The Love from Hell

“And we have no one to man the white elephant stall, yet. Perhaps you, Sir Charles…?”

“Sorry. I haven’t been home for a bit and I can’t stay away much longer. Besides, you know what these white elephant sales mean? People buy stuff one year to help out and then they put it in the next year, until no one really wants to buy anything.”

“But with Mrs. Raisin doing the publicity and attracting visitors to the village, I’m sure it will be a big success.”

“Sorry, not my scene.”

“Sit down,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Did you have any breakfast?”

“No, we haven’t had time with all this,” said Agatha.

“I made some fresh rolls. I’ll make you rolls and bacon.”

When she had gone off to the kitchen, Agatha leaned her head back against the feather cushions of the old sofa and closed her eyes. “This can’t go on,” she said. “I don’t think whoever broke in was bothered whether they would find me there or not. I keep thinking of some faceless man, armed with a vacuum and a hammer.”

“I’ve a nasty feeling we’re never going to get anywhere on this one, Aggie,” said Charles.

“But we’ve got to! We’ve got to clear James’s name.” She opened her eyes and looked at him accusingly.

“Fact is,” said Charles. “I really should be at home. Before we came along here, I phoned my aunt. She’s got some people coming to stay today. They’re bringing Tara with them.”

“Who the hell’s Tara?” grumbled Agatha.

“A very gorgeous girl.”

“Imagine naming someone after a plantation in Gone with the Wind.”

“Well, you know what parents are like. Boys get traditional names like John, Charles and David. But when it comes to girls, they call them really daft names.”

Mrs. Bloxby came back bearing a laden tray.

Charles took an appreciative bite of a bacon roll. “Bliss,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

“I might,” said Mrs. Bloxby with a flirtatious laugh. Agatha glared at her. She was a vicar’s wife. She should behave like a vicar’s wife.

“So have you any idea who might have broken into your house?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“My money’s on Sheppard,” said Agatha.

“Oh, why?”

“I think he really hated her. He exudes an air of threat and violence.”

“What about the other husband? Dewey,” said Charles. “He’s sneaky and creepy enough to have got into your cottage without being noticed.”

“I just don’t know,” said Agatha.

“Don’t you think you should move out of the village for a little?” suggested Mrs. Bloxby. “I do not like to think of you being there, a target for some murderer.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Agatha. She was about to add, “I have Charles,” and then remembered that the fickle Charles would soon be off in pursuit of some gorgeous girl called Tara, and he would probably forget about her for weeks.

? The Love from Hell ?

8

ROY Silver was delighted to accept Agatha’s invitation. He felt it was very trendy to tell his colleagues in the office that he was popping down to the Cotswolds for the weekend.

Agatha met him at Moreton-in-Marsh station on the Friday evening. “Not much of a glad welcome,” said Roy, looking at her sour face. “What’s up?”

“May I refresh your memory? James is God knows where and suspected of murder and I’m not in the clear myself. My house and James’s were ransacked. The murderer is out there, and for all I know, I’m the next victim. Furthermore, Charles was supposed to help me in my moment of peril and he’s buggered off to his estates.”

Roy slung a thin arm around her shoulders. “Never mind, you’ve got me.”

Agatha repressed a sigh. Roy looked thinner and weedier and more white-faced than ever. He was wearing designer jeans and fake crocodile boots with high heels. She had not warned him about the fete, worried that if she did, he would not come, and she did not like being on her own.

“You must tell me all about the murder,” said Roy, teetering on his heels towards her car.

“Aren’t those boots terribly uncomfortable?” said Agatha.

“Yes, but they give me height.”

“You don’t need height. You’re tall enough. Not really suitable for down here.”

Roy paused, one hand on the car door, looking stricken. “You think so?”

“Great for London,” said Agatha consolingly, “but not here. Sling your case in the back.”

“I’ve got moccasins and sneakers in my case,” said Roy, as Agatha drove off. “So who did it?”

“I don’t know. But when we get home, I’ll fix you a drink and tell you all I know.”

They chatted about people they knew in the PR business, but as Agatha swung off the A-44 and down the Carsely road, Roy saw a large board: VILLAGE FETE.

“What a coincidence, sweetie,” said Roy in a suspicious voice. “There always seems to be a fete on when I come down here.”

“Isn’t the weather hot and stuffy?” said Agatha.

She was conscious of Roy glaring at her. “The fete. You’re working at it and you’ve put me down to work as well. Remember that time you had me dressed up as a jester and had me cavorting around? Never again.”

“It’s just the tombola stand,” said Agatha soothingly. “Only an hour or two.”

“Or three or four,” said Roy waspishly. “And the prizes! Old tins of sardines, brunette hair shampoo, plastic flowers.”

“Well, I’m doing the white elephant stall.”

“I must say, that’s worse.”

“Not this year. I went round the rich of Gloucestershire and got them to contribute something worthwhile. It is for charity. The nouveau riche don’t give a damn, but the old guard of the county always feel obliged to give something. Then I spread the word around that there were treasures to be found at the white elephant stall. The buyers will be turning up in droves, and not only them. So many people watch the Antiques Roadshow on telly, and think that they too can be the lucky one with the bit of priceless Staffordshire that they just managed to pick up at a boot sale. Cheer up, Roy. Gives you a bit of cache. I’ll see if I can get you a write-up in one of the locals: ‘Young London Exec Does His Bit at Village Fete.’“

Roy brightened. “That would do me no end of good at the office.”

Agatha parked outside her cottage. “James’s cottage looks as if it’s about to fall down,” commented Roy as he got out of the car.

“It’s the thatch. Needs doing,” said Agatha. “But thatching costs a mint, so I keep putting it off in the hope that he’ll turn up and do it himself.”

Once they were both settled in the sitting-room with large drinks, Agatha began to tell Roy about the murder and all she and Charles had found out.

“It’s Dewey,” said Roy, when she had finished. “Mark my words: it’s Dewey. How creepy! I mean, the police think the murder wasn’t committed in a burst of passion. Someone took the trouble to bring a vacuum with them, for heaven’s sake. Look at the way Dewey drugged Melissa and then threatened her.”

“But he was clear of her,” said Agatha patiently.

“You don’t know that,” exclaimed Roy, wriggling with excitement. “I mean, she could have turned up to pester him, for all you knew. I would like to meet him. Why don’t I go over to his shop tomorrow – ”

“There’s the fete.”

“Let me off the hook. This is important.”

“I can’t let you back out now.”

“Can’t you just imagine I didn’t turn up? They’d have to find someone else.”