“Sheppard said she was nervous about your investigations. She probably bought in just before she ransacked your house, he says. She probably would have shot you if you’d arrived home while she was there. And where would she get it? Alas, Birmingham, probably. It’s easy enough if you know where to go. We catch most of the gun dealers, but as soon as we get one, another sets up shop somewhere else.”
“Would you like a coffee or something?” asked Agatha.
“No, I’ve got to be on my way. But don’t forget. Ma will expect you for Sunday dinner when you get back.”
“Won’t forget,” said Agatha, planning to think up any lie she could to make sure she never went.
? The Love from Hell ?
11
Agatha did not speak French. Agatha did not speak any language other than English. And she did like to be in control at all times, but realized she would need to rely on Charles to make all the arrangements once they had crossed the Channel.
Also, she was nervous about driving on the wrong side of the road, whereas Charles was used to it, so he was doing the driving.
Then Charles insisted on making a detour to Paris first to visit an old friend and Agatha did not feel as if she had any right to object, because it was Charles’s car that was taking the wear and tear of the mileage.
Besides, not being in charge of things made her feel inadequate. She decided to take French lessons as soon as she got back. Yes, that would be something to do. Forget detective work; never again.
Getting off the ferry, they queued behind a long line of cars full of families going on holiday. Would they enjoy themselves? wondered Agatha, looking at the rear window of the car in front, where three children appeared to be having an all-out fight. Or would the husband, who was driving, be marking off the days in his mind until he could get back to the peace of his office?
Agatha, who had travelled quite a lot, reflected it would be wonderful to speak languages, to be able to put down sniggering waiters and insolent hotel staff, who always retreated behind a wall of incomprehension when she shouted at them in English. She had heard jokes about the British abroad who shouted at foreigners as if they were deaf, but somehow she herself could not stop doing it.
“This friend of yours,” she asked after they had cleared customs, “does he know we are coming?”
“It’s a she. And no, I wanted it to be a surprise. I haven’t seen Yvonne in years.”
“Girlfriend?”
¦
“Maybe you would like to see her on your own?”
“I say, do you think you could amuse yourself for an hour? Want me to drop you off at the Eiffel Tower?”
“I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower. Where does she live?”
“Montmartre. Avenue Junot.”
“I’ll leave you when we get there and go for a walk.”
“All right,” said Charles, “if you keep on walking up the hill after you leave me, you’ll come to the Sacre Coeur. Get a super view of Paris from there.”
Agatha was glad it was Charles driving and not herself as he threw the car into the maelstrom of traffic which hurtled around Paris.
When he had parked, she said good-bye to him and headed up the Avenue Junot. Up by the Sacre Coeur, there was a square where artists drew tourists. She stood for a while and watched them before going up and into the great church.
As she stood and looked about her, she began to wonder about what she always thought about the God bit. God, for Agatha, stood for Grand Old-fashioned Disapproval. How could anyone reach out their mind with such pure belief as to cure illness?
At last, Agatha walked out on the steps in the sunshine and looked over Paris. Tourists moved up the steps and down the steps in a colourful, almost hypnotic, stream. She sat down and lit a cigarette. If I find James, then I’ll quit again, she told herself. I quit before. I can quit again.
She then rose and went to a cafe and ordered coffee and a sandwich, realizing she was hungry. She looked at her watch when she had finished. The hour was more than up.
Agatha walked back to the Avenue Junot to find Charles emerging from a block of flats. He looked smug, and when he got into the car he smelt of fresh soap, as if he had just taken a shower. Had he had sex with the mysterious Yvonne? And if he had, why should the very idea upset her and make her feel old and lonely?
“How was Yvonne?” she forced herself to ask.
“Same as ever. Except she got four – four! – noisy brats and one of them puked over me, so a pleasant time was wasted while she and her husband sponged my clothes and I took a shower.”
Agatha’s spirits lifted. Paris spread before them as they sped downwards through the ever-thickening traffic. Perhaps she should try to put ideas of finding James out of her mind and just enjoy a holiday.
Charles suggested they should break their journey in Aries and carry on to Agde on the following morning, and Agatha, anxious now to delay what she was sure was going to be a disappointment, readily agreed.
¦
When they started out from Aries the following morning, it had begun to rain, cold, drizzling, chilly rain. The weather seemed like a bad omen. The windscreen wipers clicked backwards and forwards like a metronome.
Then Charles said, “There’s a little bit of blue sky just ahead. In my youth they used to say that if you saw a bit of blue sky, enough to patch a sailor’s trousers, then it was going to get sunny.”
“Huh,” grunted Agatha, who was beginning to feel depressed again.
But Charles was right. As they headed ever south, the rain stopped, the clouds parted and a warm Provencal sun shone down on red-tiled roofs, vineyards and fields. They stopped in Agde for a meal, and Charles in his impeccable, if English-accented French, asked for directions to the monastery of St. Anselm.
“South a bit from here, towards the Pyrenees,” he said cheerfully.
“I don’t know if I said so, but this is very good of you,” said Agatha awkwardly. “I mean, it is a bit of a wild- goose chase.”
“Worth a try,” said Charles amiably. “You’ll need to start trying to drive on the other side of the road, Agatha. Delicious sea food and no wine to go with it. Only water for me.”
“I’ve only had water as well. I didn’t want to arrive at the monastery smelling of booze.”
“Those monks probably smell of booze the whole time. Right, let’s go.”
Charles, under instructions from the restaurant owner, had drawn a map. After they had been following the coast road for some miles, he turned off onto a narrower road and the car began to climb up a steep gradient.
“That must be it at the top,” said Charles after a while. “It looks more like a medieval fortress.”
He parked outside the main door of the monastery. There was one of those old bell-pulls at the side. Charles gave it a tug.
“Charles,” said Agatha urgently, “maybe it’s not such a good idea, you being with me. I mean, if James is here, it might upset him.”
“If James is here, I’ll make myself scarce.”
A panel in the door opened and a monk looked out at them through the grille.
In French, Charles asked if they had a Mr. James Lacey in the monastery.
“I do not recall anyone of that name,” said the monk courteously, replying in English.
Agatha pushed forwards. “I am Agatha Raisin,” she said eagerly. “And he has been missing, and we knew he came here before and we wondered…” Her voice faltered and died. She suddenly felt silly. What on earth was she doing outside a monastery in the south of France?
The monk bowed his head. “I will make inquiries.”
They waited. A cloud passed over the sun and the cicadas set off a droning chorus.
They seemed to have been waiting for quite a long time when the monk came back. “I am sorry,” he said. “I cannot help you.”
They walked slowly back to the car.
