M.C. Beaton - The Love from Hell

“Someone was lurking about and got lucky,” said Bill. “It couldn’t be the sister, because you saw her over in Cambridge and I cannot imagine she would drive through that dreadful fog and back again.”

“Unless,” said Charles suddenly, “she followed us. I didn’t check whether anyone was following us. Why should I?”

“And why would she do that?” asked Bill patiently.

“She’s got the best motive, and if she were guilty, she’d follow us to see if we were ferreting around Cambridge for more clues.”

“Why? She’s got a good alibi. The students who lodge with her swear she was there the whole time Melissa was being murdered.”

“But would they really know? I mean, if she took off in the middle of the night, took the motorways, she could do it in two and a half hours.”

“Each way,” said Bill. “That makes five hours. A long time to be away.”

“Students don’t get up early,” said Charles. “Say she left at two in the morning, and allowing time for the murder, got back at eight, say. Her students might not have noticed anything. I mean, if someone says good night to you and there they are again at breakfast time, of course you think they’ve been there all night. We were driving very slowly through the fog. She could have followed us easily and seen us turn off at that road-house.”

“You could have been going for a meal.”

“She could have waited in the car-park. There’s a good view of the reception, all lit up, and despite the fog, she would have seen us making a booking.”

Bill passed a hand across his face. “You’ll need to do a lot better than that.”

“What I can’t understand,” Agatha burst out, “is why you couldn’t come up with at least one fingerprint or footprint when James was attacked and Melissa killed. I watch loads of forensic TV programmes and they seem to be able to tell from hair and fibres and footprints and fingerprints – ”

“It takes a long, long time these days to get results back from the lab. But in all cases, the perpetrator wore gloves. In James’s case, the footprints were scuffed; in Melissa’s case, whoever did it was very thorough. The place had been wiped clean of fingerprints and vacuumed thoroughly.”

“Maybe if you checked the vacuum bag, there might be – ”

Bill shook his head. “Here’s a thing. We have a feeling that whoever did it brought their own vacuum cleaner.”

“This is getting madder and madder,” wailed Agatha. “How could anyone lug a vacuum cleaner through the village without being seen?”

“It could have been one of those hand ones people use for cars,” said Bill. “We get the feeling the murder was cold-blooded and calculated.”

♦

Agatha and Charles decided after the questioning was over to go and visit Mrs. Bloxby and leave the forensic team a clear field. “We’ll probably find the place covered in fingerprint dust,” complained Agatha. “I thought they used lights these days.”

“Don’t ask me,” replied Charles. “It’s all a closed book to me.”

“I thought you had to be home today?”

“I’ll hang on a bit longer. Things were getting a bit boring, but now they’ve picked up.”

Agatha felt a pang of dismay. Although she often suspected that all she meant to Charles was a diversion, she didn’t like to have it confirmed.

Mrs. Bloxby was just arriving back at the vicarage as they walked up. “Oh, you poor things,” she said. “Do come inside. I’ve just been visiting Mrs. Allan.”

Agatha remembered vaguely that Mrs. Allan was a battered wife who lived on the council estate. “She back with her husband?”

“No, he disappeared. But would you believe it, she actually misses him and keeps saying he wasn’t so bad and she should never have reported him.”

“At least there aren’t any children,” said Agatha. “I hate it when children are involved.”

“That reminds me,” said the vicar’s wife, ushering them in, “we have the concert and fête to raise funds for Save the Children in two weeks’ time. I wondered if you could help, Mrs. Raisin. We’re having a cake sale as well.”

“I’m not good at cakes.”

“But you are good at publicity. We need to get a lot of visitors.”

“You’ve left it a bit late. I’ll do what I can. Give me the exact date, time, and what’s on offer and I’ll see what I can do with the local papers.”

“Perhaps that friend of yours, Mr. Silver, could help. He was awfully good before.”

“It would mean inviting him down and he’d expect to be here for the whole weekend. Don’t think I could face it at the moment. But I’ll do what I can.”

“And we have no one to man the white elephant stall, yet. Perhaps you, Sir Charles…?”

“Sorry. I haven’t been home for a bit and I can’t stay away much longer. Besides, you know what these white elephant sales mean? People buy stuff one year to help out and then they put it in the next year, until no one really wants to buy anything.”

“But with Mrs. Raisin doing the publicity and attracting visitors to the village, I’m sure it will be a big success.”

“Sorry, not my scene.”

“Sit down,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Did you have any breakfast?”

“No, we haven’t had time with all this,” said Agatha.

“I made some fresh rolls. I’ll make you rolls and bacon.”

When she had gone off to the kitchen, Agatha leaned her head back against the feather cushions of the old sofa and closed her eyes. “This can’t go on,” she said. “I don’t think whoever broke in was bothered whether they would find me there or not. I keep thinking of some faceless man, armed with a vacuum and a hammer.”

“I’ve a nasty feeling we’re never going to get anywhere on this one, Aggie,” said Charles.

“But we’ve got to! We’ve got to clear James’s name.” She opened her eyes and looked at him accusingly.

“Fact is,” said Charles. “I really should be at home. Before we came along here, I phoned my aunt. She’s got some people coming to stay today. They’re bringing Tara with them.”

“Who the hell’s Tara?” grumbled Agatha.

“A very gorgeous girl.”

“Imagine naming someone after a plantation in Gone with the Wind .”

“Well, you know what parents are like. Boys get traditional names like John, Charles and David. But when it comes to girls, they call them really daft names.”

Mrs. Bloxby came back bearing a laden tray.

Charles took an appreciative bite of a bacon roll. “Bliss,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

“I might,” said Mrs. Bloxby with a flirtatious laugh. Agatha glared at her. She was a vicar’s wife. She should behave like a vicar’s wife.

“So have you any idea who might have broken into your house?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“My money’s on Sheppard,” said Agatha.

“Oh, why?”

“I think he really hated her. He exudes an air of threat and violence.”

“What about the other husband? Dewey,” said Charles. “He’s sneaky and creepy enough to have got into your cottage without being noticed.”

“I just don’t know,” said Agatha.

“Don’t you think you should move out of the village for a little?” suggested Mrs. Bloxby. “I do not like to think of you being there, a target for some murderer.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Agatha. She was about to add, “I have Charles,” and then remembered that the fickle Charles would soon be off in pursuit of some gorgeous girl called Tara, and he would probably forget about her for weeks.

∨ The Love from Hell ∧

8

ROY Silver was delighted to accept Agatha’s invitation. He felt it was very trendy to tell his colleagues in the office that he was popping down to the Cotswolds for the weekend.