by M C Beaton
♦
Agatha broke her journey home with a few days in Rio at a luxury hotel. But she found she did not enjoy her visit. The heat was immense and the humidity high. She took a trip up Sugar Loaf Mountain and then decided to explore no further. Among the tourist brochures in the hotel was one advertising a tour to see where and how the poor of Rio lived. What kind of people, wondered Agatha, would go on such a tour – to gawp at the unfortunate? It was with a relief that she finally boarded a British Airways flight for London. She had booked economy. She was at the back of the plane. There was only one screen at the end of the cabin and so she could not see any of the movies, and during the night she shivered in the blast of freezing air-conditioning. She complained to a female attendant, who shrugged and said, “Okay,” and walked on. Nothing happened. People struggled into sweaters, huddled into blankets, and no one but Agatha showed any desire to complain. Bloody British, thought Agatha, finally collaring a male steward. He glared at her and nodded. The plane finally warmed up.
In future years, Agatha thought, they will have models of this hell-plane in a museum and people will marvel that humans actually travelled in such circumstances, rather in the way that they wonder at the cramped accommodations in old sailing-ships.
At Gatwick, there was no gate available for the plane and so they waited an agonizing time before they were herded onto buses on the Tarmac. Agatha then began the long walk to collect her luggage. She began to feel that the plane had landed in Devon and they were all walking to Gatwick.
By the time she collected her luggage, she was in a blazing temper. But her temper dissipated as soon as she had located her car and had started to head home. She began to worry about her two cats, Hodge and Boswell. She had left them in the care of her cleaner, Doris Simpson, who came in every day to look after them. James was gone; Charles, too. Only her cats remained a permanence in her life.
It had been a night flight and she had been unable to sleep because of the freezing conditions. By the time she turned down the road in the Cotswolds which led to her home village of Carsely, her eyes were weary with fatigue. Her thatched cottage crouched in Lilac Lane under a winter sky. Agatha parked and let herself in. Her cats came to meet her, stretching and yawning and rubbing against her legs. She crouched down and patted them and then caught sight of herself in the long hall mirror that she had put up so that she could check her appearance before going out. She straightened up slowly and stared.
She noticed the grey roots in her hair, the dull skin and the lumpy figure and drew her breath in. How she had let herself go! And all over two useless men who weren’t worth bothering about. She phoned her beauticians, Butterflies in Evesham, to make an appointment for the following day. “Rosemary is having a Pilates class,” said the receptionist, “so she can’t do you in the morning. It’ll need to be the afternoon.”
“What on earth is Pilates?”
“It’s a system of exercises for posture and breathing and it exercises every muscle in your body.”
“I’m interested.”
“She has a space in her workshop tomorrow morning. It’s an introductory class.”
“Put me down. When is it?”
“Starts at ten and goes on until one.”
“That long! Oh well, put me down.” Agatha rang off. She fed the cats and let them out into the garden and then carried her luggage up to the bedroom. Too weary to unpack or undress, she fell on the bed and plunged down into sleep.
♦
In the morning, as she drove to Evesham, she began to regret booking in for the Pilates class. Agatha was the type who booked an expensive course at a gym, went twice, and then chickened out and so lost her money. Still, she had to do something.
“Upstairs,” said the receptionist. “They’re about to start.” Agatha climbed up the stairs. Four women were struggling into leggings and T-shirts.
“Agatha!” said Rosemary, the beautician. “Welcome back.”
“Home again,” said Agatha with a grin. Rosemary was a very reassuring figure with her creamy skin and glossy hair. There was something motherly about her that made women feel unashamed of their lumpy figures and bad skin. Something reassuring that seemed to say, “Everything can be made better.”
The class began. After relaxation, the exercises seemed gentle enough but required fierce concentration. The exercises had to be combined with breathing and strengthening the stomach and pelvic muscles.
They finally took a break for coffee and biscuits. Rosemary began to tell the small group that Joseph Pilates had been interned in World War I and that was when he had developed the system of exercises and after the war had gone to America, where he had set up classes next to the New York Ballet School.
