M.C. Beaton: The Love from Hell

“But I should be out there looking for him!”

“Come, now. There is nothing you can do. The police will be searching everywhere. He took his car, so he’s still alive.”

Agatha allowed herself to be led upstairs. Mrs. Bloxby ran her a bath and sat on the bed until Agatha emerged from the bathroom.

“Now, into bed with you,” said the vicar’s wife. “I’ll only be next door. Call me if you need anything.”

Agatha lay awake a long time, clutching the duvet, horrors racing through her mind. She began to blame herself. Somehow, if she had been a better wife, then James would have confided in her. Something told her that James had indeed lied to her, that he had slept with Melissa. Melissa had no reason to lie to the police. And James would not have gone to Melissa for comfort if she, Agatha, had treated him better. Just when she thought she would never sleep again, she plunged down into a nightmare where she was searching the lanes and woods for James, dressed in her nightgown.

The next thing Agatha knew, Mrs. Bloxby was shaking her by the shoulder and saying, “The police are here again, Agatha. They insist on seeing you. James’s car has been found.”

Agatha struggled out of bed, tore her night-gown off and began to scramble into clothes. “And James? Have they found him?” she asked.

“No sign of him, yet.”

Agatha went downstairs. Wilkes was there with Bill Wong and a woman police constable.

“You’ve found his car,” said Agatha. “Where?”

“Up in the woods, just before you reach the A-44,” said Bill.

“Was there any clue in the car?”

“Only more blood-stains,” said Wilkes, and Agatha groaned. “It does look as if he was injured.”

“May I see the car?”

“No, it’s been taken away for examination. Do you know of anyone with any reason to attack him?”

“None whatsoever,” said Agatha. “I’ve thought and thought.”

“You had better come with us to Mircester and make a full Statement.”

“I’ll just phone my husband,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I’m coming with her.”

♦

As Agatha was driven past James’s cottage, she could see men in white overalls dusting for prints and searching everywhere. A numbness had settled on her. Once at police headquarters, she answered all questions like a dutiful child while Mrs. Bloxby sat beside her and held her hand.

The vicar’s wife wondered if Agatha realized how odd her story sounded. Yes, she had tried to marry James before but had forgotten to tell him that she did not know whether her husband Jimmy Raisin was alive or dead. Yes, Jimmy had turned up and cancelled the wedding ceremony. Yes, Jimmy was subsequently found murdered. No, relations between herself and James had not been very amicable. No, she did not know he had cancer. Mrs. Bloxby did not know that, numb and shocked as she was, Agatha was not going to admit she had learned of James’s illness from Melissa.

Mrs. Bloxby knew that videos of the concert would be scanned and people interviewed to establish Agatha’s alibi. Could they establish from the blood-stains when James was attacked? Villagers often walked their dogs along Lilac Lane. If the attack had taken place in daylight, surely someone would have seen something or heard something. Melissa was more of a suspect than Agatha. She was the other woman. What did anyone in the village know of her? She was a fairly recent incomer. She must have been very keen on James to have had an affair with him in such a small village.

The questioning went on and on. Agatha’s in bad shock, thought Mrs. Bloxby. They must know that.

At last, Agatha signed her statement and the interview was over. She was cautioned not to leave the country and to hold herself in readiness for further questioning.

When they emerged from police headquarters it was to find Charles waiting for them. “I’ve been grilled as well,” he said cheerfully. “Fancy some lunch?”

“I must get back,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Alf will be wondering what’s happened to me.”

“That’s all right,” said Charles. “I’ll take her home. We’d better talk.”

Mrs. Bloxby looked doubtful. She drew Charles aside. “Be very careful,” she whispered. “Mrs. Raisin has had a bad shock.”

“I’ll deal with her.”

He took Agatha’s arm and she allowed herself to be led across the square and into Mircester.

“When did you eat last?” he asked Agatha.

“I can’t remember. I meant to have a late supper after the show.” She plucked nervously at his arm. “The concert! I should get the newspapers.”

“Forget it. We’ve got more important things to talk about.” Charles suddenly saw Melissa walking in front of them. “In here,” he said, dragging her into a place called Pam’s Pantry. “I’m sure the food is good.”

They sat down at a corner table. “I’ll order us something,” said Charles. The menu was of the snack variety. He ordered two club sandwiches and a bottle of mineral water.

“Now, Aggie,” he said. “What on earth could have happened?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha. “I’ve thought and thought. I’m sure if I had been a better wife, he would have told me things. He didn’t even tell me he had cancer.”

“Absence is making the heart grow fonder,” said Charles brutally. “Snap out of it. We won’t get anywhere if you start blaming yourself for everything. The trouble is that James is a tight-arsed tick. That was what caused the problems in your marriage. It would help if you could get angry. I was asked if I knew anything about his affair with Melissa. Was he really having an affair with Melissa?”

“She says he slept with her a couple of times since we were married. I asked James if he had slept with her and he denied it.”

“So he’s an adulterer and a liar. You worked on some murder cases with James before. Anyone from the past likely to have surfaced?”

“I thought about that. They’re all still locked up or dead.”

“Maybe relatives? Friends?”

“Could be.”

“Here’s your sandwich. Eat.”

“I can’t.”

“So what are you going to do to help James? Sit wallowing in some unreal world where it’s all your fault?”

“Charles!”

“Snap out of it, sweetie. Martyrdom is ruining your looks.”

Agatha glared at him. “My husband is missing, maybe dead, and all you can do is insult me?”

“That’s what friends are for.”

Agatha proceeded to tell him between bites of sandwich exactly what she thought of him.

Charles listened amiably and, seeing she had finished eating, called for the bill. “We’d better get back,” he said. “There may be more news.”

♦

James Lacey stumbled in a daze along the waterfront at Bridport in Dorset. Night was falling. His head throbbed and he had no idea how he had got there, only that he seemed to have been wandering for days.

Suddenly a squat little woman wearing a yachting cap appeared in front of him. “Why, it’s James, James Lacey! You look a mess.”

Somehow his dazed mind registered her identity. “Harriet,” he said.

“We’re about to set sail for France. Tubby’s on the yacht. Look at your head. There’s dried blood in your hair. What have you been up to?”

“Bar fight,” said James, fighting away a memory of a swinging hammer and crashing furniture. “I’ll be all right.”

He knew some awful memories of what had so recently happened to him were about to come flooding back. And in that moment he remembered a monastery he had visited once in Agde, in the south of France. He remembered the cloistered peace, the sun slanting through the cloisters. He suddenly felt if he could get there, he would be safe.

“Can you take me to France?”