Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

goodbye, Agatha picked up the phone. ‘Hello, Aggie,’ said Charles’s voice. ‘How are things? I’ve been trying to get you.’
    ‘I’m all right,’ said Agatha. ‘Still miserable and shocked, as a matter of fact.’
    ‘No news?’
    ‘None.’ Agatha thought about that letter and the desire to tell someone overcame her. Sometimes she found Mrs Bloxby almost too good. Mrs Bloxby might have sympathized with Melissa and Agatha could not have borne that.
    ‘Well, just one thing,’ she said. ‘I went along to James’s cottage to clean up and found a letter from Melissa on the doormat. It was delivered last week. They had been having an affair.’
    ‘I thought you’d accepted that.’
    ‘NO, I HAD NOT!’ howled Agatha.
    ‘Careful. You’ll break my ear-drum. You said –’
    ‘I know what I said. But James assured me they had not been sleeping together and I believed him. More fool me. I’m going to find him.’
    ‘That’s more like the Agatha I know. I’m bored. I’ll be over in half an hour or so.’
    ‘But –’ Agatha had been about to put him off because she was dying to confront Melissa, but he had rung off. May as well wait for him.
    When Charles arrived, he found the cottage door open and walked in. Agatha was in the back garden, playing with her cats.
    ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, getting to her feet and brushing grass from her skirt.
    ‘You don’t look too bad,’ said Charles, surveying her critically. ‘I was afraid you might have gone to pieces. So where do we start? With James’s family?’
    Agatha shuddered. ‘I’ve had enough of James’s family, what with his aunts and sister implying that if he hadn’t married me he would be all right.’
    ‘So what about Melissa?’
    ‘So what about her?’ demanded Agatha truculently.
    ‘I think you should swallow your pride and we’ll go and see her. I mean, he did tell her he had cancer and didn’t tell you. He may have told her other things.’
    ‘I was going to wait until your visit was over and then go round there and give her a piece of my mind.’
    ‘Won’t do. You’d never get anything out of her that way. I mean, do you want to find James or not?’
    ‘I want to find him and ask for a divorce.’
    ‘All right, then. Let’s go.’
    ‘I hate this.’
    ‘Better than not knowing. Come on, Aggie. Let’s get it over with.’
    Agatha walked with him through the village, aware of twitching curtains at windows and curious stares. I am the victim, not James, she told the watchers silently. I have been betrayed and abandoned. Then she thought of the cancerous tumour in James’s brain and groaned inwardly.
    Melissa’s cottage, like Agatha’s, was thatched. But where Agatha did not bother much about the little garden at the front of her house, Melissa’s was a riot of roses, pink and yellow and red, tumbling over a white-painted fence. The white-painted door had a brass knocker. Agatha noticed the knocker was dull. That’s odd, she thought. Melissa liked to pride herself on being a first-class housewife.
    She seized the knocker and rapped loudly. As they waited, it seemed as if the whole village waited. It was very quiet. No cars drove along the road, no dogs barked, no tractors buzzed around the fields above.
    Charles leaned round her and twisted the doorknob and gave the door a tentative push. It swung open.
    ‘Agatha,’ whispered Charles. ‘I don’t like that smell.’
    ‘Drains?’ suggested Agatha, although her face had turned white as she sniffed a sweet, rotting smell.
    ‘I really think we should stop where we are and phone the police,’ said Charles.
    But a new burst of rage against Melissa engulfed Agatha. ‘Let’s see. She probably went away and left some rotting food in the kitchen. Damn it, the bitch probably knows where James is and has gone to join him.’
    ‘Agatha, please stop . . .’
    But Agatha walked straight into the cottage, calling, ‘Melissa!’
    The smell was getting stronger but fury drove her on. She opened the kitchen door and stood stock still. Melissa was slumped over her kitchen table. Flies were buzzing about her dead body: heavy flies, sated flies. Charles peered over her shoulder. ‘Get the police, Aggie.’
    ‘Police,’ whispered Agatha through dry white lips. ‘She may just have died.’
    ‘Under the flies, her head has been bashed in.’ Charles gave her a push. ‘Go, phone.’
    Agatha stumbled into the sitting-room. She dialled 999 and gasped out the address and