Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

passed over the sun and the cicadas set off a droning chorus.
    They seemed to have been waiting for quite a long time when the monk came back. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I cannot help you.’
    They walked slowly back to the car.
    ‘That’s that,’ said Agatha gloomily. ‘All this way for nothing.’
    Charles stood frowning. ‘He was away a long time, and when he came back, he did not say, “We have no one of that name here.” He said, “I cannot help you.”’
    ‘Forget about the whole thing,’ sighed Agatha.
    ‘I could do with a bit of a holiday after all we’ve been through,’ said Charles. ‘We passed through a village before we turned off to climb up here. I saw a little auberge. Let’s book in. Do no harm to ask a few questions before we call it quits. I saw monks working in the fields. They have to sell their produce. Maybe someone’s heard of an Englishman at the monastery.’
    He swung the car round, and as they drove down, Agatha saw the monks working in the fields. But she did not think James could be one of them. James was probably lying dead in a ditch somewhere in England.
    The landlord of the auberge said that, yes, he had one double room vacant. His wife was an excellent cook. Would they want dinner?
    Charles said cheerfully, yes, they would. The landlord replied that as they were such a small inn, the guests ate en famille. Would they mind? Charles, with a grin, said, ‘Of course not,’ although wondering what Agatha would make of a dinner during which she would not be able to understand a single word.
    The room was clean and dominated by a double bed. ‘You on your side and I on mine,’ said Agatha firmly.
    ‘The bathroom’s along the corridor. No ensuite bathrooms here, Aggie.’
    Agatha felt better after a soak in a deep and ancient tub. She had carried her clean clothes to the bathroom, so she dressed there and made her face up in an old greenish mirror.
    The landlord, his wife, and two sons and one daughter were at the dinner table when they entered. Charles rattled on in French while Agatha ate a delicious fish soup followed by roast guinea fowl.
    As the wine passed round, Charles, taking a chance, began to talk about the reason for their visit. The family listened electrified to the story of murder and lost husband. Then, when he had finished, the landlord began to talk. Charles listened carefully and then at last turned to Agatha.
    ‘The landlord says he buys vegetables from the monastery from an old boy called Pierre Duval. Duval comes at six in the morning. He says if I’m up and about by then, I can question him. I gather that Duval doesn’t talk much, but our host is hinting that for a little bit of money, he might tell all he knows.’
    ‘I don’t know how you can keep on hoping that James is there when I’ve given up hope,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Just a hunch.’
    The meal ended with an apricot tart with lashings of cream. How on earth did they manage to produce such first-class food in such a tiny place? wondered Agatha.
    She had been sleepy after the long drive and all she had eaten and drunk, and when the alarm went off at five-thirty she would have gone back to sleep had not Charles shaken her awake again. ‘May as well do our investigations thoroughly,’ he said, stripping off his pyjamas and searching in his suitcase for underwear. It must be great to be able to be so unselfconscious in one’s nakedness, thought Agatha, as she retreated to the bathroom. Or maybe men didn’t bother. Maybe it was only women who worried about love handles and unshaven legs.
    When she emerged, it was to find Charles had already gone downstairs. She walked down, following the sound of voices, and found Charles at the kitchen door talking to a wizened old man while the landlord listened intently. Correctly assuming the old man to be Pierre Duval, Agatha saw him repeatedly shaking his head.
    Then Charles took his wallet out of his back pocket. He opened it and slowly began counting out notes. Some deal seemed to have been struck. The old man took the money and counted it with maddening slowness, and then he began to speak.
    Agatha waited impatiently. He must be telling Charles something. Charles would never have paid up unless he was sure of getting some hard information.
    At last the old man shuffled off.
    ‘Well?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘It seems as if there is an Englishman at the monastery,’ said Charles. ‘Sounds a bit like James. He should be working in the