Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell (18 page)

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 know. I would like to meet him. Why don’t I go over to his shop tomorrow –’

‘There’s the fête.’

‘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.’

‘Let’s compromise,’ said Agatha. ‘You work at the fête and I’ll take you to where Dewey lives. Or you can phone him on Sunday and say you’re an avid collector and only down for the day.’

‘Oh, all right. What’s for dinner?’

‘I’ll have a look in the freezer.’

‘I thought you’d moved on from the microwave.’

‘I’ve moved back.’

Agatha rose and went into the kitchen and lifted the lid of the deep freeze. There were things down there, she thought, that must have been bought ages ago. She wished she had put labels on them. She decided to defrost two freezer boxes from the bottom.

‘We’re having pot luck,’ she called out, putting the two boxes into the microwave to defrost.

She set the kitchen table – Agatha hardly ever used the dining room – and then, when the microwave pinged, she took the two packages out and prised open the lids.

‘Jackpot,’ she said cheerfully. She remembered Mrs Bloxby giving her an enormous casserole of savoury stew and dumplings and she had put the remainder into the two freezer boxes. No need for Roy to know she hadn’t cooked the stew herself. She tipped the contents into an attractive oven dish she had never before used and lit the oven. Then she put two baking potatoes in the microwave and joined Roy.

‘Won’t be long,’ she said. ‘I was only joking about the microwave. I’ve been slaving away all day over a casserole on your behalf. It’s a recipe I got from Mrs Bloxby.’

Roy admitted that dinner had impressed him. Agatha, after she had stacked the dishwasher, was anxious to return to talking about the murder because during dinner they had chatted about old times, but all Roy would say was that he was sure Dewey had done it, and did not want to discuss Agatha’s favourite – Sheppard.

At last, Agatha suggested an early night because they both had to get up in time to set up their stalls in the morning. She set the newly repaired burglar alarm, and with a feeling of relief that she was not alone in the house, fell into a deep and refreshing sleep.

In the morning, murder and mayhem seemed very far away. It was a perfect English summer’s day, bright sunlight and not too hot. After breakfast, she and Roy walked to the church hall. To Agatha’s relief, Roy was so depressed at the idea of working at the fête that he was wearing an old pair of jeans with a shirt and sweater and sensible shoes. She herself was wearing a pale biscuit-coloured trouser-suit with high-heeled strapped sandals. A warning voice in her head was telling her she would regret the high heels before the end of the day, but she had a nagging dream that the missing James would walk into the fête and she did not want the frumpish feel that flat shoes always gave her.

The white elephant stand was next to the tombola. While Roy made acid comments about the cheapness of the items contributed to his stall, Agatha unpacked her collection, putting the usual old recycled Carsely junk to the front of the stall and the good items at the back. As she had guessed, the collectors and antique dealers were circling around early. Agatha unpacked slowly. She had invited the local press and did not want to start selling until they had arrived. She unpacked a box from a local manor-house that had been contributed at the last minute and so far she had not had time to examine the contents. There was a small dark oil painting of ships on the sea, badly in need of restoration. Agatha suddenly wished she knew more about antiques. The picture might turn out to be valuable. There were several china ornaments, most of them cracked or chipped, and then, at the bottom of the box, something wrapped in tissue. She took it out and unwrapped it – and then nearly dropped it. Looking up at her out of the tissue-paper wrapping was an eighteenth-century doll. It was either the twin of the doll that Dewey loved so much, or somehow he had decided to sell it to the owners of the manor-house and they had given it to the sale.

She called Roy over and showed him the doll. ‘This is the one Dewey is in love with,’ she hissed.

‘Where did it come from?’ asked Roy.

‘A manor-house over Longborough way. Rats! I just knocked at the door and asked for contributions. Don’t even know their name.’

Roy looked excited. ‘Phone Dewey and get him over here. Can it be the same one?’

‘It looks the same to me. But I can’t imagine Dewey parting with it. Get me a phone book. There should be one over at the back of the church hall next to the kitchen.’

