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Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

Titel: Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: MC Beaton
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mostly free from the tourists and tour buses which crowd other, more popular, places such as Bourton-on-the-Water, Stow-on-the-Wold, and Chipping Campden.
    Charles and Agatha drove down into the village from the A44. ‘Poor Blockley, it must have the worst roads of anywhere around here,’ said Charles.
    ‘Why is that?’ asked Agatha idly. She was experiencing a rare peace, because at last she was doing something, and did not want her mood shattered by dwelling on thoughts of James’s infidelity.
    ‘The trucks grind through it on their way to Northwick Business Park,’ said Charles. ‘They chew up the two main roads down into the village and leave big pot-holes, and then all that happens is two men fill the holes up with tarry stones, which soon sink back into pot-holes under the weight of the trucks.’
    ‘I think they need a big-wig of some kind, a Member of Parliament, someone like that, to complain. Where’s Parson’s Terrace?’
    ‘Don’t know. There’s a post office. We’ll ask there.’
    As in Carsely, the post office was also the general store. The woman behind the counter told them to turn left as they went out of the shop, left and left again. They would find Parson’s Terrace at the top of the hill.
    ‘We may not find him at home,’ said Charles. ‘May be out at work.’
    ‘We can try. A lot of people work at home in these villages, computer stuff,’ said Agatha vaguely.
    Parson’s Terrace was a row of very small cottages. ‘This is it,’ said Charles, parking outside.
    ‘I wish we had some sort of official badge we could flash,’ mourned Agatha.
    ‘Well, we haven’t. Here goes.’
    Charles knocked at the door. ‘Someone at home anyway,’ he said, hearing someone approach.
    When the door opened, at first they thought they were facing a teenager. She had black hair pulled back in two bunches and tied with red ribbons and was wearing a short print frock, ankle socks and sandals. Her eyes were large, seeming to fill the whole of her small face.
    ‘We’re hoping to talk to Mr Sheppard,’ said Agatha in that slightly cooing voice in which those who don’t have children and don’t much like them either address the species.
    ‘Luke’s out at work. Can I help you? I’m Megan Sheppard.’
    ‘Ah, what time will your father be home, dear?’
    Those eyes widened in amusement. ‘I am Mrs Sheppard and you are that Agatha Raisin I read about in the newspapers.’
    ‘May we talk to you for a little?’ asked Charles.
    ‘Come in. I was just about to have some coffee. We can have it in the garden. It’s a lovely day.’
    They followed her through the dark little cottage – narrow kitchen, poky living-room and out into a pretty garden, where a table and chairs had been set out on a patio. ‘Have a seat,’ said Megan. ‘I’ll get the coffee.’
    When she had gone, Agatha hissed, ‘How old do you think she is?’
    ‘Late thirties?’
    ‘Can’t be!’
    ‘It’s the bobby socks, Agatha. She’s a lot older than she dresses.’
    When Megan came back with a tray of coffee jug and cups, which she set down on the table, Agatha studied her face. In full sunlight, Megan’s face now revealed thin lines around the eyes, but she still seemed remarkably young.
    ‘I did not know Mr Sheppard had married again,’ said Agatha. ‘There was nothing about it in the papers.’
    ‘There wouldn’t be, would there?’ said Megan, pouring coffee. ‘They only print the name of suspects.’
    ‘I am Charles Fraith,’ began Charles, accepting a cup of coffee from her. It was a china cup, decorated with roses. ‘Why wouldn’t your husband be a suspect? I mean, she was married to him.’
    ‘But he had nothing to do with her. Everyone knows that.’ Somehow Megan’s voice implied that they should have known it, too.
    ‘Why did he divorce her?’ asked Agatha. ‘Did he discover she was being unfaithful to him?’
    ‘With your husband, you mean?’
    ‘No,’ said Agatha sharply. ‘With someone else.’
    ‘Oh, no. He fell in love with me, you see.’ She smiled blindingly at Charles, who smiled back.
    ‘And what does your husband do?’ asked Charles.
    ‘He owns The Well-Dressed Gent. It’s a shop in Mircester. You are rather cheeky, you know, to ask all these questions. You’re not the police.’
    ‘Mrs Raisin is desperate to find the whereabouts of her husband. We’re asking everyone connected with Melissa. Did you know her?’
    ‘Of course not. Why should I?’
    Agatha was

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