Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

‘Here’s an unsigned one,’ said Charles. ‘It says, “You murdering bitch, you did it yourself.”’
    ‘Put it to one side,’ said Agatha. ‘I wonder who could have written that? There were a few strange faces there.’
    ‘And children. Might have been a nasty child.’
    Agatha ploughed through some quite long descriptions of what people had been doing on the night of Melissa’s death. They seemed to think they had to furnish an alibi. ‘Listen to this one,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s from Mrs Perry, who lives out on the Ancombe Road. “I made ham and chips for me and Dad at six o’clock and then we went to the Red Lion for a drink. Dad had half a pint and I had a shandy. Then we walked home. I let the cat out. We switched on the telly. Rotten film where people took their clothes off and did you-know-what. Me and Dad could hardly bear to watch. Then we went to bed after I had got our hot-water bottles ready. Hoping this finds you as it leaves me. Amy Perry.” What good’s all that supposed to do?’
    ‘Plough on,’ murmured Charles. ‘So far all I’ve got apart from the bitch letter are alibis and superstitious warnings. “The house grew suddenly cold,” that sort of thing. “The fur on my cat’s back rose.”’
    ‘Here’s another irritating one,’ remarked Agatha. ‘It’s from Mrs Pamela Green. Widow. Tall, rangy, acidulous. Look at the italic handwriting! Pure eighteenth-century. “I could not sleep on the Night of Mrs Sheppard’s Unfortunate death. It is one of the great Disadvantages of age. As is my wont, I put the leash on Queenie” – that’s her dog, nasty, vicious little bunch of hair – “and went out. The roads were deserted, except for a Child. I said to her, Why aren’t you home in bed? And she said cheekily I ought to mind my own Business. I had let Queenie off the leash and she had disappeared into one of the gardens. I went to Fetch her, and when I returned, the Child had gone. I would like to say to you, Mrs Raisin, that at your age, it would become You better to confine yourself to Charitable Pursuits and leave Police Matters to the police.” Horrible cow.’
    ‘I wonder who the child was,’ said Charles. ‘Are there any children in this village of the geriatric and retired?’
    ‘A lot down at the council houses. Press on.’
    After some hours, Agatha groaned, ‘Well, what a waste of time.’
    ‘Let’s swap,’ said Charles. ‘You take my bundle. I’ll take yours. We may see something the other has missed.’
    They both began to read again.
    At last Agatha said wearily, ‘What a waste of space!’
    ‘We’ve got that child to look for. Maybe we should call on Mrs Green tomorrow and get a description.’
    ‘Did I tell you she wears glasses like the end of milk bottles?’ said Agatha. ‘No? Well, she does. We’ll never get anywhere.’
    ‘Let’s go over them all again in the morning,’ said Charles, stifling a yawn.
    After a late meal, Agatha went up to bed and Charles went off to the spare bedroom.
    Agatha found sleep would not come. Jumbled thoughts about the murder and all the people they had questioned drifted in and out of her brain. At last she fell asleep and plunged down into a dream where she was dressed in white, on her wedding day, and standing at the altar of Carsely Church. She could not make out the features of the man she was marrying. Beside her stood Mrs Bloxby as maid of honour. ‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ she whispered in Agatha’s dream. ‘You were unhappy with James and now you’ll be unhappy with him. Remember what happened to poor Mrs Allan. People who have escaped from one unhappy marriage go out and do the same thing again, choose the same type.’
    ‘Shut up,’ mumbled Agatha in her sleep. ‘No one’s going to stop me getting married. I don’t want to be alone.’ She was conscious of her husband-to-be turning and walking away from her down the aisle. She tried to turn and call to him, to stop him, but she could not form the words. She must try to call to him. She must call him back. She must get married.
    She awoke to find Charles shaking her. ‘What’s up?’ she cried.
    ‘You were having one hell of a nightmare, groaning and crying.’
    ‘Oh, that,’ said Agatha, blinking in the light. ‘Such a silly dream. I dreamt I was getting married and Mrs Bloxby was warning me it would all turn out like my marriage to James. She said, like Mrs Allan, people always went and married the same type of