Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley (21 page)

‘So, as you can see,’ said Bill, ‘there was no intent to commit bigamy. Mrs Raisin has received a bad shock. I suggest we all go home.’

‘Well, since I know you to be a respected officer of the law in Mircester,’ said the registrar, ‘I will say no more about it.’

Agatha returned to her own home. There was nothing in it but Bill’s china elephant and her suitcases of clothes. James had a key to her cottage. He must have carried all
her stuff from his cottage and left it. She had asked Mrs Bloxby to tell them at the village hall to have a party instead of a wedding reception. She phoned the removal firm and told them to bring
back her furniture and belongings. They said it could not be done that day, but she swore at them so savagely and offered to pay so much that they agreed to be around with the goods as quickly as
possible.

Agatha sat on the floor of the empty kitchen and hugged the china elephant and let the tears come at last, carving lines through her make-up. Dimly she was aware that the weather had broken and
rain was dripping from the thatch. Her cats sat side by side and looked at her curiously.

The doorbell rang. She did not want to answer it but then heard the vicar’s wife calling urgently, ‘Are you all right, Agatha? Agatha?’

She took out a handkerchief and scrubbed her face and then went and opened the door.

‘Where’s James?’ asked Agatha.

‘He’s gone. His car’s gone and he left his house keys with Fred Griggs.’

‘Gone where?’

‘He said something to Fred about going abroad and said he didn’t know when he would be back.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Agatha, her voice breaking on a sob. ‘I could kill him.’

‘James?’

‘No, Jimmy Raisin. Drunken swine. The first good thing I did in my life was to walk out on him.’

‘I think if I were you I would feel more like killing Roy Silver,’ said Mrs Bloxby ruefully. ‘But just think, if it had all come out after you were married, it would have been
even more of a disaster.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Agatha wretchedly. ‘Perhaps by that time James might have loved me enough to stand by me.’

Mrs Bloxby fell silent. She thought Agatha had behaved badly, and yet sympathized with her motives. And James Lacey
should
have stood by Agatha. Middle-aged bachelors were always
difficult creatures. Poor Agatha.

Mrs Bloxby and Agatha sat down on the floor beside the elephant. The doorbell went again.

‘Whoever that is, tell them to go away,’ said Agatha.

Mrs Bloxby got to her feet. Agatha heard the murmur of voices, then the closing of the front door. Mrs Bloxby returned. ‘That was Alf,’ she said, meaning her husband, the vicar.
‘He wanted to offer you some spiritual comfort, but I told him this was not the moment. What will you do now?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Agatha wearily. ‘Take this cottage off the market, rearrange my stuff, go away somewhere until I feel I can face the village again.’

‘There is really no need to run away, Agatha. Your friends are all here.’

‘You’ll start me crying again if you go on like that. I think I’d like to be alone for a bit. Could you tell everyone not to call on me?’

Mrs Bloxby gave her a quick hug and then left. Agatha sat on the floor beside the elephant, staring into space. Three hours later, when the removal firm arrived, she roused herself and let them
in. She signed an enormous cheque, tipped the men generously, and then drove to the all-night garage on the Fosse Way outside Moreton-in-Marsh and bought a few groceries.

She wondered whether to call in at Thresher’s in Moreton and buy a bottle of something and get drunk, but finding herself suddenly exhausted with misery and emotion, she returned home,
bathed and went to bed and plunged into a nightmare-ridden sleep.

She awoke at five in the morning, knowing that sleep would not return and feeling like the character in
Ruddigore
who was glad the awful night was over. She decided to go for a long walk
and see if she could tire herself out and so be able to return to bed and sleep some more of the misery away.

Carsely lay silent under the grey light of a watery dawn. The rain had stopped and the air was chilly. The village consisted of one main street with little winding lanes running off it, like
Lilac Lane where Agatha lived. With no cars on the roads, the village looked much as it must have done a century ago, with the thatched cottages nestling under the shadow of the square Norman tower
of the church. Agatha quickened her step and strode up the hill. She could not think of James Lacey yet or wonder what he was doing. Her mind flinched away from the very thought of him. As she
walked on, she began to feel she was walking away from some of her misery and grief.

But it seemed the nightmare was not about to end. For down the road towards her came Jimmy Raisin. He was the worse for drink, swaying and mumbling to himself, an expensive bottle of malt whisky
sticking out of his pocket.

Agatha turned on her heel and began to walk down the hill away from him. He came running after her, a shambling, staggering run. ‘Come on, Aggie,’ he yelled. ‘I’m your
husband.’

She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. A red mist seemed to rise before her eyes. She did not even see Harry Symes, one of the farm workers, coming up the hill on his tractor.

When Jimmy reached her, she slapped him hard across the face, so hard that her diamond engagement ring cut his lip, and then, with all her force, she shoved him into the ditch.

She stood over him, her hands on her hips. ‘Why don’t you
die
!’ she panted. And then she ran off down the hill.

One hour later, the police were on her doorstep and she was charged with the murder of Jimmy Raisin.