M.C. Beaton - The Love from Hell

“Could be. Remember James was trying to find out about another psychopath.”

“Pass me my dressing-gown,” said Agatha, swinging her legs out of bed. “Those papers downstairs.”

“What about them?”

“Mrs. Green said she met a child. A child! With Megan’s girlish appearance and Mrs. Green’s bad eyesight, she could have met Megan!”

“Bit far-fetched, but I’m game to try anything.”

They went downstairs and began to look through the papers again. “Here’s Mrs. Green’s paper. Is there anything else about a child?”

They settled down to go through the papers again. “Nothing,” said Charles at last.

“Let’s see Mrs. Green in the morning.”

∨ The Love from Hell ∧

10

BUT in the morning, both Agatha and Charles were beginning to think that they had leaped at the idea of the child’s being Megan, of somehow Melissa and Megan having the same personalities.

“Might as well have a go anyway,” said Charles. “We’re at a dead end otherwise and all that church-hall business will have been a waste of time.”

Agatha and Charles walked out to Mrs. Green’s cottage, which lay up the hill on the road leading out of the village. It was a mellow day with misty golden sunlight flooding the countryside. “If we don’t get anything out of this,” said Agatha suddenly, “I’m going to forget about the whole thing.” She waved an arm to encompass the sunny village. “Ever since James left, I’ve been wandering around in darkness. I want to start living again.”

“Without James?”

“Yes, without James. Even if by some miracle I found him, even if he wanted to come back to me, it wouldn’t work. I kept expecting him to change and he kept expecting me to change, and neither of us could.”

“You haven’t been smoking. That’s a start.”

“But how long does it take for the craving to go away?”

“You could stop carrying cigarettes in your handbag.”

“Works for me. As long as I’ve got them with me, I feel the strength to keep on resisting them.”

“If you say so,” said Charles. “This the cottage?”

“Yes. Here goes.”

Mrs. Green answered the door and looked on Agatha Raisin with disfavour. “Oh, it’s you.”

“I found what you wrote in your report very interesting,” said Agatha, giving her that crocodile smile one gives people one doesn’t like. “May we come in?”

“No.”

“You said on the night Melissa was murdered you saw a child,” said Charles. “Can you describe this child?”

Mrs. Green was a snob and her face softened at the sound of Charles’s upper-class voice. “It was dark, Sir Charles, and…Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you.” Charles stepped past her into the cottage and she promptly shut the door in Agatha’s face.

Face flaming, Agatha opened the door and followed them into the cottage parlour, which was a dark room in which framed photographs covered every surface. The darkness of the room was caused by the leaves of a large wisteria growing outside the win –: dow and by the leaves of a large cheese plant just inside the window. Mrs. Green’s autocratic face swam in the gloom.

“I would say she was in her early teens,” she said. “She was chewing gum, a disgusting habit, and had one of those little rucksacks on her back that young people affect these days instead of carrying a handbag.”

“Colour of hair?” asked Charles.

“I couldn’t really tell.”

“What was she wearing?” asked Agatha.

“Shorts with a bib top and these ugly boots they all wear these days.”

“Did you tell the police?” asked Charles.

“Of course not. They are looking for a murderer, not a child. And if I may say so, you would be better off leaving the whole thing to the police. What do we pay taxes for? I suppose such nosiness is understandable in the case of a person like Mrs. Raisin, but you, Sir Charles, should know better.”

“You forget,” said Agatha icily, “that my husband is missing.”

“Poor Mr. Lacey. I am not surprised. According to the people of this village, you led him a dog’s life.”

Agatha, who had taken a seat on a sofa, rose to her feet. “You are a nasty, acidulous old bat and I hope you rot in hell.” She stormed out.

Charles rose as well. “Just one thing,” he said to Mrs. Green, who was gasping and goggling. “What was this child’s hair like? I mean, long, short, pigtails?”

She looked up at him through her thick glasses. “It was in little clumps at either side and tied with ribbons. Now, I must say, Sir Charles, I do not know what you see in that woman. I don’t – ”

Charles simply walked out. Agatha was standing outside, lighting a cigarette. He plucked it out of her hand and threw it into Mrs. Green’s garden and then waltzed her down the road. “What’s up with you?” cried Agatha, disengaging herself when she could.

“The child wore its hair in bunches, or clumps, as she called them, and tied with ribbons. Now, who do we know wears her hair like that?”

“Megan,” breathed Agatha.

“What do we do now? Go to the police?”

“No, I want to go and see her and confront her.”

“Might not be safe.”

“You’ll be with me.”

“I’m not much protection against a psychopath wielding a hammer. But she won’t be on her own. Sheppard’ll be there. And how did she get from Oxford to Carsely and back without her husband knowing about it?”

“Taxi?” said Agatha.

“I’m sure the police will have checked that. And buses.”

“Unless Sheppard was in on it. If only we could make sure he’s not at home when we call.”

“I think that could be arranged,” said Charles. “Let’s get home and I’ll phone him and say there’s been a break-in at his shop.”

“What if she goes with him?”

“We’ll chance that. If not, we’ll need to wait until Monday morning, when he goes to work.”

They hurried back to Lilac Lane. Charles looked up the Sheppards’s number in the phone book. “Don’t listen,” he said to Agatha. “I’m going to disguise my voice and I can’t do it with you listening. I’ve got to pretend to be a copper.”

Agatha went into the kitchen. She took out her packet of cigarettes and then put them away again.

She heard the murmur of Charles’s voice and then he came into the kitchen. “That’s it,” he said. “Let’s go.”

♦

Charles drove quickly to Blockley, hoping he did not meet Luke Sheppard driving out of the village. He parked in front of the Sheppards’s cottage and took a deep breath. “Here we go, Aggie,” he said.

Megan answered the door. “You again,” she said. “What now?”

“May we come in?” asked Charles, smiling at her. “We have some news for you.”

“I suppose. Luke isn’t here. There’s been a break-in at his shop.”

They followed Megan as they had done before, out into the garden. “So what have you got to tell me?”

Charles opened his mouth to start with a diplomatic way of approaching the subject, but Agatha said brutally, “You murdered Melissa. You were seen in the village at the time of her death. We have a witness.”

Megan sat very still, the pupils of her eyes seeming huge. Then she laughed. “Nice try. I was in Oxford all night. How was I supposed to get from Oxford to Carsely?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha. “But we have this witness. It places you at the scene of the murder.”

“And what do the police have to say to that?”

“We haven’t told them yet,” said Agatha.

“Why not?”

“We wanted to know what you had to say for yourself.”

“Aren’t we all supposed to be in the manor-house library?” jeered Megan. “While the great detective accuses and the guilty one breaks down? Why don’t you both take your fairy-tales and run along, or I will call the police and charge you with harassment.”