Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

from the hospital and kept in my rooms – I could swear had been disturbed. Papers were sticking out the tops of some of them. And yet the filing cabinet had been locked. I could not accuse my receptionist because she was having an evening off. Did I tell you it was evening? No? Well, it was because I could only fit him in after hours, so to speak. I phoned him up and accused him of having broken into my filing cabinet. He denied the whole thing, and very vehemently, too. But I said I could not see him again. I did not trust him. I was not long enough with him, but perhaps he, too, suffered from this mild form of psychopathy, and yet I am sure it must be almost impossible for anyone suffering from this form of mental illness to know they have it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘That is all I can tell you.’
    Charles and Agatha walked out to the car park. ‘ Tw o of them,’ said Agatha excitedly. ‘What was James on to? And who’s the other one?’
    ‘Maybe one of the husbands.’
    ‘If only we could find out. Perhaps we could break in and have a look at –’
    ‘NO! Absolutely not.’
    ‘Just an idea. It’s early yet. If we went to Cambridge, how long would it take us?’
    ‘Let me see,’ said Charles. ‘If we take the bypass which will get us on to the A40 to Oxford, then out to the M40, then the M25 and then the M11 right up to Cambridge, maybe about two and a half hours.’ He fished a card out of his pocket. ‘Let’s see where she lives. Boxted Road. Have you a Cambridge map?’
    ‘No, but we can pick one up in Mircester before we set off.’
    Even though she was not driving herself, Agatha found motorway journeys wearisome. After they had left the outskirts of Oxford, she closed her eyes and thought of everyone who might be connected with the murder. She fell asleep and into a dream where Dewey was approaching her with a sharp knife, saying, ‘Pretty dolly, you need new eyes.’ She awoke with a start and looked around groggily. ‘Where are we?’
    ‘M11,’ said Charles. ‘Not far now. When we get to Cambridge, we turn off the Madingley Road, just before Queen’s Road, go down Grange Road and turn off about the third street down on the right. Maybe we should have phoned first. I mean, she might not be home.’
    ‘We’ve come this far now. May as well try. I mean, if we’d phoned her, she might have put us off, particularly if she feels guilty.’
    They had left the sunshine behind in the Cotswolds. A uniformly grey sky stretched over the university city of Cambridge. ‘Cambridge is outstripping Oxford when it comes to brains,’ commented Charles.
    ‘Why is that?’
    ‘For years now, Oxford’s gone in for inverted snobbery. They turn down bright pupils from private schools in order to favour pupils from comprehensive ones. Big mistake. It’s not only the rich who pay for the children’s education, but often it’s caring parents who are prepared to take out a second mortgage to pay school fees, and caring parents produce bright children. But Oxford still holds a lot of charm for people. Must be the weather. It can be a lousy climate over here and in winter cold mist creeps in from the fens and blankets everything. Let me see, this is the Madingley Road. Keep your eyes peeled for Grange Road.’
    ‘There it is,’ said Agatha, ‘over on the right.’
    ‘So it is. Here we go. One, two, three. Ah, here’s Boxted Road. Very nice, too. You’d need a bit of money to live in one of these villas. What’s the number?’
    ‘Thirteen, and, no, I am not superstitious.’
    Charles parked the car and they both got out. ‘I wish I’d brought a jacket,’ said Agatha, hugging her bare arms. ‘It looks almost misty at the bottom of the street. You can’t get fog in summer.’
    ‘You can in Cambridge,’ said Charles. ‘Let’s see if she’s at home.’
    They walked up a path through a front garden without a single flower. Only laurel bushes lined the brick path. ‘Sounds of activity coming from inside,’ said Charles. He rang the bell.
    A young man opened the door. ‘Mrs Fraser?’ asked Charles.
    He turned round and yelled, ‘Julia!’ at the top of his voice. A door in the dark hall opened and Julia Fraser appeared.
    ‘Good heavens, what are you two doing in Cambridge?’ she asked. ‘Come in.’ She ushered them into a pleasantly cluttered sitting-room.
    ‘Was that your son?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘No, I rent rooms to students. Now, I suppose you’ve come to ask more