The Day the Floods Came ar-12

by M C Beaton

  “Bless you,” said Freda, tears now coursing freely down her cheeks. “I’ve been feeling so helpless.”

  Agatha handed her a wad of tissues. When Freda had recovered, Agatha saw her out and then returned to the kitchen and sat down, feeling guilty. After all, she did not deserve Freda’s blessing for pursuing an investigation out of no higher motive than curiosity and a desire to allay the boredom of retirement in a country village. Mrs. Bloxby was the one with pure motives. Or was she?

  By omission, she had deliberately led Agatha to believe the new neighbour wasn’t worth bothering about. She had some explaining to do.

  ♦

  Some ten minutes later, Mrs. Bloxby found herself facing a truculent Agatha in the vicarage drawing-room.

  “I shouldn’t try to manipulate your life,” said Mrs. Bloxby ruefully. “But I did not want to see you fall enamoured of another neighbour and get hurt.”

  “Do you know what I did?” demanded Agatha wrathfully. “He came to my door carrying a Bible, and I thought he was a Mormon and slammed the door in his face.”

  Mrs. Bloxby snorted with laughter.

  “It’s not funny!” howled Agatha. “What was he carrying a Bible for anyway?”

  “He left it with me,” said Mrs. Bloxby when she had stopped laughing. “It was James’s Bible. He found it in a closet. I’ll get it for you.”

  She went out and then returned carrying the Bible. Agatha opened it and noticed James’s name written in his familiar handwriting inside. A wave of love and loss engulfed her and she clutched the Bible and stared at Mrs. Bloxby with miserable eyes.

  “It’ll pass,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “All things pass.”

  Agatha firmly put the Bible away from her. “So tell me about John Armitage.”

  “I know very little. Just that he’s a successful writer. He seems very pleasant. I gather he was once married and is divorced. I think the Anstruther-Jones woman has been bothering him. I told him not to answer the door to her and she would soon get tired of calling on him.” Mrs. Bloxby looked at Agatha ruefully. “I’m afraid I told him not to answer the door to any of the women. They have all been pestering him, taking him cakes and home-made jam or copies of his books for him to autograph.”

  So I can’t do any of those things, thought Agatha. Rats.

  “I wish you had told me the truth,” she said severely. “I am not a child.”

  “No, I shouldn’t have misled you, but the temptation was irresistible. I won’t do it again.”

  “Sometimes I wonder about you,” said Agatha. “Anyway, that dead girl’s mother has just called on me. She wants me to investigate her daughter’s death. She even offered to pay me.”

  “It must have made you feel like a real detective.”

  “I am a real detective,” snapped Agatha, who had not quite forgiven the vicar’s wife for misleading her about John Armitage.

  “Of course. How are you getting on?”

  Agatha outlined her findings. Mrs. Bloxby listened carefully. Then she said, “Someone’s dealing drugs in Evesham. Could it be possible that Kylie stumbled across the source?”

  “Then that would suggest the club.”

  “Not necessarily. One of those girls could have said something, let something slip. They must all have had a bit too much to drink at that hen party. Maybe one of them panicked and told her supplier.”

  “Far-fetched,” said Agatha grumpily because she had not considered such a possibility herself.

  “Possibly. Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You’ll need to forgive me sometime.”

  “I have forgiven you,” lied Agatha and stumped out.

  ♦

  When she got home, she went over her notes and then logged everything she had in the computer. Whom should she approach that evening? Perhaps she should start with Harry McCoy before going on to one of the other girls. She looked at her watch and remembered she had a Pilates class and rushed to change into tights and a T-shirt before driving fast to Evesham. By the time she returned home, she was feeling relaxed and refreshed. Still no sign of John Armitage in residence, she noted.

  Later that day, she put on the new blond wig, tying it in a neat pony-tail. It looked much more natural than the old one, and the spectacles with the plain glass lenses really did make her look different. She hesitated before leaving. Was the disguise really necessary? Mrs. Stokes had asked her to investigate, so she could surely go as herself. But, then, Harry McCoy might be friendly with the girls. He might even be the villain!

  So Agatha set off, feeling very lonely. She missed Roy’s chattering company. When she parked in Merstow Green, she took out a street map of Evesham and checked on Harry McCoy’s address. He lived not far from the car-park in Horres Street. She decided to walk. The streets away from the High Street seemed strangely deserted. No children played outside. Television flickered behind lace-curtained windows. The wind had risen, and fallen cherry blossoms swirled in front of Agatha. It had turned unseasonably cold. She located the small red-brick-terraced house in which he lived. It looked dark and empty.

  There were two bells, one for upstairs and one for downstairs, but no one answered the summons of either.

  Agatha retreated. She decided to go back to the car-park and then call back at the house from time to time. She had forgotten her clipboard with the addresses of the other girls and was reluctant to go all the way home to get it. She sat in her car, smoking and listening to the radio, venturing out once more to take the long walk back to Harry’s house. She wished she had decided to park outside, but there was not a single parking space left in the street and to double-park would draw unwelcome attention to herself.

  By ten o’clock, she got wearily out of her car again. Just one more time. To her relief, there was a light shining in the upstairs window. She pressed the bell and waited.

