a soft flower-bed.

“Come on,” urged Charles as she rolled off him, panting. They scrambled up and ran to the bottom of the back garden, which was surrounded by a high wall. Charles pushed her up and she grabbed wildly at the top of the wall and, with a groan, heaved herself up until she was straddling the top of it. Underneath was a bed of nettles. She shut her eyes and jumped and then stifled her screams as she landed among the nettles.

Soon Charles joined her and they stood in the lane which ran along the back of the cottage.

“I’m stung all over,” said Agatha. “What a mess I am. I’d better get home and put some ointment on.”

“You do that,” said Charles, “and I’ll stroll round to the front of the cottage and chat her up.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“She’ll wonder what you’ve been up to,” said Charles. “You’ve got nettle stings all over your arms and legs. Your tights are torn and your blouse has green streaks on it from the creeper. I’m a bit dusty, but my clothes are dark. Go on, Aggie. I’ll be along soon.”

Agatha reluctantly started to walk home, but was less reluctant as she neared her cottage and felt the pain from the stings increasing.

Once inside her cottage, she went upstairs and stripped off her clothes, showered and covered her stings in anti-histamine cream. She donned clean underwear and a loose cotton dress, applied fresh make-up and went downstairs to wait for Charles.

She waited and waited and then, growing impatient, decided to walk up to Melissa’s cottage and find out what was going on.

When she got there, removal men were carrying out furniture. “Where’s the lady of the house?” asked Agatha.

“Gone off with some fellow to the pub for lunch,” said the foreman.

Agatha swung round and headed for the Red Lion. She was very angry. Charles should have phoned her and asked her to join them.

Charles was sitting with a woman who bore a family resemblance to Melissa. Her hair was dark, probably the real colour of Melissa’s hair, thought Agatha.

“I was waiting for you, Charles,” said Agatha truculently.

“About to phone you,” said Charles. “Just getting to know Julia here. Julia Fraser is Melissa’s sister.”

“Sorry to hear about your loss,” said Agatha.

“Are you?” she said coolly. “I wasn’t.”

Agatha sat down. “Do you want something to eat?” asked Charles. “We’re having egg and chips.”

“That’ll do,” said Agatha. When Charles went to the bar to give her order, Agatha looked curiously at Julia. “So you didn’t like your sister?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“She was a lying bitch. She made a dead set for my husband and I told her I never wanted to see her again.”

“Oh. But she left you everything in her will?”

“Yes, that was a surprise. I’m cleaning that cottage out and then I’m going to sell it.”

So there had been a will! Mrs. Bloxby didn’t know everything after all, thought Agatha with a certain degree of satisfac-tion.

“So who are you?” asked Julia.

“Sorry. I forgot to introduce myself,” said Agatha as Charles came back to join them. “I’m Agatha Raisin.”

“Poor you. I heard Melissa got her claws into your husband. Read a bit about it in the papers. Any word of…who is it?”

“James Lacey. No.”

“Have you reverted to your maiden name?”

“No, I’ve always done business under the name of Raisin and so I kept using it. Have you any idea who would have wanted to murder your sister?”

“Lots of people. Your husband, for one.”

“He can’t have done it. He was attacked and we think it was the same person who killed your sister.”

“I can’t think of anyone in particular. She was always trouble. Do you know, my father had her sectioned once?”

“No, what for?”

“She was in her late teens and she was on drugs.”

Drugs again, thought Agatha.

“She was diagnosed as a psychopath. She was a compulsive liar and just didn’t know right from wrong. She liked to get control of men and manipulate them. She was a bit of a chameleon. She would try to be everything she thought some man wanted her to be and they always fell for it and then soon found out their mistake, but she could never sustain an act for long. And it was never her fault. I was amazed that she’d actually gone to the trouble of making a will. She was the sort that thought she would live forever. I know I must sound hard. But she drove out any affection. When I heard she was dead, my first thought was one of relief. I hate to think there’s some murderer out there, but on the other hand, she could drive people batty and she had a vicious tongue.”

“Did you know her husbands, Sheppard and Dewey?”

Julia shook her head. She pushed away her barely touched plate of egg and chips. “I’d broken off relations with her ages ago. Look, thanks for the food and drink. But I’d better get back. No, don’t move. I feel like a walk.”

When she had gone, Agatha turned accusing eyes on Charles. “Why didn’t you let me know you were both going to the pub?”

“I was getting on so well with her and I thought it would take you ages to clean yourself up.”