She broke off and took Agatha aside. “I know you must be dying for a cigarette. You can nip downstairs and go through to the room at the very back.”
Agatha longed to be able to say she wouldn’t bother, but the craving for nicotine was strong. She stood in the back room feeling guilty, but nonetheless lighting up a cigarette. Sarah, Rosemary’s assistant, was working on someone in the next room.
A girl’s voice said, “I didn’t want to do this. But Zak wants me to get a bikini wax before I’m married.” This was followed by a giggle.
“Don’t marry him!” Agatha wanted to scream. She had a feeling of feminist rebellion. It was all very well to keep oneself as fit and beautiful as possible, but all this total removal of hair, so that one looked like a Barbie doll, Agatha felt was going too far. And what sort of fellow ordered his girlfriend to have a bikini wax? “Thanks, Sarah,” she heard the girl say. “I’d better go. Zak’ll be waiting for me. He wants to make sure I’ve got it done.”
Agatha heard her leave. She had a sudden urge to see this Zak. She stubbed out her cigarette and went through to reception.
A young man was standing there, hugging a pretty blond girl. “You ready, Kylie?” he said. With his dark good looks and the girl’s blond prettiness, Agatha was reminded of the couple on Robinson Crusoe Island. She was snuggling up to him, but he had the same waiting feel about him as the man on the island.
She shrugged and went upstairs just as the class was resuming. When it was over, Agatha cheerfully signed on for ten lessons. She felt relaxed and comfortable and the exercises appealed to her common sense. Time to fight against old age. Strengthen the kneecaps and avoid kneecap replacements; strengthen the pelvic muscles and avoid the indignity of incontinence. She told Rosemary she would go for lunch and come back to get her face done. She took out her mobile phone and called the hairdresser and booked herself in for a late appointment to get her hair tinted.
By the end of the day, when she returned home with her hair once more glossy and brown and her face massaged and treated, she began to feel like her old self, her old pre-James self. The ‘For Sale’ sign had gone from outside his cottage. She wondered what the new neighbour would be like.
♦
The next morning, Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, called. “You look great, Mrs. Raisin,” she said. “The holiday must have done you good.”
Agatha began to tell her about the family on Robinson Crusoe Island and how much she had enjoyed their company. As she talked, she realized that she had not once bragged to them about her skill as a detective.
“Have you heard from James?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.
“James who?” asked Agatha curtly.
Mrs. Bloxby looked at Agatha curiously. Agatha, before she had left, had refused to talk any more about James.
But Agatha suddenly remembered Marie saying that James could not surely take holy orders as he had been married. The thought that James might just have said that to get off the hook was something she did not even want to contemplate.
“So what’s been happening?” asked Agatha lightly. “No crime?”
“No murders for you,” said the vicar’s wife. “Very quiet.”
“Who’s bought the cottage next door?”
“We don’t
know. There’s a newcomer to our ladies’ society, a Mrs. Anstruther-Jones. She’s just moved into the village. She wanted the cottage but someone else got it first, so she bought Pear Tree Cottage…you know the one, behind the village stores.”
“What’s she like?”
“You can judge for yourself. There’s a meeting tonight.”
“Meaning you don’t like her.”
“Now, I never said that.”
“If you don’t have a good word to say for anyone, you don’t say anything. How’s Miss Simms?”
Miss Simms was secretary of the ladies’ society, an unmarried mother.
“Miss Simms has a new gentleman friend. He’s in sofas.”
“Married, I suppose.”
“I think so. Listen to that. The rain is on again. It’s been raining since you left.”
The doorbell rang. “I’m off,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha opened the door and found Detective Sergeant Bill Wong on the doorstep. “Hullo,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “See you tonight, Mrs. Raisin.”
“I thought you women would be on first-name terms by now,” said Bill, following Agatha through to the kitchen.
