Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

coffee jug from the machine. Her hand suddenly shook and she dropped the coffee jug, which did not break but bounced across the floor, spreading coffee and spattering the cupboards. Agatha sat down and burst into tears.
    ‘Now, then,’ said Mrs Bloxby, guiding her to the table. ‘You just sit down there and I’ll clean up this mess.’
    ‘J-James is so-so pernickety,’ sobbed Agatha. ‘He’ll be furious.’
    ‘By the time I’ve finished,’ said the vicar’s wife, taking off her coat, ‘he won’t know anything has happened.’
    She opened the cupboard under the sink and took out cleaning materials and a floor-cloth. While Agatha sniffed dismally into a handkerchief, Mrs Bloxby worked calmly and efficiently. Then she put on the kettle, saying, ‘I think tea would be better for you. Your nerves are bad enough. I am surprised James has left. Why?’
    ‘He said he had to see an old friend.’ Agatha, who had temporarily got a grip on herself, found she was beginning to cry again. ‘But I don’t think he’s gone to see any old friend, I think he’s gone to see that murderess, Helen Warwick.’
    ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea and you can tell me about it.’
    When they were both seated at the table, Agatha described the visit to Helen Warwick and how, after that visit, someone had tried to burn them to death, and then, last night, the masked man had been about to shoot her in the legs if Mrs Hardy had not kicked the gun out of his hand.
    ‘I heard about that last night. Very brave of Mrs Hardy. But it all goes to show, Agatha, that your Christian act in taking her to the village dance had its reward. It always reinforces my belief in the fundamental goodness of people in the way that a little bit of kindness engenders such a reward.’
    Agatha managed a watery smile. ‘Doesn’t seem to work with the Boggles.’
    ‘Oh, them, well . . . There is always an exception. But surely James’s interest in Helen Warwick is simply to do with the case?’
    ‘James has quite dreadful taste in women,’ said Agatha gloomily. ‘Remember Mary Fortune?’ Mary Fortune, a divorcée who had been murdered, had enjoyed a brief affair with James before her death.
    ‘You were away then,’ pointed out Mrs Bloxby. ‘Have there been any reporters, asking questions?’
    ‘About the attempted shooting? No. I think the police want the press out of their hair and that they have somehow managed to keep it quiet for the moment. The villagers are tired of the press as well, so none of them is going to phone up a newspaper. I’ll go to London and see if Roy Silver has found out anything. I’ve something in mind. I may stay the night. I’d best leave a note for James.’
    ‘Hadn’t you better stick around? The police will surely be back to see you.’
    ‘They can talk to the Hardy woman. I want a change of scene anyway.’
    ‘I do feel you should take care, Agatha. Someone appears to be more afraid of your investigations than they are of the police.’
    ‘I’m beginning to think that someone is mad. Look, it was a man who held us up last night. Mrs Comfort said something about Mrs Gore-Appleton looking like a man. Perhaps there never was a Mrs Gore-Appleton. Perhaps there was a Mr Gore-Appleton. Perhaps some man pretended to be a woman as part of that charity scam.’
    ‘I still think you should stay here and rest, Agatha.’
    ‘No, I’m going. I’ll feel better once I’m out of the village.’ But Agatha forgot to leave a note for James.
    Once she reached London, Agatha found herself driving towards Kensington, to Gloucester Road. She had to reassure herself that James had really gone to see a friend and that the friend wasn’t Helen Warwick. As she drove along Gloucester Road towards the block of flats, she kept looking at the parked cars. Of course, James could be parked anywhere. It was difficult to find a parking place in Kensington at the best of times. His car could be tucked away in Cornwall Gardens or Emperor’s Gate or somewhere she could not see it. But suddenly, there it was, on a meter, a few yards from Helen’s building. And as a final nail in Agatha’s coffin, there, just leaving the flats, came James and Helen, laughing and talking like old friends. The car behind Agatha, who had been driving at about five miles an hour, hooted impatiently. Agatha speeded up. She longed to turn the car around, catch up with them and hurl abuse at James from the window.
    But she drove along Palace Gate instead,