M.C. Beaton: The Love from Hell

“Agatha seems very upset about your illness.”

He stared at her in dismay. The packet of coffee fell to the shop floor.

“You told her!”

“You wouldn’t talk to me and I was worried about you, so I went to ask Agatha how your treatment was coming along.”

“You silly bitch,” he roared. “I could kill you, strangle you, shut that malicious gossipy mouth of yours.”

The listening, shocked silence behind them in the shop was almost tangible.

Melissa gave a nervous little laugh. “You didn’t tell her. That’s it, isn’t it?”

James walked straight out of the shop. When he turned into Lilac Lane, the first thing he saw was Charles’s BMW parked outside Agatha’s door.

♦

“He wasn’t home,” said Agatha miserably to Charles when she returned. “And this is the day of the concert. I’ve got to rush to Mircester. I don’t know how I’ll cope.”

“Let’s get it over with. I’ll take you. You’re in no fit state to drive.”

Agatha wearily went upstairs and made up her face and put on a charcoal-grey business suit and a striped cotton blouse. She did not know what to do. She had promised not to see Charles again, but the news about James’s cancer had shaken her.

As Charles drove her to Mircester for the concert, he suddenly said, “You know, Aggie, James is a weird bird, but a good sort. Forget, please, about the fact that he told Melissa. Help him cope with this cancer business. If you love him, you’ll do that. Aggie?”

But Agatha stared numbly at the passing scenery and did not reply.

Once they arrived at the marquee where the concert was to be held, Agatha threw herself into her work, chatting to the press, to the representatives of record companies. The group already had a recording company, which was, in Agatha’s opinion, pretty small beer.

The weather had held up and it was a perfect evening. Agatha had urged Delly Shoes to charge as little as possible for the tickets. Midlands Television was setting up its cameras and Agatha wanted as large a crowd as possible.

Only once she had taken her seat in the front row and the concert had begun did a great wave of dark misery engulf her. Stepping Out ended their show with the new rambling song. It was effervescent and jaunty. “Got a winner,” whispered Charles, but Agatha sat like stone.

The group played encore after encore. Then the managing director of Delly Shoes, Mr. Piercy, took the microphone. He talked about the glories of the new boot, and then he said, “I’m glad you all enjoyed yourself. I am sure we would all like to put our hands together and thank the organizer of this evening, Mrs. Agatha Raisin. Agatha, come on up.”

Charles nudged her to her feet. Like a sleep-walker, she walked up the steps at the side of the stage.

“I think you should make a short speech,” hissed Mr. Piercy.

Agatha looked out over the crowd in a dazed way. Then she adjusted the microphone.

But before she could speak, a voice called from the back of the hall, “Police! Make way, there.”

Agatha shielded her eyes and peered out over the audience. Police and detectives were making their way down the centre aisle.

“It’s another stunt, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Piercy.

Agatha felt the world had just come to an end. She was sure they had come to tell her James was dead.

Detective Inspector Wilkes of Mircester CID came up to her and took her elbow. “Come with us, Mrs. Raisin.”

She let him lead her down the steps, through the now silent crowd and out into the night.

“What is this?” she asked, aware that Charles had appeared beside her.

“If you will accompany us to Carsely, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Put her out of her misery,” shouted Charles. “Is James dead?”

“We don’t know,” said Wilkes. “He’s missing and there’s signs of a fight.”

Agatha was never to forget the journey home. She seemed to be moving through some sort of black nightmare. She prayed to a God she only half believed in, promising everything she could think of, doing deals, anything, if only James would turn out to be still alive.

♦

They went to Agatha’s cottage because the Scene of Crimes Operatives were busy at work in their white overalls behind the taped-off front of James’s cottage.

“The situation is this,” began Wilkes. “A certain Mrs. Melissa Sheppard was passing Mr. Lacey’s cottage and saw the door open. She was going to walk past, when she saw a dark stain on the front step. She went to examine it, touched it, and found it was fresh blood. She looked inside and saw furniture overturned. She called us. Mr. Lacey’s car is missing. We are searching the countryside for any trace of him. Preliminary questioning reveals that you had been heard threatening to kill him, Mrs. Raisin. I also learn that you preferred to keep your previous married name and that you and Mr. Lacey, although recently married, preferred to live in separate cottages. Mrs. Sheppard also tells us that Mr. Lacey was about to undergo treatment for a brain tumour and that he had told her but not you. Is that the case?”

“I threatened to kill him because I was jealous of what I believed to be a relationship with Mrs. Sheppard,” said Agatha. “But James, who does not lie, assured me that he had not slept with her. We were reconciled.”

“Mrs. Sheppard, who has been very frank, tells us that she had sexual relations with Mr. Lacey twice since his marriage to you.”

“That’s not true,” said Agatha flatly.

“I must ask you for your movements today.”

Agatha felt some other woman was answering all these questions. She described her day and Charles said he had been with her all afternoon and all evening. Agatha had been in full view of press and television all evening.

“It looks as if there was some sort of fight. We cannot establish yet whether the blood belongs to Mr. Lacey or his assailant. We will need to take your fingerprints and a blood sample, Mrs. Raisin. You too, Sir Charles. Mr. Lacey was heard threatening Mrs. Sheppard in the village shop. He was overheard saying he could strangle her.”

Did I ever really know James? wondered Agatha. Could he have been in love with Melissa?

“Are you charging Mrs. Raisin with anything?” asked Charles.

“Not at present.”

“Not at present,” jeered Charles. “She has an excellent alibi. She was in full view of several hundred people. Can’t you see she’s nearly dead with shock? She’s not going anywhere. Leave her alone.”

But Agatha and Charles had to give blood samples and fingerprints and promise to report to police headquarters the following day before they were left alone.

“You’d better go, Charles,” said Agatha.

“Sure? You’re not going to do anything silly?”

Agatha shook her head. Charles would have insisted on staying had not the vicar’s wife arrived.

“You poor thing,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“I can’t believe it. He has cancer and he never told me.”

“He talked to me about that,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“Of course he did. He probably told the whole world!”

“He said he did not want to tell you because telling you would make it real.”

Agatha put her head in her hands. “What am I going to do?”

“He appears to have driven off, which means he was not badly hurt. The blood in the cottage may not even be his.”

“Who would attack him? James didn’t have any enemies.”

“I am afraid the police are going to be concentrating on you for a bit.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve been heard threatening him.”

“What about Melissa? God, that woman says she slept with James twice since we were married. How could James do such a thing?”

“I think the fright of cancer made him behave most oddly. I’ve brought a bag. I’ll stay with you tonight.”