She waited impatiently until Roy came back with the phone book. She scanned the pages until she found the number of Dewey’s shop and phoned it. Roy fidgeted impatiently while Agatha spoke rapidly into the phone. When she rang off, she turned gleaming eyes to him. ‘It’s not his but he’s locking up the shop and coming over. I don’t know the price of these things. I wish I knew more about antiques. I could be selling old masters for a few pounds, for all I know.’

‘Make it an auction,’ said Roy. ‘Announce that because there are valuable items on the stall, you will start the auction at eleven o’clock. Take that big card which says WHITE ELEPHANT STALL, turn it over and write AUCTION in big letters.’

Agatha did as she was told and then waited and waited. Buyers circled around, trying to purchase things, but Agatha remained adamant. They would just need to wait until the auction started. She got Mrs Bloxby to organize a microphone for her. When the press arrived, she tipped them off – hopefully – that she meant to gain thousands from the auction and then introduced them to Roy, describing him as a top London executive.

Dewey arrived just before eleven o’clock. ‘Where’s the doll?’ he asked.

‘You’ll need to wait for the auction,’ said Agatha.

‘Just let me see it!’ There was a light film of sweat over his face and his eyes were glittering.

Agatha held it up. He drew in a sharp breath. ‘I’ll give you two hundred for it.’

‘You’ll need to wait with the others,’ said Agatha firmly.

On the stroke of eleven, Agatha started the auction with the oil painting. She felt like an amateur. She did not even know the name of the painter because the painting was so dirty, the signature was obscured. But she bravely spoke up. ‘Who’ll give me one hundred pounds? Starting the bidding at one hundred.’

The large crowd shifted and swayed. A man scratched his eyebrow. Was that a bid?

‘As we have professionals here as well as nonprofessionals,’ called Agatha, ‘instead of signalling, I must ask you to shout out your bids.’

Silence. Then the man who had scratched his eyebrow called out, ‘One hundred and fifty.’

Silence again. Wasn’t bad for a ratty old painting, thought Agatha, picking up her hammer, a kitchen hammer, as no auctioneer’s gavel had been available. ‘Going, going . . ’

‘Two hundred,’ called another voice.

The crowd around the white elephant stand began to get thicker. The bidding rose and rose. The painting was finally sold for twelve hundred pounds. Agatha guiltily hoped that the people who had given her the painting were not in the crowd.

And so it went on. Auction fever was gripping the crowd. Some of the villagers were bidding wildly for the rubbish they had ignored the year before.

At last, Agatha held up the doll. The bidding went up and up until Dewey suddenly called out shrilly, ‘Two thousand pounds!’

There was a startled silence. Dewey stared at Agatha, his eyes mad with longing. Agatha took pity on him. ‘Going, going, gone. Sold to Mr Dewey,’ she said quickly.

After that, the excitement died down. Dewey wrote out a cheque and tenderly took the doll in his arms. ‘The money is going to a very good cause,’ said Agatha. Roy, who had persuaded Miss Simms to take over the tombola stall, came hurrying up. Agatha introduced him. ‘I’m ever so interested in antique dolls,’ gushed Roy. ‘Can we have a chat?’

‘No,’ said Dewey harshly, ‘I shut up my shop to come to this auction. Got to get back.’

‘I’ll come with you. I’m ever so madly keen on antique dolls and I must say, that one you got is the most fascinating and beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

Dewey’s eyes darted suspiciously from Agatha’s face to Roy’s. Then he said reluctantly, ‘All right.’

Roy trotted off after him. Agatha longed to follow as well, but the remaining items which no one had seemed interested in bidding for might still be sold. New visitors were arriving. So she put price cards on the remainder and stood there patiently, her feet beginning to ache dreadfully. Where had the days gone when she could run around all day in very high heels and not even feel a twinge? Agatha felt the autumn of her life stretching in front of her.

She looked around the crowd, searching for a victim to take over the stand for her so that she could give in and find a pair of flat shoes. She saw Mrs Allan, Carsely’s battered wife, and called to her. Mrs Allan came up to Agatha. Although she was only in her thirties, she had stooped shoulders, as if from a lifetime of warding off blows. ‘Could you take over for me?’ asked Agatha.

