Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

vegetable garden at ten this morning.’
    ‘But how do we get near him?’
    ‘There’s a little lane leads up to the back of the monastery. If we go up there, there’s only a low wall at the back. We climb over that and we’re in the vegetable garden.’
    Agatha clasped her hands. ‘Do you really think it might be him?’
    ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high. Duval says there are all sorts of nationalities amongst the monks. We’ll try anyway. Plenty of time for breakfast.’
    As they ate buttery croissants and drank bowls of milky coffee, Charles told their landlord of what he had learned.
    Then the landlord fetched a piece of writing paper and began to draw a sketch map.
    ‘He suggests we leave the car at the foot of the side road and walk,’ said Charles. ‘The back of the monastery sprawls down the hillside and it would be easy to miss the lane if we were driving. It’s a bit overgrown.’
    They set out at nine o’clock. Charles parked the car at the side of the road and locked it. Agatha found her heart was beating so hard that she was beginning to pant as they made their way up the steep side road, looking for the lane. She forced herself to be calm. James was probably not there. They would be ticked off if any other monk found them trespassing, and that would be that.
    ‘There it is,’ said Charles. ‘Hasn’t been used for anything in ages. Those bushes in front of the lane have practically grown across it.’
    They climbed on up. The lane was rutted and grassy and at times almost seemed to disappear. The sun was hot. Stunted pines growing out of the rocky outcrop on either side afforded some shade at the start of their climb, but now they were out in an unshaded bit.
    After what seemed an age, the monastery towered up before them and they plodded on.
    ‘Is that what you call a low wall?’ asked Agatha in dismay as the lane ended against the stonework of an eight-foot-high wall. There were newer stones set into the ancient ones where the lane came up against the wall, as if there had once been an entrance and it had been sealed off.
    Charles cupped his hands. ‘I’ll give you a leg up. When you get to the top, tell me what you can see.’
    Agatha struggled to the top and heaved herself up until she was straddling the wall. ‘There isn’t a garden here,’ she said. ‘That old man tricked us. Nothing but a weedy field.’
    ‘Go over anyway,’ said Charles, ‘and I’ll join you. The gardens might be on the other side of the field.’
    Agatha tried to climb down, missed her footing and fell heavily. As nimbly as a cat, Charles climbed over and dropped easily to the ground beside her. ‘Haven’t you got any sensible shoes?’ he complained.
    ‘I’m wearing flats,’ said Agatha, struggling to her feet and brushing herself down.
    ‘Thin sandals with thin straps are hardly suitable for a walk in the country. Okay, look over there at the end of the field. There’s another wall with a gate. That could be the vegetable gardens. I gather they’re pretty extensive.’
    They walked across the field, trying to keep clear of thistles and nasty jagged bits of dried plants. Agatha felt her tights rip on a particularly evil thorny plant. Why on earth had she decided to go on this hike wearing designer sandals and ten-denier tights? Madness. But it had been cool in the darkness of the inn and she had envisaged nothing more arduous than a gentle stroll.
    They came up to a wrought-iron gate set into the wall. ‘Locked,’ said Charles. ‘Sorry, Aggie, it’s another wall and a higher one. But it’s so broken in places with bits of stones sticking out, we should find an easy way of getting over.’
    ‘Why are you whispering?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘It’s very quiet and sound carries a long way here.’
    ‘If it carries a long way, then everyone in that monastery is dead. No chanting, no prayers, and worse, no sounds of digging coming from anywhere.’
    ‘Here’s what looks like an easy bit,’ said Charles. ‘The wall has broken away at the top and it makes it lower and it’s bulged here with age and bits of stone are sticking out. Should be like walking up a ladder.’
    James Lacey had retreated to the quiet calm of the herb garden to rest and contemplate. He had not yet told Brother Michael the truth about his marriage. He had told him everything else, about the attack on him, about his shame and fear of death. He would shortly be taking leave from the monastery. He said he had