looking at the weedy earth in front of the house, which was still dotted with bits of builders’ rubble.
Charles rang the white bell-push on the white-painted door. Agatha was once more struck by the fact that there were no children playing about. Children rushed indoors after school these days to surf the Internet or watch television or play computer games.
A woman walking a dog stood at the garden gate and studied them. “Want anything?” called Agatha.
“I represent Neighbourhood Watch in this area,” she said, “and I haven’t seen you before.”
“Well, now you have,” snapped Agatha. “And I’ve got a gun. Bang, bang, you’re dead!” She turned back and stared impatiently at the closed door.
She was just about to say to Charles that it did not look as if their quarry was at home, when the door opened a crack and one pale eye surveyed them.
“Mr. Dewey?” said Agatha.
“I’m not buying anything.”
“We’re not selling anything,” said Agatha crossly. “I am Mrs. Agatha Raisin and this is Sir Charles Fraith. We would like to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Melissa Sheppard.”
“Oh, her.” The door swung open.
“Everything all right, Mr. Dewey?” called the woman at the garden gate and her dog gave a shrill bark.
“We’re only here to shoot him,” called Agatha to the woman. She turned back. “Do let us in, Mr. Dewey. We can’t talk on the doorstep with that tiresome woman watching us.”
“Come in.”
Charles took a look back down the garden path and saw the representative of Neighbourhood Watch pull a mobile phone out of her pocket. He felt he should say something, but Agatha was already walking into the house, so he gave a shrug and followed her.
The small living-room into which Mr. Dewey led them was as characterless as the outside of the house. Fitted brown carpet covered the floor. There was a new three-piece suite, the sofa having a shell-shaped design. One coffee-table in plain wood. No pictures, photographs, books or magazines softened the starkness of the room. Agatha wondered if he lived in the kitchen.
“Mr. Dewey,” she began when they were seated.
“John,” he said. “You may call me John.”
A small, slight man with closed features and gold-rimmed glasses, he was wearing a white T-shirt, jeans with ironed creases down the front, glittering white sneakers and, over his clothes, a plastic apron decorated with fat roses which reminded Agatha of Megan’s cups.
“Well, John,” she said, “you may have read about us in the papers.”
“Yes, you’re that woman whose husband killed Melissa.”
“That’s just the point. We don’t think he did. Before he disappeared, he was attacked and we think that whoever attacked him killed Melissa.”
“I don’t see the point of these questions,” he said. “I mean, I’ve told the police all I know.”
“We’re asking a different sort of question,” said Agatha. “We would like to find out what Melissa was really like. I mean, if there was anything in her character that would drive anyone to murder her.”
“She was just an ordinary sort of person, bit irritating.”
“But you divorced her.”
“No, she divorced me. We didn’t quarrel about it, you know. I didn’t argue. I bought this house after the divorce. Suits me to have my own way. She was a cluttery sort of person.”
“Cluttery?”
“You know, she always had some fad or other – dressmaking one day, flower-arranging the other, house full of bits and bobs. She was a bad cook.”
“She must have changed since she left you,” said Agatha. “Everyone in Carsely praised her cakes.”
“Oh, that. She probably did what she did when she was married to me.”
“Which was?”
“She’d find a good bakery and buy cakes and then put homemade wrappings on them and say she had baked them herself. I mean, only rather sneaky and mean people would do a thing like that.”
Charles glanced at Agatha’s face, for Agatha was notorious for trying to pass off shop goods as her own work.
“Was she unfaithful to you?”
“Stands to reason, she must have been. She married Sheppard right after the divorce. She would say she was going out to some flower-arranging class or cookery class or something. Come to think of it, she was one hell of a liar.” He gave a nervous giggle and put one well-kept hand up to his mouth. “Pardon my French.”
The wail of police sirens approaching sounded from outside the house.
“Thank you,” said Charles, getting to his feet. “Come along, Agatha.”
“No, wait a bit, Charles. This is getting interesting. I mean – ”
She broke off, suddenly aware of the sirens, the screech of tyres. Then a stentorian voice called, “The house is surrounded. Come out with your hands above your head.”
John Dewey threw them one terrified look, darted out of the living-room and locked the door behind him.
Charles looked out of the window. “It’s the police, Aggie. That damn woman took you seriously when you said you were going to shoot Dewey.”
“How can we get out?” said Agatha, tugging at the door. “He’s locked us in.”
“We’d better get out through the window,” said Charles, “before they break down that door and start spraying us with CS gas.”
He began to tug ineffectually at the window. “Would you believe it? They’re painted shut. He never opens them.”
Agatha picked up a brass poker from beside the empty fireplace, where obviously no fire had ever been lit. She began smashing at the glass. “We’re coming out!” yelled Charles, seeing a police marksman taking aim. “Don’t shoot!”
When Agatha had smashed out all the glass, they climbed out into the glare of police lights and television lights. “Down on the ground,” yelled a voice.
“Do as they say, Aggie,” said Charles wearily, “or we’ll never get out of here.”
They were both handcuffed and led to the police cars. Agatha looked out of the window of the police car and saw the triumphant face of the Neighbourhood Watch woman. She was talking avidly to a television reporter.
¦
“What a mess!” groaned Agatha when they finally emerged from Worcester police station several hours later. “I’ll pay half your lawyer’s fee, Charles, considering he represented me as well.”
“You should pay the whole bill. Whatever possessed you to tell that woman we were going to shoot Mr. Dewey?”
“It was a joke!”
“That backfired. I’ll drop you off home.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow. I’ve got things to do.”
“Oh.” He’s sick of me, thought Agatha. Now I’m on my own. With a great effort she managed to stop herself from crying.
¦
To her surprise, she slept deeply that night and woke, for the first time since James’s disappearance, feeling strong and well.
She made herself a hearty breakfast, fed her cats and let them out into the garden and then wondered what to do with the rest of the day. She heard her doorbell ring. Charles, she thought with a feeling of gladness that he had not abandoned her.
But it was Bill Wong who stood there when she opened the door.
“Come in,” said Agatha. “I suppose you’ve learned all that fuss about nothing last night in Worcester.”