“It’s tradition in the ladies’ society that we use second names, and in this over-familiar touchy-feely world, I rather like it,” said Agatha. “Coffee?”
“Yes. I see you haven’t given up smoking.”
“Did I even say I would try?” demanded Agatha with all the truculence of the heavily addicted.
“Thought you might.”
“Never mind that. Here’s your coffee. How’s crime?”
“Nothing dramatic. Nothing but the usual cut-backs. Village police stations are closing down all round. Did you know they had closed Carsely police station?”
“Never!”
“Yes, and the one at Chipping Campden and the one in Blockley. So we spend most of our time on the road. Someone called nine-nine-nine last night and howled it was an emergency. Got there and found it was her cat stuck up a tree.”
“And how’s your love life?”
“On hold.”
Agatha looked at him sympathetically. Bill had a Chinese father and an English mother, the combination of which had given him attractive almond-shaped eyes in a round face and a pleasant Gloucestershire accent. “How’s yours?” asked Bill.
“Non-existent.”
Agatha saw Bill was about to ask about James, so she began to describe her odd feeling about the couple on Robinson Crusoe Island.
“It sounds to me as if you were bored and looking for a bit of action, Agatha.”
“On the contrary, I wasn’t bored at all. I met some super people. Still…there was something odd there. And I saw a couple in Evesham yesterday who reminded me of them.”
“You’d better find some work quickly or you’ll be seeing crime everywhere. Thinking of doing any public relations work?”
“I might.” Agatha had once run a highly successful public relations company but had sold up to take early retirement and move to the country. Since then, she had often taken on freelance work. “Public relations is a different world now,” she said. “It used to be you were neither fish nor fowl. Despised by the journalists and the advertising people as if you weren’t doing a real job. Now the public relations people are often celebrities themselves.”
“I hear Charles is married.”
“So what?”
“Oh, well,” said Bill hurriedly. “I’d better get on. Let me know if you stumble across any dead bodies. I could do with a change.”
♦
After he had left, Agatha switched on her computer to see if she had any e-mail. There was one from Roy Silver, a young man who used to work for her, asking where she was; and one from Dolores, the pretty young Chilean girl. To Agatha’s dismay, it was all in Spanish, but she noticed the names Concita and Pablo Ramon. She printed it off and then drove to the Falconry Restaurant in Evesham, where the owner, Juan, was Spanish, and asked him for a translation.
“She says,” said Juan, “‘Dear Agatha, Such excitement. Do you remember the couple, Pablo and Concita Ramon? Well, Pablo has just been arrested. It is in all the newspapers. Concita was drowned on Robinson Crusoe Island and Pablo said she fell out of the boat. But a hiker up on the hills saw him push her. He knew she could not swim. He had her heavily insured and her family are very wealthy. How are you? Let me know. Love, Dolores.’”
So that’s why he seemed to be waiting, thought Agatha. He was just waiting for the right opportunity. She wished now she had said something, let him know she was on to him. But she hadn’t really noticed anything significant at all.
♦
Agatha sat at the ladies’ society meeting that night as Miss Simms, the secretary, in her usual unsuitable dress of tiny skirt, bare midriff, pierced navel and stiletto heels went through the minutes of the last meeting. The teacups clattered, plates of cake were passed round, and outside the rain drummed down on the vicarage garden. Mrs. Anstruther-Jones turned out to be one of those well-upholstered pushy women with a loud braying voice. Agatha detested her on sight. She could feel some of her old misery creeping back again and tried the breathing exercises she had been taught and, to her amazement, felt herself beginning to relax. She would phone Roy and see if he had any work for her. James was gone and Charles was gone and Agatha Raisin was grimly determined to move on.
∨ The Day the Floods Came ∧
2
Agatha found it hard, as winter moved into spring, to keep up her spirits. It was the rain – steady, remorseless rain. Water dripped from cherry blossom trees in the village gardens and yellow daffodils drooped under the onslaught.
