Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

understand.’ Agatha began to cry, great gulping sobs racking her body.
    Charles took one of her hands in his and waited patiently until she recovered.
    ‘Tell me about it, Aggie.’
    So, in a halting voice, Agatha did, ending with a wail of ‘He told her. He didn’t tell me.’
    ‘The main point, Aggie, is that the man has cancer. It must have been a hell of a shock to him. Shock makes people behave in strange ways. Maybe it was easier to tell someone who wasn’t close. Maybe he felt that telling you would somehow confirm the horror.’
    ‘I’ll kill him,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll kill the bastard.’
    ‘He might already be on his way to death. What kind of cancer?’
    ‘I don’t know! Oh my God, if it’s cancer of the lung, he’ll blame my smoking!’
    ‘Aggie, this is silly. Please just walk next door. I know it must have been awful hearing the news from Melissa, but the chap’s got cancer, and surely that cancels out any jealousies or resentments. Look, I’ll wait here and if you’re not back in an hour, I’ll take myself off. But I’ll wait here in case you need me. Go on.’
    ‘I’ll just put some make-up on.’
    ‘It’s hardly the time for make-up. Go on!’
    James was in the local village store. He reached up and took down a packet of coffee. ‘How are you, darling?’ cooed a voice beside him.
    He turned and saw, facing him, Melissa. His face darkened. ‘Just leave me alone, Melissa. I told you, I made a mistake. I just want to get on with my marriage.’
    ‘Agatha seems very upset about your illness.’
    He stared at her in dismay. The packet of coffee fell to the shop floor.
    ‘You told her!’
    ‘You wouldn’t talk to me and I was worried about you, so I went to ask Agatha how your treatment was coming along.’
    ‘You silly bitch,’ he roared. ‘I could kill you, strangle you, shut that malicious gossipy mouth of yours.’
    The listening, shocked silence behind them in the shop was almost tangible.
    Melissa gave a nervous little laugh. ‘You didn’t tell her. That’s it, isn’t it?’
    James walked straight out of the shop. When he turned into Lilac Lane, the first thing he saw was Charles’s BMW parked outside Agatha’s door.
    ‘He wasn’t home,’ said Agatha miserably to Charles when she returned. ‘And this is the day of the concert. I’ve got to rush to Mircester. I don’t know how I’ll cope.’
    ‘Let’s get it over with. I’ll take you. You’re in no fit state to drive.’
    Agatha wearily went upstairs and made up her face and put on a charcoal-grey business suit and a striped cotton blouse. She did not know what to do. She had promised not to see Charles again, but the news about James’s cancer had shaken her.
    As Charles drove her to Mircester for the concert, he suddenly said, ‘You know, Aggie, James is a weird bird, but a good sort. Forget, please, about the fact that he told Melissa. Help him cope with this cancer business. If you love him, you’ll do that. Aggie?’
    But Agatha stared numbly at the passing scenery and did not reply.
    Once they arrived at the marquee where the concert was to be held, Agatha threw herself into her work, chatting to the press, to the representatives of record companies. The group already had a recording company, which was, in Agatha’s opinion, pretty small beer.
    The weather had held up and it was a perfect evening. Agatha had urged Delly Shoes to charge as little as possible for the tickets. Midlands Television was setting up its cameras and Agatha wanted as large a crowd as possible.
    Only once she had taken her seat in the front row and the concert had begun did a great wave of dark misery engulf her. Stepping Out ended their show with the new rambling song. It was effervescent and jaunty. ‘Got a winner,’ whispered Charles, but Agatha sat like stone.
    The group played encore after encore. Then the managing director of Delly Shoes, Mr Piercy, took the microphone. He talked about the glories of the new boot, and then he said, ‘I’m glad you all enjoyed yourself. I am sure we would all like to put our hands together and thank the organizer of this evening, Mrs Agatha Raisin. Agatha, come on up.’
    Charles nudged her to her feet. Like a sleepwalker, she walked up the steps at the side of the stage.
    ‘I think you should make a short speech,’ hissed Mr Piercy.
    Agatha looked out over the crowd in a dazed way. Then she adjusted the microphone.
    But before she could speak, a voice called from the