Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

said Agatha, staring down at her plate and not meeting his eyes.
    ‘So what’s our next plan of campaign?’
    Agatha racked her brain. She did not want to tell him she was at a dead end, in case he would pack up and go home and she would be left with her own company. What had happened to the old Agatha Raisin, who had not needed anybody? Maybe I did, she admitted ruefully to herself, and wouldn’t admit it.
    Then her face cleared. ‘Of course. The hospital! At least as his wife I can ask the doctor what his condition was.’
    ‘All right. We’ll go tomorrow.’ Agatha heaved a sigh of relief. ‘But before we do, I think we should sit down and start to make notes, put everything in order. Oh, and then there’s Melissa’s sister, Julia. I really think we should make the effort and go to Cambridge to have another word with her. We’ve been looking at sex and passion and forgetting about the other prime motive, and that’s money.’
    Agatha was up early the next morning and anxious to leave for Mircester, but Charles insisted, ‘Notes first.’
    Agatha switched on her computer. Her cats were in a playful mood that morning and were insisting on doing what cats like to do, namely jumping up on the keyboard and treading on the keys. Charles carried them out into the garden and returned to sit down beside Agatha.
    ‘Let’s start with Sheppard,’ said Agatha. ‘He has a good alibi for the night of Melissa’s murder and that in itself is suspicious. Usually innocent people do not have any alibi. Motive? Melissa may have known something about him that he did not want anyone else to find out.’
    ‘So where does James come into it?’
    ‘Rats! James. Well, Melissa might have tried to tell him that something. James flees after avoiding being killed.’
    ‘So why not just kill Melissa and leave James alone?’
    ‘I’ll never get anywhere if you insist on playing devil’s advocate.’
    ‘All right. Go on.’
    ‘Maybe Sheppard continued to hate her. Maybe –’
    ‘I’ve a thought. Maybe James does not know anything about Melissa’s murder. He shot off after he was attacked. He may have amnesia. He may not have read the papers.’
    ‘You mean, if he’s alive, he may have information that would solve this case?’
    ‘Something like that. Then what about what our genteel friend Miss Simms calls rough trade, Jake and his friends? She was sectioned for drugs. That’s it!’
    ‘What’s what?’
    ‘We ask the sister when she was sectioned, where, and what were the circumstances. Was she into really heavy mainlining stuff?’
    ‘She certainly wasn’t on anything last time I saw her,’ said Agatha. ‘No dilated pupils, no track marks on her arms. I really don’t think we’ve enough at the moment, Charles, to make notes. Please let’s go to the hospital.’
    ‘I know you’ll never settle to anything until we do go. Come on, then.’
    Mircester General Hospital lay on the outskirts of the town, a gleaming modern building which had replaced the old Victorian hospital in the town centre, now a hotel. ‘Look at that!’ said Agatha, outraged, as they drove into the hospital car park. ‘We’ve got to pay for parking.’
    ‘I suppose they’ve got to try to make any money they can, these days. I mean, you must remember when the National Health Service started, Aggie.’ Agatha winced at this reference to her age. ‘It was going to be easy free treatment for everyone. Now it’s all breaking down. And the reason it’s breaking down, apart from sheer bad management, is all the new operations that everyone now expects – free hip replacements, free heart transplants, and all that costs a bomb.’
    ‘I still think it’s a lousy trick forcing people to pay for parking,’ muttered Agatha. ‘How long do you think we’re going to be?’
    ‘Put in enough money for a couple of hours.’
    With Agatha still complaining, they walked into the hospital. To their request to see the consultant or doctor who had diagnosed James Lacey, they were told to wait. And they did. They waited and waited. Agatha flipped nervously through pages of old Good Housekeeping magazines, barely taking in what she was reading. She was just about to approach the reception desk and make a very Agatha-type scene, when a tall, thin man in a white coat came up to them. ‘I am Dr Henderson. I was a friend of James. I am so sorry, Mrs Lacey. I gather there is no news?’
    ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Agatha. ‘I wanted to talk to you