Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell (17 page)

Then she heard Charles calling, ‘Fred Griggs is on his way. I’ll make some coffee.’

Agatha went into the kitchen. ‘Should we touch anything? I mean, they’ll want to dust everything for fingerprints.’

‘I don’t think our criminal stopped to make coffee.’ Charles filled the kettle and plugged it in.

Fred Griggs loomed up in the doorway, making them jump. ‘Anything been taken?’ he asked, pulling out his notebook. ‘I’ve phoned headquarters. They’ll be along soon.’

‘Maybe I’d better wait for them to arrive,’ said Agatha, ‘and it’ll save me going over the whole thing twice. I haven’t looked upstairs.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ said Charles to Fred. ‘You make the coffee, Aggie.’

After some time, they came back downstairs. ‘I had some papers in my suitcase, some farming accounts I meant to go over,’ said Charles. ‘They’ve been tossed over the floor. Your bedside table’s been ransacked.’

‘What about Mr Lacey’s cottage?’ asked Fred, and Agatha and Charles stared at each other in consternation.

‘We’d better have a look,’ said Charles.

‘Do you have a key?’ asked Fred.

‘Yes, I keep it on a hook by the stove. Oh, it’s gone.’

‘Of all the stupid places . . .’ began Charles, but Agatha was already hurrying out the door.

Fred and Charles followed her to James’s cottage. ‘The door’s closed,’ said Fred. He tried the handle. ‘And locked.’

‘The key fits the back door,’ said Agatha, ‘and whoever it was left my cottage by the back door.’

They went round the side of James’s cottage to the back door. It was standing open with the key in the lock. They crowded inside and through to James’s sitting-room. Papers were spread everywhere. It had been ransacked, just like Agatha’s cottage.

Agatha sat down suddenly and put her head in her hands. Fred heard the wail of sirens. ‘I think we’d better go back to your cottage.’

Agatha rose, helped by Charles, and followed Fred next door. Bill Wong came to meet them, his round face creased with anxiety. ‘What have you been up to, Agatha?’

‘I haven’t been up to anything!’ said Agatha, her voice shrill with shock. ‘I’ve been burgled.’

‘Let’s sit down and go over it,’ said Bill. He was flanked by a policewoman and a detective constable.

They all gathered round the kitchen table. Wearily, Agatha began to talk, explaining that she had forgotten to set the burglar alarm and yes, she had been stupid enough to leave a key to James’s cottage on a hook in the kitchen. ‘What I can’t understand,’ she said, ‘is how someone knew the burglar alarm wasn’t set.’

Bill nodded to the detective constable who went outside. After a few moments he was back. ‘The wires have been cut.’

‘And nothing of value has been taken?’ asked Bill.

‘Not at first glance,’ said Agatha. ‘Whoever it was must have been trying to find out if we knew anything about the murders.’

‘And had you?’ asked Bill sharply. ‘Apart from what you’ve told me.’

‘Nothing more than that,’ said Agatha. Charles looked at her, wondering whether she had forgotten about the psychiatrist or was deliberately withholding that information.

They could hear cars drawing up outside. ‘That’ll be the forensic team,’ said Bill, getting to his feet. ‘They can start with James’s cottage.’ He turned to Fred Griggs. ‘Ask around the village and see if someone heard or saw something.’

The phone rang. Agatha picked up the extension in the kitchen.

It was Mrs Bloxby. ‘I heard you had been burgled. Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Agatha, ‘unless you can ask around and see if anyone was seen lurking around Lilac Lane during the night.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Cambridge,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

‘So you were in Cambridge,’ said Bill when she put down the phone. ‘Asking the sister questions?’

‘Just a chat,’ said Agatha, ‘and then the fog was so bad we had to stop somewhere for the night. The thing is, who would know that I wasn’t coming home? It was a last-minute decision.’

‘Someone was lurking about and got lucky,’ said Bill. ‘It couldn’t be the sister, because you saw her over in Cambridge and I cannot imagine she would drive through that dreadful fog and back again.’

‘Unless,’ said Charles suddenly, ‘she followed us. I didn’t check whether anyone was following us. Why should I?’

‘And why would she do that?’ asked Bill patiently.