‘I dunno. I ain’t never auctioned nothing.’

‘The auction’s over. I’ve put the price tickets on everything. I’ll give Mrs Bloxby the cheques.’

‘Oh, all right, then,’ said Mrs Allan. ‘Ain’t it hot?’ She removed a limp white cardigan and draped it over the edge of the stall. Underneath the cardigan, she was wearing a skimpy blouse. Agatha’s eyes sharpened. There was a nasty bruise on one of Mrs Allan’s thin arms. ‘What happened there?’ she asked, pointing to the bruise.

‘Oh, that? Ever so clumsy, I am. Hit it on the door.’

Agatha headed off to find Mrs Bloxby and handed her a pile of cheques and notes. ‘There must be a fortune here, Mrs Raisin,’ said Mrs Bloxby. She turned to her husband, the vicar. ‘Alf, isn’t she marvellous? Don’t you just feel like giving Mrs Raisin a great big hug?’

The vicar shied like a startled horse. ‘Good heavens, is that the time?’ he exclaimed. ‘Got to see someone,’ and he ran off as fast as he could.

‘I’ve got to get home,’ said Agatha. ‘My feet are killing me.’

‘Such a pity. Those shoes look really glamorous.’

Agatha smiled. Mrs Bloxby had a knack of saying the right thing. A lesser woman would have said, ‘Why don’t you wear sensible shoes?’

‘I’ve left Mrs Allan in charge. She’s got a terrible bruise on one arm. Can it be the husband? He’s out of the picture, isn’t he?’

‘As far as I know. But the trouble with that kind of woman – I don’t mean to sound patronizing, but sometimes I despair – is that they get rid of one villain and pick up another.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been told that women who don’t think much of themselves gravitate to people who’ll make them feel even worse about themselves. It’s amazing how they get rid of one and then marry again, the same type.’

‘Has she got anyone?’

Mrs Bloxby sighed. ‘Not that I know of, and if she has, there is nothing I can do about it but sit and wait until it gets too bad again and then step in and try to pick up the pieces. Off you go. You’ve done splendidly. The doll! What an enormous amount of money.’

‘That was Melissa’s ex-husband, the one before Sheppard.’

‘Really? He looks quite mad. I hope he does not regret spending such a vast amount of money. But these antique dolls can be really valuable.’

‘I only hope that the people who donated the doll don’t come after me and demand the money,’ said Agatha.

‘Who was it?’

‘Big manor-house. Over by Longborough. Big cedar tree outside.’

‘Oh, Lord Freme. I wouldn’t worry. He’s got millions.’

‘I’ll be off then.’

‘Where’s your young friend?’

‘Gone off with Dewey to do a bit of detective work.’

‘Is that wise? He may be your murderer.’

Agatha looked worried. ‘I’ll wait a bit and then go after him.’

She went home and massaged her aching feet after she had taken her shoes off. Her cats jumped, purring, on to her lap and she lay back in the armchair and stroked their fur, reluctant to return to the fête. But at last she let them out into the garden, put on flat shoes and walked back to the church hall.

‘Sold anything?’ she asked Mrs Allan.

‘A liddle jug thing. I put the money in the box.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Allan. Why don’t you go and get a cup of tea? I’ll take over now.’

Mrs Allan slouched off. At the next stand, Miss Simms turned the tombola drum and called over, ‘Your young man not coming back?’

‘Don’t think so,’ said Agatha. ‘There’s nobody interested in what I’ve got left, so I can take over for you.’

‘Where’s Charles?’

‘Gone home.’

‘All your fellows left you?’

‘Looks like that,’ said Agatha sourly.

The day wore on. The morris dancers jumped up and down energetically, tourists took pictures, the cake-and-jam stall had sold out and the cafeteria was doing a roaring trade. Clouds were piling up over to the west and Agatha could feel the beginnings of a headache. Where was Roy? She began to worry so much that even when Mrs Bloxby rounded off the day by making a speech of thanks to everyone who had helped in general and one, Agatha Raisin, in particular, she barely listened. As soon as the applause had died down, she ran home and got into her car and headed for Worcester.