“Yes,” said Agatha. “They are going to pull him in for further questioning. Did I ask you this before? Did you know Melissa was sectioned at one time?”
He looked genuinely surprised. “No. Was it drink?”
“Drugs.”
“When was this?”
“A long time ago, when her father was still alive. Did you ever know her sister?”
“No, Melissa didn’t have anything to do with her.”
“Do you know if she had a friend from the past, someone she might have met when she was in the psychiatric unit?”
“No, come to think of it, she didn’t have any real friends. I mean, she would strike up a friendship with someone but it would never last very long. People would go off her.”
“Just like you, dear,” said Megan, and stroked his hand. And yet Agatha noticed that one of Megan’s smooth tanned legs was pressed against Roy’s.
“Is there anything you can think of,” pursued Agatha, “any little thing that might help us find out who murdered Melissa?”
“What’s this?” The anger had returned to Luke Sheppard’s face. “You told us it was Dewey.”
“We’re sure it is. But still – ”
“I think you should get a life,” said Luke.
“Don’t be hard on her, dear,” cooed Megan. “Some of these old village women lead empty lives.”
Roy cackled with laughter and then put a hand over his mouth when he saw Agatha’s furious face. But Luke went on as if she had not spoken. “Where do you get off, nosing around, poking around into people’s lives? Get out of here.”
Agatha stood up, her face flaming. “Come on, Roy.”
They both marched out. The Sheppards stayed where they were.
“Insufferable man,” raged Agatha, “and she’s nothing more than a little bitch.”
“Clever, though,” said Roy. “Even if he hadn’t lost his temper, her crack at you would have made you leave.”
“I keep wondering where James fits into all this,” said Agatha. “Oh, why doesn’t he turn up? He should be getting treatment. He may be dead.”
She began to cry. Roy put an awkward arm around her shoulders. “The living can keep out of the road of the police, Aggie. The dead find it difficult. Cheer up. Let’s try the Crown for lunch.”
¦
After Agatha had taken Roy down to catch the London train that evening and returned to her cottage, she found herself thinking more and more about Jimmy Jessop, that police inspector in Wyckhadden she had so nearly married. Yes, at the time, she had hoped to make James furious and jealous. And if the wretched Charles hadn’t turned up at a moment when she was weak and shocked, she would never have had sex with him. She thought of Jimmy’s nice smile and the way his eyes used to light up when he saw her. Roy had gone, Charles showed no sign of coming back. She had a longing for masculine company.
Before she fell asleep, listening uneasily to the night sounds, things rustling in the thatch, the creaks as the old cottage settled down for the night, she decided that the next morning, she would get up bright and early and go to Wyckhadden.
¦
As she drove out of Carsely the next morning, she turned on the radio. Stepping Out were still top of the pops with their rambling song. I wonder if they ever thank me for getting them fame, thought Agatha. Then she began to wonder if she should have tried to phone Jimmy first. The woman he had married instead of her had warned her in no uncertain terms not to come round again, so she couldn’t have phoned him at home. Then his colleagues at the police station all loathed her and would no doubt lie to her and tell her he wasn’t available. No, the best thing to do was to go to that pub where he usually had his lunch-time drink and see if he turned up there.
She remembered Wyckhadden as a seaside town plagued with extremes of weather and was quite surprised to find a pale misty sun shining down on a placid sea. She had left home at dawn and so it was an hour before lunch-time when she arrived. She walked along the pier and back again, and then followed the familiar route to the pub. She ordered a gin and tonic and sat at the table they had always sat at and waited, looking up hopefully every time the door opened. Outside, the street suddenly darkened as a cloud crossed the sun. What am I doing here? wondered Agatha. Was it because she was sure that James was still alive and that he had not contacted her because he did not want to see her again? Had she nourished some mad hope that Jimmy might still feel something for her, that he would get a divorce, marry her and give her a shoulder to lean on for the rest of her life?
She swallowed the last of her drink and reached for her handbag. The pub door opened and Jimmy walked in. He stood looking at her in surprise and then that old familiar slow smile lit up his face.
“Why, Agatha!” he said, sitting down opposite her. “This is a surprise. What brings you here?”
Agatha suddenly wanted to lie, to say she had just wondered: if the place was still the same, but she found herself saying simply, “You. I came to see you.”
“I’ll get us drinks. Wait there.”
Jimmy went to the bar, a tall, competent,
He came back with a pint of beer for himself and a gin and tonic for Agatha. “I assumed you’re still drinking the same,” he said.
“Yes. Thanks. How’s marriage?”
“Great. We’ve got a son, Paul. Apple of my eye. What did you want to see me about? Is it all this stuff about you I’ve been reading in the papers?”
“Yes, that’s it. My brain’s in a muddle. I seem to have a suspect, but I can’t pin anything on him.”
“You shouldn’t go on like this,” said Jimmy. “You should leave these matters to the police. Oh, I know you helped me down here, but still…You’ll get yourself killed one of these days. Okay. Go on. Tell me about it.”
Agatha began at the beginning. She left nothing out, all the rows with James, the bad marriage, his brain tumour, and then went on to what she knew about Melissa and her ex-husbands. Jimmy took out a large notebook and began to make neat short-hand notes.
When she had finished, he asked, “What sort of village is Carsely?”
“Normally old-fashioned, sleepy and quiet. Nice people.”
“But a close-knit community?”
“Not exactly what it would have been in the old days. Cotswold villages get a lot of newcomers, people buying second homes and only using them at the weekends. There isn’t the gossip and curiosity about each other there would have been not so long ago. It all gets a bit Londonified, you know, everyone minding their own business a little too much, but they do rally round if someone is in trouble. Do you mean, why when James was being attacked and Melissa murdered did no one see or hear anything?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, they didn’t.”
“I think,” said Jimmy, “if I was on the case I would ask around the village again. In my experience, you’ll find someone really did see something. Might be an idea to keep asking. It’s infuriating the way people might come up with something like, ‘I saw old Mr. Bloggs walking down the street about that time.’ ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ ‘Oh, it was only old Bloggs. Didn’t seem worth mentioning.’ That sort of thing.”
“I’ll try,” said Agatha. “Now if you were making a guess as to who did it, who would you pick?”
He flicked through his notes. “Well, I would be thinking of the sister. I mean, forget all this mystery about psychopaths. There’s money involved. And I should think a good degree of hatred.”
“But why James?”
“He may have ferreted something out, told Melissa, she tells her sister and the sister tries to kill James.”
“But Melissa and her sister weren’t on speaking terms!”
“You only have Julia’s word for that. If their father had a big estate and left all to Melissa, and by your report Melissa didn’t use much of it, then it must have been some sum worth killing for. Then, if Melissa and Julia were supposed to be estranged, why did Melissa leave the money to her? You don’t leave money to someone you hate.”