‘She’s got the best motive, and if she were guilty, she’d follow us to see if we were ferreting around Cambridge for more clues.’

‘Why? She’s got a good alibi. The students who lodge with her swear she was there the whole time Melissa was being murdered.’

‘But would they really know? I mean, if she took off in the middle of the night, took the motorways, she could do it in two and a half hours.’

‘Each way,’ said Bill. ‘That makes five hours. A long time to be away.’

‘Students don’t get up early,’ said Charles. ‘Say she left at two in the morning, and allowing time for the murder, got back at eight, say. Her students might not have noticed anything. I mean, if someone says goodnight to you and there they are again at breakfast time, of course you think they’ve been there all night. We were driving very slowly through the fog. She could have followed us easily and seen us turn off at that road-house.’

‘You could have been going for a meal.’

‘She could have waited in the car park. There’s a good view of the reception, all lit up, and despite the fog, she would have seen us making a booking.’

Bill passed a hand across his face. ‘You’ll need to do a lot better than that.’

‘What I can’t understand,’ Agatha burst out, ‘is why you couldn’t come up with at least one fingerprint or footprint when James was attacked and Melissa killed. I watch loads of forensic TV programmes and they seem to be able to tell from hair and fibres and footprints and fingerprints –’

‘It takes a long, long time these days to get results back from the lab. But in all cases, the perpetrator wore gloves. In James’s case, the footprints were scuffed; in Melissa’s case, whoever did it was very thorough. The place had been wiped clean of fingerprints and vacuumed thoroughly.’

‘Maybe if you checked the vacuum bag, there might be –’

Bill shook his head. ‘Here’s a thing. We have a feeling that whoever did it brought their own vacuum cleaner.’

‘This is getting madder and madder,’ wailed Agatha. ‘How could anyone lug a vacuum cleaner through the village without being seen?’

‘It could have been one of those hand ones people use for cars,’ said Bill. ‘We get the feeling the murder was cold-blooded and calculated.’

Agatha and Charles decided after the questioning was over to go and visit Mrs Bloxby and leave the forensic team a clear field. ‘We’ll probably find the place covered in fingerprint dust,’ complained Agatha. ‘I thought they used lights these days.’

‘Don’t ask me,’ replied Charles. ‘It’s all a closed book to me.’

‘I thought you had to be home today?’

‘I’ll hang on a bit longer. Things were getting a bit boring, but now they’ve picked up.’

Agatha felt a pang of dismay. Although she often suspected that all she meant to Charles was a diversion, she didn’t like to have it confirmed.

Mrs Bloxby was just arriving back at the vicarage as they walked up. ‘Oh, you poor things,’ she said. ‘Do come inside. I’ve just been visiting Mrs Allan.’

Agatha remembered vaguely that Mrs Allan was a battered wife who lived on the council estate. ‘She back with her husband?’

‘No, he disappeared. But would you believe it, she actually misses him and keeps saying he wasn’t so bad and she should never have reported him.’

‘At least there aren’t any children,’ said Agatha. ‘I hate it when children are involved.’

‘That reminds me,’ said the vicar’s wife, ushering them in, ‘we have the concert and fête to raise funds for Save the Children in two weeks’ time. I wondered if you could help, Mrs Raisin. We’re having a cake sale as well.’

‘I’m not good at cakes.’

‘But you are good at publicity. We need to get a lot of visitors.’

‘You’ve left it a bit late. I’ll do what I can. Give me the exact date, time, and what’s on offer and I’ll see what I can do with the local papers.’

‘Perhaps that friend of yours, Mr Silver, could help. He was awfully good before.’

‘It would mean inviting him down and he’d expect to be here for the whole weekend. Don’t think I could face it at the moment. But I’ll do what I can.’

‘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.

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 fête, 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 A44 and down the Carsely road, Roy saw a large board: VILLAGE FÊTE.

‘What a coincidence, sweetie,’ said Roy in a suspicious voice. ‘There always seems to be a fête on when I come down here.’

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

She was conscious of Roy glaring at her. ‘The fête. 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 cachet. I’ll see if I can get you a write-up in one of the locals: “Young London Exec Does His Bit at Village Fête.”’