sat in Agatha’s kitchen, he had gleaned from Mrs Bloxby. He had asked if there was to be a memorial service in the church, and Mrs Bloxby, he said, had been strangely cold and had said that was a matter for Mrs Fortune’s family and the villagers to decide.
“It seems,” said Agatha, “that the villagers will not really say what they thought of Mary until they’ve been given some time. I think the same applies to you. Mary was nasty to me on several occasions, so it follows she must have been nasty to other people. From what you said, or more from what you did not say, I think she was particularly poisonous to you in a highly personal way when you ended the affair, and yet you continued to see her on a friendly basis. Why?”
He hesitated for a long moment, looking down into his coffee cup as if seeking inspiration. Then he looked up with a wry smile and said, “Shame and guilt. Guilt because I felt I had really hurt her. Shame because I felt I should never have had an affair with such as Mary. Also arrogance. I wanted to persuade myself that she was really all right and that we could be friends. As if any kind of emotional involvement can ever turn into friendship.”
Too right, thought Agatha gloomily, wondering if she would ever get over a feeling of wistfulness when she looked at him.
“There was something else,” he said quietly, “something I have only realized now. I think that somewhere inside Mary was a capacity for violence.”
“Interesting, but it doesn’t get us anywhere,” Agatha pointed out. “Someone laid violent hands on her .”
“But don’t you see,” he said eagerly, “violence can beget violence. And it’s usually in the family. We must try to find out where her ex-husband is and whether he is in this country. I gathered she was married in America, in Los Angeles.”
“She said she lived in New York!”
“Well, she may have moved there after the divorce.”
Agatha rose to her feet. “I think we should get on with making a call on the daughter. Does the daughter know you were making love to her mother?”
James coloured slightly. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so. I got the impression that mother and daughter were barely on speaking terms.”
“Let’s go anyway. Should we take something? Does one usually take something?”
“Flowers or cake? No, I don’t think so. Condolences in hushed whispers seem to be the order of the day.”
Agatha left the living-room after shutting the door carefully behind her and let her cats out into the back garden. She winced as she looked at it. The cats made their way to the one patch of sun that had been able to shine over the high fence.
They made their way to Mary’s cottage, each thinking of the last time they had walked there together. They went up the front garden to the glassed-in porch that Mary had had built at the front of the house, in addition to the conservatory at the back. In fact, she had altered and changed the cottage so much, it was hard to remember what a poky little place it had seemed when Mrs Josephs lived there.
For a moment after James had rung the bell, Agatha almost expected Mary herself to answer the door. It suddenly seemed incredible that she was dead, that she had been killed in such a macabre way.
But the door was answered by a girl in her early twenties who did not look at all like Mary. She had brown eyes, a sallow skin, a long thin nose, and a quantity of glossy black hair. She was wearing a man’s tartan shirt loose over a pair of brief shorts. Her legs were very long, very white, and quite hairy.
“Miss Fortune?” asked James.
“Yes?” The girl looked at him curiously and then her eyes moved to Agatha.
“This is Mrs Agatha Raisin, a friend of your late mother. I am James Lacey, also a friend. We came to offer our condolences.”
She stood back. “You’d better come in.”
In the living-room, her boyfriend, John Deny, was slouched in an armchair. In the way of modern youth,
“It seems,” said Agatha, “that the villagers will not really say what they thought of Mary until they’ve been given some time. I think the same applies to you. Mary was nasty to me on several occasions, so it follows she must have been nasty to other people. From what you said, or more from what you did not say, I think she was particularly poisonous to you in a highly personal way when you ended the affair, and yet you continued to see her on a friendly basis. Why?”
He hesitated for a long moment, looking down into his coffee cup as if seeking inspiration. Then he looked up with a wry smile and said, “Shame and guilt. Guilt because I felt I had really hurt her. Shame because I felt I should never have had an affair with such as Mary. Also arrogance. I wanted to persuade myself that she was really all right and that we could be friends. As if any kind of emotional involvement can ever turn into friendship.”
Too right, thought Agatha gloomily, wondering if she would ever get over a feeling of wistfulness when she looked at him.
“There was something else,” he said quietly, “something I have only realized now. I think that somewhere inside Mary was a capacity for violence.”
“Interesting, but it doesn’t get us anywhere,” Agatha pointed out. “Someone laid violent hands on her .”
“But don’t you see,” he said eagerly, “violence can beget violence. And it’s usually in the family. We must try to find out where her ex-husband is and whether he is in this country. I gathered she was married in America, in Los Angeles.”
“She said she lived in New York!”
“Well, she may have moved there after the divorce.”
Agatha rose to her feet. “I think we should get on with making a call on the daughter. Does the daughter know you were making love to her mother?”
James coloured slightly. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so. I got the impression that mother and daughter were barely on speaking terms.”
“Let’s go anyway. Should we take something? Does one usually take something?”
“Flowers or cake? No, I don’t think so. Condolences in hushed whispers seem to be the order of the day.”
Agatha left the living-room after shutting the door carefully behind her and let her cats out into the back garden. She winced as she looked at it. The cats made their way to the one patch of sun that had been able to shine over the high fence.
They made their way to Mary’s cottage, each thinking of the last time they had walked there together. They went up the front garden to the glassed-in porch that Mary had had built at the front of the house, in addition to the conservatory at the back. In fact, she had altered and changed the cottage so much, it was hard to remember what a poky little place it had seemed when Mrs Josephs lived there.
For a moment after James had rung the bell, Agatha almost expected Mary herself to answer the door. It suddenly seemed incredible that she was dead, that she had been killed in such a macabre way.
But the door was answered by a girl in her early twenties who did not look at all like Mary. She had brown eyes, a sallow skin, a long thin nose, and a quantity of glossy black hair. She was wearing a man’s tartan shirt loose over a pair of brief shorts. Her legs were very long, very white, and quite hairy.
“Miss Fortune?” asked James.
“Yes?” The girl looked at him curiously and then her eyes moved to Agatha.
“This is Mrs Agatha Raisin, a friend of your late mother. I am James Lacey, also a friend. We came to offer our condolences.”
She stood back. “You’d better come in.”
In the living-room, her boyfriend, John Deny, was slouched in an armchair. In the way of modern youth,
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