Then she lit up a cigarette. “Can I have one of those?” asked Charles.
Agatha gave him a steely look.
“Have you heard of enabling, Charles?”
“Sounds like therapy-speak.”
“I mean you can buy your own. I may smoke but I do not encourage other people to do so, particularly when they show every sign of being able to do without it.”
“You’ll be a saint yet, Aggie. And talking of saints, let’s go and see Mrs. Bloxby.”
¦
Mrs. Bloxby was watering the vicarage garden. “So many greenfly and aphids,” she mourned. “It’s these warm summers. Said on the radio it would be cooler today, that it would go down to about seventy degrees Fahrenheit. I never thought I’d live to see the day when seventy degrees in England was considered getting cooler.”
“There’s rain forecast,” said Charles. “We’re still on the hunt for Melissa’s character.”
Mrs. Bloxby turned off the hose and joined them at the garden table. “What have you found out?”
They told her all they knew. She listened carefully and then she said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about Mrs. Sheppard since I saw you last. My first impression of her, I remember, was that she was a psychopath.”
“What!” exclaimed Agatha. “You mean like a serial killer!”
“No, no. There are different degrees of psychopathy. It was something about the eyes. She often had a blank fixed stare which reminded me of someone I once knew. I thought at the time I was being over-dramatic, but what you have told me seems to add up to the character of a certain sort of psychopath – the compulsive lying, the total lack of conscience. Also, looking back, I don’t really think Mrs. Sheppard liked anyone at all.”
“That’s interesting,” said Charles. “Why we came to see you was we wondered if anyone had inherited her cottage?”
“I heard through village gossip that she had not left a will and that there are no children.”
“I would like to have a look inside,” said Agatha. “I’d like to see what she was typing.”
“It’s probably at Mircester police headquarters in an evidence box.”
“I’d still like to get inside that cottage.”
“Mrs. Simpson cleaned for her. She may still have a key.”
“She says she gave it back.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “but I Mrs. Simpson was always worried about losing clients’ keys and she once let slip that she always makes a copy.”
“Bingo!” cried Agatha. “Come on, Charles. Let’s go back and see Doris.”
¦
Doris Simpson insisted mulishly that she never would dream of copying her customers’ keys, until Agatha shouted at her that they damn well knew she did. Doris said huffily that, well, perhaps she might still have a key to Melissa’s cottage, and was promptly bundled into Agatha’s car and driven to her home and asked to find it.
“I feel we’re doing the wrong thing,” said Charles, as they walked to Melissa’s cottage.
“Why?”
“Because if Fred Griggs comes strolling past, we’ll be in bad trouble if we’re caught.” Fred Griggs was the local policeman.
“Look,” said Agatha as they parked outside. “No police tape. It’s been removed. We can just say she borrowed something of mine and I wanted it back.”
“And Fred will say, ‘What’s all this? Why didn’t you ask the police?’”
“And I’ll say that we know the police are too busy. Stop
They walked up to the cottage door. “See. It’s just a simple Yale key,” said Agatha, inserting it in the lock. “Anyone could break in.”
“That awful dead smell is still hanging about,” said Charles. “There’s still fingerprint dust over everything. If we touch anything, Aggie, they’ll have clear marks of our fingerprints. We haven’t got gloves.”
“We just look. If she was typing something, she’d need to have a desk. Not in the living-room. Maybe she used one of the bedrooms as an office.”
They went up the stairs. “I don’t like this,” muttered Charles.
“Oh, do shut up. You’re making me nervous. What could possibly happen?”
They gingerly pushed open doors: bathroom, a double bedroom, a box-room, linen cupboard; and then, finally, a small room containing a desk and a computer was revealed.
“This is it!” said Agatha excitedly. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Too eager to find clues to worry about fingerprints, she jerked open the desk drawers. “Nothing,” she said. “Must all be still at Mircester.”
“I hate to suggest this, but there might be something in the computer.”
“Right!” Agatha sat down in front of the screen and switched it on. “Let’s see what we have on file. Would you believe it? Just one file headed ‘Chick-fic’”
“Bring it up,” said Charles. “She might have been writing a book. Chick-fic are those women’s books, all shopping and bonking. You know, where everyone gets laid in Gucci and Armani.”
Agatha moved the mouse. “Here we are. Plot.”
They both read. “Bitch!” said Agatha. The plot concerned a beautiful and sophisticated woman who comes to live in a Cotswold village and falls in love with a handsome man who is married to a cold and domineering wife. The description of the man, although badly written, was definitely that of James.
“Is that supposed to be me?” demanded Agatha, stabbing a finger at the screen. Charles peered over her shoulder.
“‘Mrs. Darcy’,” she read, “‘was a squat bullying woman with no dress sense and beady little eyes.’”
Charles stifled a laugh. “Surely not.”
Agatha stiffened. “What’s that? I heard something drawing up outside.”
Charles looked out of the window. “It’s a removal van and a woman getting out of a car who looks a bit like Melissa and around the same age. She must have had a sister. We’ve got to get out of here without her finding us.” He jerked up the window and said over his shoulder to the stricken Agatha, “Shut that bloody computer off!”
He hung out the window. “There’s a creeper. I’ll go first and catch you if you fall.”
Agatha switched off the machine and hitched a leg over the sill just as she heard the door opening downstairs. She edged down, clutching handfuls of creeper. She felt her tights rip.
“A bit more,” she heard Charles whisper. The creeper gave way and she tumbled into his arms and flattened him into a soft flower-bed.
“Come on,” urged Charles as she rolled off him, panting. They scrambled up and ran to the bottom of the back garden, which was surrounded by a high wall. Charles pushed her up and she grabbed wildly at the top of the wall and, with a groan, heaved herself up until she was straddling the top of it. Underneath was a bed of nettles. She shut her eyes and jumped and then stifled her screams as she landed among the nettles.
Soon Charles joined her and they stood in the lane which ran along the back of the cottage.
“I’m stung all over,” said Agatha. “What a mess I am. I’d better get home and put some ointment on.”
“You do that,” said Charles, “and I’ll stroll round to the front of the cottage and chat her up.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“She’ll wonder what you’ve been up to,” said Charles. “You’ve got nettle stings all over your arms and legs. Your tights are torn and your blouse has green streaks on it from the creeper. I’m a bit dusty, but my clothes are dark. Go on, Aggie. I’ll be along soon.”
Agatha reluctantly started to walk home, but was less reluctant as she neared her cottage and felt the pain from the stings increasing.
Once inside her cottage, she went upstairs and stripped off her clothes, showered and covered her stings in anti-histamine cream. She donned clean underwear and a loose cotton dress, applied fresh make-up and went downstairs to wait for Charles.
She waited and waited and then, growing impatient, decided to walk up to Melissa’s cottage and find out what was going on.
When she got there, removal men were carrying out furniture. “Where’s the lady of the house?” asked Agatha.
