M.C. Beaton: The Love from Hell

“Can’t you leave it? He’ll be here. The man of God has promised. And he does want that divorce.”

“All right. I’ll give it another week, and if he isn’t at police headquarters by then, I’ll send the gendarmes to get him.”

“But you said he wasn’t going to be charged with anything?”

“That’s true. But to wrap things up, he’ll need to make a statement about his long disappearance, and Wilkes will no doubt give him a dressing down about wasting valuable police time. But then, he didn’t murder Melissa, knew nothing about it, so he cad hardly be blamed for anything. And if someone hits you on the head with a hammer and you don’t report a crime – well, that’s that.”

“James said he thought Melissa was just someone with a personality disorder, not a dyed-in-the-wool psychopath.”

“Then he’s probably right. But if she hadn’t been so manipulative, holding out the offer of riches after her death to Megan, she’d still be alive. I wouldn’t blame James. I think even if he had reported her, she would have bided her time until the fuss died down, and then she would have killed Melissa anyway. I can’t see that one waiting years to see if Melissa died without helping her on her way. Oh, there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“As far as we can gather, Melissa had not made a previous will. She had lied to Megan.”

“Why?”

“I think it might have amused her to think that if she died first, Megan was going to be one very disappointed woman.”

“And James got involved with someone like that?”

“He was thrown by his illness. Most of the people we interviewed seemed to find her very friendly and charming. What will you do now?”

“I’ll wait for James and we’ll go to a lawyer and start proceedings for a divorce. After that, I don’t know.”

“You’ll find something. Let’s hope it’s not another murder.”

“I don’t care if a body drops at my feet,” said Agatha. “Never again.”

“We’ll see. Now what about you and Charles coming for Sunday dinner?”

“Charles is in France and I can’t really think of anything other than getting things straight with James,” said Agatha. “I’ll let you fix a date when this is all over.”

“All right. I’ll hold you to it. What does Mrs. Bloxby have to say about all this?”

“I haven’t told her yet. I only got back last night. I’ll drop along and see her this afternoon. How’s your love life?”

“Dead. Nothing happening. Didn’t work out. We’re quite a pair.”

“You’ll find someone,” said Agatha, although she privately thought if Bill would stop taking them home, he’d find someone. “It’s different for you,” she went on. “You’re young. Lots of girls around. At my age, if the man isn’t married, then there’s something up with him, and nice widowers don’t pop up all over the place.”

“You could join one of those dating agencies,” said Bill, “You know, one of the good ones, where they try to match up people.”

“Thanks, Bill. But right now I feel like steering clear of involvements.”

♦

After Bill had left, Agatha fed her cats and was about to go along to the vicarage when the doorbell rang.

When she answered it, she stepped back a little and tried to wipe the look of dismay off her face. Jimmy Jessop and his wife, Gladwyn, stood on the doorstep. “We were touring the Cotswolds,” said Jimmy, “and I found I still had your home address. So I said to Gladwyn, ‘Agatha will be thrilled to see us.’”

Gladwyn gave Agatha a small, thin smile.

“Come in,” said Agatha reluctantly. “Can I offer you lunch?”

“No, we had some in a pub.”

“We only have a few minutes,” said Gladwyn. “What a quaint little cottage you do have. Me, I like modern. Still, it takes all sorts.”

“Where is your baby?” asked Agatha.

“My mum’s looking after him.”

“I heard they got someone for that murder,” said Jimmy. “You didn’t have anything to do with finding out who did it, did you?”

“I did indeed,” said Agatha, glad of an opportunity to show off. She outlined how she had discovered that Megan was the culprit while Gladwyn fidgeted and yawned.

“That’s fascinating,” said Jimmy when she had finished. “But what about your husband?”

“Oh, he turned up,” said Agatha airily.

“Everything all right?”

“Marvellous,” said Agatha. “We’re a very happy couple.”

“So where is he?” asked Gladwyn, her eyes boring into Agatha’s.

“Over in France on business. He’ll be back soon.”

“Mrs. Raisin?” called Mrs. Bloxby’s voice. She came into the kitchen. “You left the front door open, so I just walked in. I met Bill Wong and heard the news.”

Agatha shot her a warning look, but Mrs. Bloxby was smiling at Jimmy and Gladwyn. “I’m so glad James is alive and well. But going to be a monk! And you’re getting a divorce.”

Gladwyn was smiling now.

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Jessop,” said Agatha hurriedly. “Gladwyn, Jimmy, Mrs. Bloxby. They’re just leaving.”

“Oh, no,” said Gladwyn, settling back in her chair. “I want to hear all about how you can have a marvellous marriage with a monk.”

But Jimmy saw the look on Agatha’s face and stood up and helped a reluctant Gladwyn out of her chair. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Agatha. No. We can see our way out.”

Agatha sat down and put her head in her hands. She heard the outside door slam and then a high cackle of laughter from Gladwyn out on the road.

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I just blurted it out without thinking. Was that your police inspector?”

“Yes, and I told his dreadful wife that me and James were happily married and that he was away on business in France. Never mind.”

“So tell me all about it.”

Agatha felt she had told the story so many times that her voice was beginning to echo in her ears. When she had finished, Mrs. Bloxby said, “How dreadful for you.”

“You mean, Melissa trying to shoot me?”

“No, James being a monk.”

“I thought you would approve. “Nearer my God to thee,” and all that.”

“I’m glad he is well and alive. But finding that he plans to enter the monastery must have come as a great shock to you.”

“I think I’ve gone through every emotion from grief to anger, but it’s all over now. Perhaps it would have been easier for me if he had died.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Before you came to live here, there was a woman in the village who adored her husband. He was actually a rather nasty man. When he died, she elevated him to sainthood and wasted lots of money on mediums trying to get in touch with him. Now if he had lived – they had not been married long – then she would have found out what sort of man he was. You see, when one of the nearest and dearest dies, the one left behind feels irrationally guilty and remembers all the nice things about the dead person and blames themselves for not having been nicer, better, kinder. And you say James is coming back? Good. That will give you some much-needed time to accustom yourself to the idea of divorce.”

“I wouldn’t have thought a divorced man could become a monk,” said Agatha.

“You weren’t married in the Catholic Church, so possibly it doesn’t count.”

“Maybe. Maybe he won’t tell them. I’m going to start planning my life, figure out what I’m going to do in the weeks and months ahead.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t even bother. You’re the sort of person that things happen to. Are you sure you are going to be all right?”

“Yes, I’ve come to terms with it all.”

But during the following days, Agatha found herself going to the beautician twice and the hairdresser twice. She walked and cycled, she cleaned her cottage herself, although Doris Simpson had already cleaned it, and then went next door and cleaned and dusted James’s cottage.