Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

said Charles. ‘If they have it, anyone else might not want to release it.’
    Agatha was told Bill was out and so, after a meal in London, they travelled back. Once home, Agatha got Charles to phone Bill at home, guessing that the formidable Mrs Wong might be more prepared to bring Bill to the phone for a man.
    When Bill answered, Agatha snatched the phone from Charles. ‘Bill, it’s me, Agatha. I’ve just heard that James kept a diary of his travels. Do the police have it?’
    ‘They kept back some papers, Agatha. It might be among them.’
    ‘Oh, Bill, I’ve got to see that diary. There might be something in it that would mean something to me and wouldn’t mean anything to you.’
    ‘I’ll ask. Call at headquarters – let me see – at ten tomorrow morning.’
    Agatha thanked him and replaced the receiver. ‘We’re to go to Mircester in the morning,’ she told Charles. ‘He’ll see what he can do.’
    ‘So you’re beginning to hope again that James is alive?’
    ‘Yes, damn him,’ said Agatha. ‘If only I knew one way or the other.’
    In the morning, as they travelled to Mircester, Agatha was half-dreading seeing James’s diary, that is, if she was allowed to see it. What if it contained awful things about her? At last, as they were approaching the town, she voiced her worries to Charles.
    ‘I should not think dear James has one deeply personal thought in the whole of that diary,’ said Charles. ‘Probably observations he made on his travels.’
    They waited in an interviewing room at police headquarters for what seemed, to Agatha, like ages, but was in fact only half an hour. At last Bill appeared carrying a small, thick, leather-bound book. ‘I can’t let you take it away with you,’ he said, ‘but you can have a look at it and call me when you’re ready to leave.’
    Agatha and Charles sat side by side at a plain wooden table, the top scarred with cigarette burns and coffee-cup rings. Agatha opened the first page, feeling a pain at her heart as she recognized James’s small, crabbed handwriting. ‘Oh, it’s an old diary,’ she said. She flipped to the last entry. ‘And it finishes five years before I even met him.’
    ‘You should be relieved there’s nothing about you in there,’ said Charles heartlessly. ‘Let’s start reading. Maybe there’s somewhere he liked more than anywhere else.’ Patiently they read descriptions of Nepal, of Cyprus, of Saudi Arabia, even a long description of a trip to China. Prices were marked down, lodging houses and hotels. Then he had taken a walking tour of France. Agatha stifled a yawn as her eyes skittered over descriptions of châteaux and vineyards. She was about to turn the page, when Charles put a restraining hand on hers. ‘Back to that page,’ he said. ‘At the bottom.’
    I was tired and thirsty [Agatha read] . I had been walking from early morning. I saw a monastery in front of me. I knocked at the gate and pleaded for somewhere to rest and for some water. A monk told me it was a Benedictine closed order, Saint Anselm, but he let me in and said I could sit in the shade of the cloisters for a little and he brought me a jug of spring water. I don’t suppose I’ve ever had a very strong faith in God, but while I sat there, I could almost feel a spiritual presence. After resting for an hour, I went on my way and . . .
    She turned the page and then looked at Charles impatiently. ‘What?’
    ‘James was interested in this business of mind over matter. Miracles do happen to cancer victims. He might have gone back there,’ said Charles. ‘He was in the valley of the shadow of death. A closed order. That might explain why nobody can find him.’
    But Agatha did not want to believe it. Somehow a James closer to God seemed to her to mean a James farther away from one Agatha Raisin. ‘Read on,’ she said. ‘There must be something else.’ But the diary finally finished with a description of a tour of Turkey which ended in mid-sentence.
    ‘Nothing there,’ said Agatha, closing the book with a sigh.
    ‘I can’t help thinking about that monastery,’ said Charles. ‘Want to check it out?’
    ‘He doesn’t say where it is.’
    ‘Here. Give me that diary again.’
    Charles flipped back through the pages. ‘Here we are. “I had just left Agde and had decided to head south towards the Spanish frontier.”’
    ‘Where’s Agde?’
    ‘South of France, on the Provence side.’
    ‘Too long a shot,’ said Agatha. ‘Besides,