M.C. Beaton - The Love from Hell

“No, as thick as ever.”

“What time is it?”

“Going on for seven.”

“Won’t be long.”

When he had gone, Agatha put on her damp underwear and clothes and then pulled Charles’s sweater over her head. It was blue cashmere. James had one like it. She wished she could stop the sharp pain she felt every time she thought of James.

The restaurant was crowded with other stranded travellers. They managed to get a corner table.

“What now?” asked Agatha, after they had ordered fish and chips.

“I don’t know,” said Charles. “Bit of a dead end all round, if you ask me.”

“If only we could prompt someone into showing their hand. I know, maybe we could see that editor again and give him a story saying we know who the murderer is and we are just trying to find one final bit of proof.”

“Dangerous, that. Not only will he come after us, but the whole of Mircester police will be down on our heads. We’ll be asked to explain ourselves and when they find out we haven’t a clue, we’ll look ridiculous and the murderer will feel safer than ever.”

“Oh, well, maybe I will be able to think of something after a night’s sleep. What time should we ask for a call?”

“Eight o’clock. Go straight off and have breakfast on the road.”

♦

But when they set out the following morning, Agatha could not think of any bright ideas at all. A weak sun was shining through a hazy mist, and the dreadful fog of the day before had gone. She kept racking her brains. She felt that if she did not come up with something, then Charles would leave. Agatha hated being dependent on anyone, and yet she was afraid that without Charles, she would give up the hunt and sink into a depression.

They decided not to stop for breakfast, but to go straight to Carsely. Agatha stifled a yawn. She had slept badly.

Then Charles said the words she had been dreading to hear. “I’d better go home and see how things are. I mean, we seem to have come to a dead end.”

Agatha said nothing. Her pride would not allow her to beg him to stay, or ask him if he was coming back.

“So here we are,” said Charles, pulling up outside Agatha’s cottage. “I’ll get my stuff and be off. Don’t worry about any breakfast for me.”

“Charles,” said Agatha in a thin voice, “the door’s open.”

“Doris Simpson?”

“It isn’t her day for cleaning.”

“I’ll call the police.”

“No, I don’t think whoever did it would break in in broad daylight.”

They got out of the car and together they went up to the door. “It’s been jemmied open,” said Agatha. “Look at the splinters.”

“But what about that expensive burglar alarm system of yours?”

“I forgot to set it,” wailed Agatha. “Oh, my cats. What’s happened to my cats? I’ve got to go in.”

She strode into the house and into her sitting-room. “The television set and the radio haven’t been taken. Oh, look at this.”

Charles followed her into the sitting-room. The drawers of Agatha’s desk in the corner of the room were lying open and papers lay about the floor and her computer was still switched on.

“That’s it!” said Charles. “We’ve finally rattled someone. They were searching your papers, Aggie, to see if you had come up with anything. Look for your cats and I’ll call the police.”

Agatha went through to the kitchen, calling for her cats. Then she noticed the kitchen door was standing open. Her cats were rolling on the grass in the sunshine. She crouched down beside them and stroked their warm fur.

Then she heard Charles calling, “Fred Griggs is on his way. I’ll make some coffee.”

Agatha went into the kitchen. “Should we touch anything? I mean, they’ll want to dust everything for fingerprints.”

“I don’t think our criminal stopped to make coffee.” Charles filled the kettle and plugged it in.

Fred Griggs loomed up in the doorway, making them jump.

“Anything been taken?” he asked, pulling out his notebook. “I’ve phoned headquarters. They’ll be along soon.”

“Maybe I’d better wait for them to arrive,” said Agatha, “and it’ll save me going over the whole thing twice. I haven’t looked upstairs.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Charles to Fred. “You make the coffee, Aggie.”

After some time, they came back downstairs. “I had some papers in my suitcase, some farming accounts I meant to go over,” said Charles. “They’ve been tossed over the floor. Your bedside table’s been ransacked.”

“What about Mr. Lacey’s cottage?” asked Fred, and Agatha and Charles stared at each other in consternation.

“We’d better have a look,” said Charles.

“Do you have a key?” asked Fred.

“Yes, I keep it on a hook by the stove. Oh, it’s gone.”

“Of all the stupid places…” began Charles, but Agatha was already hurrying out the door.

Fred and Charles followed her to James’s cottage. “The door’s closed,” said Fred. He tried the handle. “And locked.”

“The key fits the back door,” said Agatha, “and whoever it was left my cottage by the back door.”

They went round the side of James’s cottage to the back door. It was standing open with the key in the lock. They crowded inside and through to James’s sitting-room. Papers were spread everywhere. It had been ransacked, just like Agatha’s cottage.

Agatha sat down suddenly and put her head in her hands. Fred heard the wail of sirens. “I think we’d better go back to your cottage.”

Agatha rose, helped by Charles and followed Fred next door. Bill Wong came to meet mem, his round face creased with anxiety. “What have you been up to, Agatha?”

“I haven’t been up to anything!” said Agatha, her voice shrill with shock. “I’ve been burgled.”

“Let’s sit down and go over it,” said Bill. He was flanked by a policewoman and a detective constable.

They all gathered round the kitchen table. Wearily, Agatha began to talk, explaining that she had forgotten to set the burglar alarm and yes, she had been stupid enough to leave a key to James’s cottage on a hook in the kitchen. “What I can’t understand,” she said, “is how someone knew the burglar alarm wasn’t set.”

Bill nodded to the detective constable who went outside. After a few moments he was back. “The wires have been cut.”

“And nothing of value has been taken?” asked Bill.

“Not at first glance,” said Agatha. “Whoever it was must have been trying to find out if we knew anything about the murders.”

“And had you?” asked Bill sharply. “Apart from what you’ve told me.”

“Nothing more than that,” said Agatha. Charles looked at her, wondering whether she had forgotten about the psychiatrist or was deliberately withholding that information.

They could hear cars drawing up outside. “That’ll be the forensic team,” said Bill, getting to his feet. “They can start with James’s cottage.” He turned to Fred Griggs. “Ask around the village and see if someone heard or saw something.”

The phone rang. Agatha picked up the extension in the kitchen.

It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I heard you had been burgled. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I don’t think so,” said Agatha, “unless you can ask around and see if anyone was seen lurking around Lilac Lane during the night.”

“Where were you?”

“Cambridge,” said Agatha. “I’ll tell you later.”

“So you were in Cambridge,” said Bill when she put down the phone. “Asking the sister questions?”

“Just a chat,” said Agatha, “and then the fog was so bad we had to stop somewhere for the night. The thing is, who would know that I wasn’t coming home? It was a last-minute decision.”