¦
James Lacey had retreated to the quiet calm of the herb garden to rest and contemplate. He had not yet told Brother Michael the truth about his marriage. He had told him everything else, about the attack on him, about his shame and fear of death. He would shortly be taking leave from the monastery. He said he had to return to put his affairs in order, to sell his cottage. He was afraid Agatha would not agree to a divorce. If she did not, then he would simply return and carry on as a single man. The monastery was where he had been cured and he did not want anything to stand in his way of joining the order.
He tried to conjure up a picture of Agatha, but could not quite remember what she looked like.
And then there was a great thump from the bed of orange thyme behind the stone bench on which he was sitting. He leaped up in alarm and turned round.
Agatha Raisin was lying among the crushed plants. She straightened up, her face flushed and hot.
She looked at the robed figure of the monk standing in front of her and said in a faint voice, “James?”
Charles, who had reached the top of the wall, saw the scene below him and quietly backed down again. Let Agatha get on with it. But what a strange pair they made. What a tableau! Agatha, hot and dusty, struggling to her feet. James, thin and robed, his eyes very bright blue in his tanned face. Charles sat down and prepared to wait. Agatha’s cigarettes and lighter had fallen out of her pocket when she was climbing the wall. He leaned his back against the warm stone and lit a cigarette. He hoped for Agatha’s; sake that this was the end to her romance.
¦
“You are not supposed to be here,” James was saying sharply. “There are official visiting days twice a year, and this is not one of them.”
“Is that all you have to say?” demanded Agatha, her hands on her hips. “Melissa gets herself murdered, there’s a police hunt for you, I think for ages you’re probably dead, and all you can I come up with is that it’s not a visiting day!”
James sat down suddenly on the bench and put his head in his hands. Agatha sat down beside him, suddenly weary.
“Tell me about it,” he said.
So Agatha told him all about Melissa’s murder and how she had finally discovered that Megan was the culprit. “If you had not run away,” she said waspishly, “then Megan would have been arrested for assault and Melissa would still be alive.”
James looked at her. Under his tan, his face had gone quite white.
“So why did you run away?” asked Agatha.
“I was a mess,” he said. “I thought you were having an affair with Charles.”
“Don’t judge other people by yourself,” snapped Agatha.
“I started spending some time with Melissa. But she began to frighten me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I had been consulting a psychiatrist in Mircester and he let slip that he had all the files from the psychiatric unit. I had begun to think Melissa was a classic example of a psychopath.”
“Didn’t stop you shagging her,” put in Agatha. “Please.” He held up his hand. “I looked in the files and found she had indeed been sectioned at one time and diagnosed as such. She had got quite drunk over dinner one night and had told me she had a lot of money and was going to leave it to her old friend Megan, who, by coincidence, had married her ex-husband. She said Megan was the only friend she’d got. They’d been through some hard times together. Then, one day when I got home, I went out into the back garden. At first I thought it was a teenager and called to her sharply. She introduced herself as Megan Sheppard. I asked how she had got in. She said, ‘Over the fence.’ She said she had come to warn me to leave Melissa alone. She said Melissa was her friend.
“I got rid of her quickly. But something made me wonder if Megan was another psychopath, and if such, could be dangerous; if such, could only be interested in Melissa for the money.”
He sighed. “I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I simply had to go back to the psychiatrist and check the files. Yes, Megan had been in the psychiatric unit at the same time as Melissa. I felt I had not long to live. Our marriage was a disaster. I thought I could at least help Melissa.” Agatha winced. “There are different levels of psychopathy. I thought Melissa probably had a personality disorder, whereas the little I had seen of Megan pointed to a stone-hard psychopath.
“So I called on Melissa and told her about Megan’s visit. I said that Melissa would be better off leaving her money to her sister, and telling Megan that. Melissa’s eyes lit up at the prospect and I realized with a sinking heart that she was actually looking forward to the experience and that she was as incapable of affection and friendship as Megan.
“She must have told Megan it was I who had counselled her to change her will. Megan walked in on me and started berating me. She then swung a hammer at my head. I staggered off. I got in the car and drove until I realized I was too ill to drive any more. I got out. I wanted to get away from the whole mess. I hitched a lift and told the truck driver I had suffered a fall. He said he would drop me at the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford. I did not go in. I waited in the meadows until dawn and sponged the blood from my head.
“I got out on the A-40 and another truck driver took me as far as London. I got a bus from Victoria coach station to the coast. You see, in all my distress and shame, all I could think of was this monastery.”
“The police were looking everywhere for you,” said Agatha. “They must have missed the coach station. How did you get over to France?”
“Friends, with a yacht. I worked my way south until I got to here. I never thought for a moment Melissa was in danger. I thought someone would have seen Megan leaving my cottage, have heard the noise. I thought that by now Melissa would have realized that when I told her Megan was dangerous, she would now know it to be true.”
“So where do we go from here?” asked Agatha, searching his face for some sign of that old affection, but James’s face was set and bleak.
“I would like to join this order. I found a faith here, Agatha, and that faith cured me.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve always missed army life, and this is very like it, the order and discipline.”
“What about us?”
James looked at her sadly. “I hope you will give me a divorce, Agatha.”
Agatha shrugged. “Sure,” she said. Another woman she could have battled against,
“I planned to return in a week’s time to clear things up. I shall see you then.” He stood up. “I must go. Someone will soon come looking for me and you should not be here.”
Agatha stood up as well. She held out her hand. James gave it a firm handshake. “See you next week.”
Then he smiled sweetly at her and raised his hand in benediction. Agatha suddenly found she was so angry, she was shaking.
“Get stuffed, James,” she said evenly.
He gave her a sorrowful look, and putting his cowl over his head, walked away through the garden.
Agatha felt old and weary and the sustaining anger drained out of her. She hoisted herself up the wall and rested for a moment, lying across the top. “Want me to come up and help you?” came Charles’s voice.
“No, I’ll manage.” Agatha fumbled her way down the other side.
“That was James,” said Charles, “and what did he have to say for himself?”
As they walked across the field to the other wall, Agatha told him. Charles made an odd sound. She stopped and stared at him. “You’re laughing?”
“I can’t help it,” chuckled Charles. “My husband, the mad monk.”
Overwrought, Agatha slapped him across the face. Charles promptly slapped her back, hard, and then fell onto the ground, rolling over and over, holding his sides and roaring with laughter.
Agatha stared down at him, holding her cheek where he had slapped her, the anger ebbing out of her.
And then she began to laugh helplessly as well.
“That’s better,” said Charles, getting up and putting an arm around her shoulders. “So does he want a divorce? You didn’t say anything about that.”
“Yes, and he’s welcome to one. He’ll be back next week to wrap things up.”
“How’s his tumour?”
“He says he’s cured.”
“I can see where he’s at,” said Charles. “If I’d had a brain tumour and a bunch of monks cured me with their
