Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell by MC Beaton Read Free Book Online Page A

the hair grows,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I thought your friend, Charles, would have been round to help you.’
    ‘He tried, but I didn’t feel like seeing him.’
    ‘Mrs Raisin, are we going next door, or what? I haven’t got all day. There are other people in this parish in need of my help!’
    Agatha blinked at her in surprise. She had hardly ever heard her friend speak to her sharply before.
    ‘Okay. I’ll get the keys.’
    ‘Clean yourself up first, there’s a dear.’
    Agatha trudged upstairs. For the first time, it seemed, in ages, she took a good look at herself in the long mirror in her bedroom. She was appalled at the ageing mess that looked wearily back at her.
    Downstairs, Mrs Bloxby waited patiently. If Mrs Raisin was taking a long time, then it meant she was tidying herself up, and Mrs Bloxby was still shocked by the deterioration in Agatha’s appearance.
    At last, Agatha appeared, neat and tidy in a shirt blouse and skirt, her smooth legs in tights and her smooth face under a light mask of make-up. ‘Thanks for waiting,’ she said gruffly. ‘Let’s go.’
    ‘Haven’t you been to James’s cottage before?’
    ‘Just on and off,’ said Agatha, remembering nights she had cried into his pillow and days where she had sat with her face buried in his favourite old sweater. ‘I just couldn’t get round to straightening things, although the police did quite a good job after they had finished.’
    They walked out into the sunshine. How odd that the world should look so normal, thought Agatha. Fluffy clouds, like clouds in a child’s painting, hung in a deep-blue Cotswold sky. The first roses were tumbling over hedges and the air was sweet and fresh.
    Agatha unlocked the door of James’s cottage. Mrs Bloxby stood back and looked at the roof. ‘The thatch needs doing,’ she called. ‘I can put you in touch with a thatcher. You might want to wait and see if he comes back. It’s an expensive job.’
    She followed Agatha in. ‘I’ll draw the curtains back and open the windows.’
    Soon sunlight was flooding the cottage. Mrs Bloxby looked round. There was a thin layer of dust on the furniture and the carpet was still marked with blood-stains. ‘Perhaps if you start with his papers,’ she said, ‘I’ll begin with the cleaning.’
    Agatha went to the old roll-top desk in the corner where James kept his accounts and letters. The police had taken everything away to examine and the plastic bag holding all the papers they had returned lay on top of the desk. The fact that Agatha had taken some sort of action was beginning to send a little surge of energy through her.
    Behind her, she heard the reassuring clatter of cleaning implements as Mrs Bloxby fetched what she needed from the kitchen and got to work.
    Agatha began going through piles of bills to make sure they had all been paid. Then she began on the little pile of mail which had been lying on the doormat when she walked in. New bills. Electricity, gas, water. Junk mail. One letter addressed in large looped handwriting addressed to James. She took up James’s silver letter opener and slit open the envelope.
    It was dated the Friday of the previous week. ‘Dear James,’ she read. ‘We really must sit down and talk. I hope you’re back by now. I’m sorry I told Agatha about your illness, but how could I possibly guess you had not told her yourself? You must come and see me. We have been intimate together, you’ve made love to me, you can’t just walk away and not see me again. Do please ring me, darling, or come round. Your Melissa.’
    Agatha’s hands shook as she read the letter. A great wave of fury swept through her. She had almost been sanctifying James since his disappearance, crediting him with affections and little tendernesses that he had never demonstrated, blaming herself bitterly for everything. Despite what she had previously said, she had come to the conclusion that James had never been unfaithful to her. Such a straight, upright