Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

stood there patiently, her feet beginning to ache dreadfully. Where had the days gone when she could run around all day in very high heels and not even feel a twinge? Agatha felt the autumn of her life stretching in front of her.
    She looked around the crowd, searching for a victim to take over the stand for her so that she could give in and find a pair of flat shoes. She saw Mrs Allan, Carsely’s battered wife, and called to her. Mrs Allan came up to Agatha. Although she was only in her thirties, she had stooped shoulders, as if from a lifetime of warding off blows. ‘Could you take over for me?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘I dunno. I ain’t never auctioned nothing.’
    ‘The auction’s over. I’ve put the price tickets on everything. I’ll give Mrs Bloxby the cheques.’
    ‘Oh, all right, then,’ said Mrs Allan. ‘Ain’t it hot?’ She removed a limp white cardigan and draped it over the edge of the stall. Underneath the cardigan, she was wearing a skimpy blouse. Agatha’s eyes sharpened. There was a nasty bruise on one of Mrs Allan’s thin arms. ‘What happened there?’ she asked, pointing to the bruise.
    ‘Oh, that? Ever so clumsy, I am. Hit it on the door.’
    Agatha headed off to find Mrs Bloxby and handed her a pile of cheques and notes. ‘There must be a fortune here, Mrs Raisin,’ said Mrs Bloxby. She turned to her husband, the vicar. ‘Alf, isn’t she marvellous? Don’t you just feel like giving Mrs Raisin a great big hug?’
    The vicar shied like a startled horse. ‘Good heavens, is that the time?’ he exclaimed. ‘Got to see someone,’ and he ran off as fast as he could.
    ‘I’ve got to get home,’ said Agatha. ‘My feet are killing me.’
    ‘Such a pity. Those shoes look really glamorous.’
    Agatha smiled. Mrs Bloxby had a knack of saying the right thing. A lesser woman would have said, ‘Why don’t you wear sensible shoes?’
    ‘I’ve left Mrs Allan in charge. She’s got a terrible bruise on one arm. Can it be the husband? He’s out of the picture, isn’t he?’
    ‘As far as I know. But the trouble with that kind of woman – I don’t mean to sound patronizing, but sometimes I despair – is that they get rid of one villain and pick up another.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I’ve been told that women who don’t think much of themselves gravitate to people who’ll make them feel even worse about themselves. It’s amazing how they get rid of one and then marry again, the same type.’
    ‘Has she got anyone?’
    Mrs Bloxby sighed. ‘Not that I know of, and if she has, there is nothing I can do about it but sit and wait until it gets too bad again and then step in and try to pick up the pieces. Off you go. You’ve done splendidly. The doll! What an enormous amount of money.’
    ‘That was Melissa’s ex-husband, the one before Sheppard.’
    ‘Really? He looks quite mad. I hope he does not regret spending such a vast amount of money. But these antique dolls can be really valuable.’
    ‘I only hope that the people who donated the doll don’t come after me and demand the money,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Who was it?’
    ‘Big manor-house. Over by Longborough. Big cedar tree outside.’
    ‘Oh, Lord Freme. I wouldn’t worry. He’s got millions.’
    ‘I’ll be off then.’
    ‘Where’s your young friend?’
    ‘Gone off with Dewey to do a bit of detective work.’
    ‘Is that wise? He may be your murderer.’
    Agatha looked worried. ‘I’ll wait a bit and then go after him.’
    She went home and massaged her aching feet after she had taken her shoes off. Her cats jumped, purring, on to her lap and she lay back in the armchair and stroked their fur, reluctant to return to the fête. But at last she let them out into the garden, put on flat shoes and walked back to the church hall.
    ‘Sold anything?’ she asked Mrs Allan.
    ‘A liddle jug thing. I put the money in the box.’
    ‘Thanks, Mrs Allan. Why don’t you go and get a cup of tea? I’ll take over now.’
    Mrs Allan slouched off. At the next stand, Miss Simms turned the tombola drum and called over, ‘Your young man not coming back?’
    ‘Don’t think so,’ said Agatha. ‘There’s nobody interested in what I’ve got left, so I can take over for you.’
    ‘Where’s Charles?’
    ‘Gone home.’
    ‘All your fellows left you?’
    ‘Looks like that,’ said Agatha sourly.
    The day wore on. The morris dancers jumped up and down energetically, tourists took pictures, the cake-and-jam stall had sold out and the