And then in April, following a day of heavy cloudbursts, a watery sunshine gilded the puddles in Lilac Lane. Agatha set off for her Pilates class, to which she was now thoroughly addicted, the only healthy addiction she had ever had in her life. Just before the bridge on the Cheltenham Road in Evesham, she let out an exclamation of disgust. The police were diverting the traffic. She swung right. She was the leading car. Other cars followed her. If I make a left along here, she thought, it’ll take me down to Waterside. She cruised down the hill and then jammed on the brakes with an exclamation of dismay. Waterside had gone. The river Avon was rising up the hill before her. She signalled to the other cars that she was going to reverse, made a three-point turn and decided to head out on the ring road over the Simon de Montfort Bridge and approach Evesham from the top road.
Cars were slowing over the bridge to look at the drowned fields on either side. She turned into Evesham and parked in the car park at Merstow Green. She decided to walk down to the Workman Bridge and view the extent of the flooding. She walked down Bridge Street, which is a steep hill leading down to the arch of the Workman Bridge. As she approached, she could see that Pont Street on the other side of the bridge was under water. Water surged past the houses on the waterfront. Two people outside Magpie Antiques were desperately hanging on to a doorway and waiting for help. Overhead, an Air Sea Rescue helicopter whirred across the sky. Agatha marvelled that the day had arrived when she could see Air Sea Rescue turning out to save the people of middle England.
She walked to the center of the bridge and joined the spectators. Debris and tree branches raced past on the swollen river. There was a crunching sound as a caravan which had floated loose from a nearby caravan park got jammed under the bridge.
And then, as Agatha leaned over the bridge and stared down at the water, gilded by sunshine for the first time in weeks, she let out a gasp.
Like Ophelia, the girl from the beauticians, who she remembered was called Kylie, floated underneath her on the flowing river. Her blond hair was spread about her. She clutched a wedding bouquet. As Agatha and the other spectators watched in horror, the body twisted and turned and sank from sight.
Agatha pointed and tried to scream, but as in a nightmare, no scream came out. But the other spectators were shouting and yelling. A policeman spoke into a two-way radio on his lapel a
nd then, as they all waited, a police patrol boat came speeding along underneath. More policemen appeared on the bridge, saying, “Move along. The bridge isn’t safe. Move along.”
They were hustled back up Bridge Street by the police.
Agatha felt shaken. Zak did it, she thought. Just like that chap on Robinson Crusoe Island. All thoughts of going to her Pilates class were driven from her mind.
♦
“You can’t just barge in here every time you feel like it,” said Mrs. Wong, barring the doorway to her home. “I’ve read about women like you. Chasing young men.”
“I’m here on a police matter,” said Agatha, who had driven to the Wongs’ home directly from Evesham.
“Then go to the police station. It’s Bill’s day off.”
Bill came round the side of the house at that moment, holding a trowel in one earthy hand. “Agatha!” he said. “I thought I heard someone. Come round to the back garden. What about some tea, Mother?”
His mother muttered something sour under her breath and shuffled off. Agatha followed Bill. The garden was Bill’s pride and joy. “Just clearing up after that dreadful rain.” Bill indicated two garden chairs. “Sit down and tell me what brings you.”
Agatha blurted out about the floods in Evesham and seeing the body of Kylie. “She could just have been frightened by the prospect of her wedding and committed suicide,” said Bill. “It’ll come under Worcester police, not us.”
“He must have done it. Zak,” said Agatha. “And remember I told you about that couple on Robinson Crusoe Island? Well, I had an e-mail from someone I met there and he did murder her. Said she fell off the boat but he was seen pushing her.”
“I would think it very odd if it turns out to be her fiancé,” said Bill. “So obvious.”
“But isn’t it usually the obvious?” asked Agatha. “The nearest and dearest?”
“I’ve got a friend in Worcester police,” said Bill. “I’ll give him a ring tomorrow. Aren’t these floods dreadful? And all those poor people with the contents of their houses wrecked by flood-water.”
