Parson’s Terrace?”
“Don’t know. There’s a post office. We’ll ask there.”
As in Carsely, the post office was also the general store. The woman behind the counter told them to turn left as they went out of the shop, left and left again. They would find Parson’s Terrace at the top of the hill.
“We may not find him at home,” said Charles. “May be out at work.”
“We can try. A lot of people work at home in these villages, computer stuff,” said Agatha vaguely.
Parson’s Terrace was a row of very small cottages. “This is it,” said Charles, parking outside.
“I wish we had some sort of official badge we could flash,” mourned Agatha.
“Well, we haven’t. Here goes.”
Charles knocked at the door. “Someone at home anyway,” he said, hearing someone approach.
When the door opened, at first they thought they were facing a teenager. She had black hair pulled back in two bunches and tied with red ribbons and was wearing a short print frock, ankle socks and sandals. Her eyes were large, seeming to fill the whole of her small face.
“We’re hoping to talk to Mr. Sheppard,” said Agatha in that slightly cooing voice in which those who don’t have children and don’t much like them either address the species.
“Luke’s out at work. Can I help you? I’m Megan Sheppard.”
“Ah, what time will your father be home, dear?”
Those eyes widened in amusement. “I am Mrs. Sheppard and you are that Agatha Raisin I read about in the newspapers.”
“May we talk to you for a little?” asked Charles.
“Come in. I was just about to have some coffee. We can have it in the garden. It’s a lovely day.”
They followed her through the dark little cottage – narrow kitchen, poky living-room and out into a pretty garden, where a table and chairs had been set out on a patio. “Have a seat,” said Megan. “I’ll get the coffee.”
When she had gone, Agatha hissed, “How old do you think she is?”
“Late thirties?”
“Can’t be!”
“It’s the bobby socks, Agatha. She’s a lot older than she dresses.”
When Megan came back with a tray of coffee jug and cups, which she set down on the table, Agatha studied her face. In full sunlight, Megan’s face now revealed thin lines around the eyes, but she still seemed remarkably young.
“I did not know Mr. Sheppard had married again,” said Agatha. “There was nothing about it in the papers.”
“There wouldn’t be, would there?” said Megan, pouring coffee. “They only print the name of suspects.”
“I am Charles Fraith,” began Charles, accepting a cup of coffee from her. It was a china cup, decorated with roses. “Why wouldn’t your husband be a suspect? I mean, she was married to him.”
“But he had nothing to do with her. Everyone knows that.” Somehow Megan’s voice implied that they should have known it, too.
“Why did he divorce her?” asked Agatha. “Did he discover she was being unfaithful to him?”
“With your husband, you mean?”
“No,” said Agatha sharply. “With someone else.”
“Oh, no. He fell in love with me, you see.” She smiled blindingly at Charles, who smiled back.
“And what does your husband do?” asked Charles.
“He owns The Well-Dressed Gent. It’s a shop in Mircester. You are rather cheeky, you know, to ask all these questions. You’re not the police.”
“Mrs. Raisin is desperate to find the whereabouts of her husband. We’re asking everyone connected with Melissa. Did you know her?”
“Of course not. Why should I?”
Agatha was becoming increasingly irritated. Among other things, the childlike Megan with her doll’s house, and doll’s china, was beginning to make her feel old and huge and lumbering.
“Well, for a start, I thought Melissa, knowing he was leaving her for you, might have called on you.”
“Oh, no. More coffee, Charles?”
“Thank you. It’s excellent.”
She refilled his cup.
Agatha was suddenly anxious to leave. Megan could not help them. They should be on their way to Mircester to interview the husband. She realized they would really need to know what kind of person Melissa had been. They would need to find out if there had been anything in her behaviour or character to promote murder. In her heart of hearts, Agatha could not believe James had had anything to do with it. Whoever had attacked him had surely gone on to kill Melissa. She looked impatiently at Charles, but he was smiling and relaxed in the sunshine.
“How did you meet your husband?” Charles asked.
“I was working in the shop, as an assistant. We started going out for a drink together after work, and one thing led to another. He wasn’t happy with her.”
“Why?” demanded Agatha.
“Oh, you’ll need to ask him and see if he wants to tell you anything.”
“We’ll do that,” said Agatha. “Come along, Charles.”
“Come back any time,” said Megan, but she addressed the invitation to Charles. “Can you see your way out?”
¦
“Little bitch,” said Agatha as they drove off.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Charles. “Seemed very charming to me.”
“For heaven’s sake! There’s something wrong with a woman who wears ankle socks and her hair tied up like a child.”
“It suited her.”
“Anyway, we’d better go to Mircester. You know, Charles, I was thinking in there that we don’t really know what Melissa was like. I mean, what sort of person was she?”
“Then we should call on Mrs. Bloxby first. Melissa went to that ladies’ society thing, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s ask Mrs. Bloxby’s opinion of her. She must have formed some sort of opinion.”
Agatha felt an irrational stab of jealousy. She prided herself on being a great judge of character. What could Mrs. Bloxby tell them? If she, Agatha, had not sussed out anything strange or odd about Melissa, how could the vicar’s wife manage to do so?
¦
More coffee in the vicarage garden. With scones, this time, light as feathers. Being a city mouse down to her bones, Agatha often envied the skill of the country mice. Not for them the quick-fix dinner in the microwave. Not for them the instant garden with plants bought fully grown from the nursery.
“You were asking me about Mrs. Sheppard,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Do have some of my cherry jam on your scone, Sir Charles.”
I wish I could produce homemade jam, thought Agatha. Of course, I could buy the good stuff, steam off the labels, and put my own on, and who would know the difference? Yes, I might do that.
“I thought, you see,” said Charles, spooning jam onto a scone, “that with Melissa being such a regular member of the ladies’ society, not like Aggie here, you might have formed some sort of opinion.”
“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I suppose that’s silly, now I come to think of it. Surely much worse to speak ill of them when they are alive. I suppose it comes from some old superstition that one might spoil their chances of getting to heaven.”
“If she’s got there, she’s there by now,” said Agatha, shifting impatiently on her garden chair.
“I hope so.” And only Mrs. Bloxby, thought Charles, could say something like that and really mean it.
“Your garden is lovely,” he said, looking about him with pleasure.
“Thank you. The wisteria was a bit disappointing this year, however. Usually, we have a great show but a wicked frost blighted the blooms.”
“Melissa,” prompted Agatha. “The reason we want to know what you think is because we want to know if