  No reply.

  She pressed it again and stepped back and looked up. No curtain twitched. No face looked down at her. Should she try the neighbours? No, scrub that. She didn’t want him to know she was looking for him or to start lying to neighbours about some fictitious television programme.

  Agatha wearily turned away. A wasted evening. Why not just forget the whole thing and leave it to the police? She began to walk slowly along the deserted street.

  And then she sensed danger.

  Afterwards, she could not say why or what had alerted her or where the sudden feeling of menace had come from. She heard a car approaching. She twisted her head, saw headlights blazing, and in one split second realized the car was rushing at her at full speed.

  She threw herself over the garden hedge next to her, hearing the car roar past as it mounted the pavement where she had been standing and then hearing it lurch back onto the road. She lay in someone’s front garden, shivering and panting. A door opened.

  The next thing she knew was that someone was standing over her. She straightened up, ridiculously relieved to find that her wig was still in place.

  “What the ‘ell do you think you’re doing?” demanded a small, thin woman angrily.

  Agatha struggled up. “I’m sorry. I must have had a fainting fit and fallen over your hedge.”

  She swayed and then regained her balance. Despite her shock and fright, she did not want to say she had been nearly killed. Questions would be asked. The police called. And this time Brudge would really tell her to leave the whole thing alone.

  “I know your sort,” said the woman wrathfully. “Drunk, that’s what you are. And at your age. You oughter be ashamed of yourself.”

  Agatha made for the garden gate. One of her high-heeled shoes got caught in a loose brick on the path and she stumbled; and nearly fell. “Get out o’ here,” shouted the woman. “And I sober up!”

  Agatha felt that the walk to her car was the longest she had ever taken. She did not even feel safe when she was in her car.

  She accelerated out of the car-park at speed. John Armitage had cut shor
t his stay in London and was making his way leisurely down the road into Carsely when a car he recognized as his neighbour’s shot past him and hurtled off in front of him. “Crazy driver,” he muttered.

  He proceeded at a reasonable rate and then parked in front of his cottage. Before he switched off his headlights, he saw his neighbour’s car and that she was still in it, hunched over the wheel.

  He was about to open the gate and go in when he hesitated. Maybe she was ill.

  John approached Agatha’s car cautiously and then looked in the window. She had her face in her hands and her shoulders were heaving. He rapped on the glass.

  Agatha straightened up and gave him a look of wild terror.

  He opened the car door. “I’m John Armitage. Your neighbour. We haven’t really met. Is there anything I can do?”

  Agatha took a tissue out of a box on the seat beside her and blew her nose. “I had a fright,” she blurted out. “They tried to kill me.”

  “Was it road rage? I’ll call the police for you.”

  Agatha shook her head. She had been crying because, unnerved as she was, she had been feeling terribly alone. No Charles or James or even Roy to comfort her.

  “Would you like a brandy or something?”

  Agatha gave a choked sob. Then she said, “Help me indoors and I’ll tell you about it.”

  ∨ The Day the Floods Came ∧

  4

  Once indoors, Agatha settled John in the living room with a drink and went upstairs. She removed the wig and glasses and put on fresh make-up, reflecting that the best treatment for shock must surely be the company of a good-looking man.

  John looked up as she entered. She certainly had made a remarkable recovery, he thought.

  Agatha poured herself a shot of brandy and sat down opposite him.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said. “I don’t want the police to know about this. You see, someone’s just tried to kill me.”

  He did not exclaim or protest that she should indeed tell the police, but merely looked at her questioningly.

  She began to tell him all about the death of Kylie and about how she was masquerading as a television producer. John Armitage smiled.

  “What’s so funny?” demanded Agatha.

  “It explains the blond wig. You should really take it off before you return to Carsely. Your disguise has caused a lot of speculation. Mrs. Anstruther-Jones thinks she has the answer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you have a toy-boy and are striving to look younger.”

  Agatha’s face flamed with anger. “Silly old bat.”

  “Go on. You were telling me about this mystery.”

  So Agatha proceeded to tell him the rest of it, ending up by saying that she did not want to report the attempt on her life because the police would be furious with her.

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Go on. If I got attacked just because I was trying to see Harry McCoy, then he might be the clue I need.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully and then he said, “You’ve done this sort of thing before?”

  “Yes,” said Agatha. She was about to brag about other cases, but her knees began to shake. She was still not over her shock. Had she shown off in her usual way, then John Armitage would have lost interest in her. But the very fact that she was not flirting or simpering or trying to impress him endeared her to him.

  “You show a great deal of courage,” he said. “Were you always on your own when things like this happened before?”

  “I usually had someone helping me. My ex-husband, James, or a friend, Charles. But I’m on my own in this one. I must admit I had a bad fright. I might leave it for a few days.”

  He looked at the clock. “Goodness. It’s one in the morning. I’d better let you get some sleep.”

  And that’s that, thought Agatha. She racked her brains trying to think of a way to keep him or suggest another meeting, but she was too shaky and tired.

  He rose to his feet. “I tell you what: Why don’t you leave everything to Saturday, and I’ll come with you and we’ll talk to this McCoy fellow on Saturday morning, when he’s off work.”

  “Thank you,” said Agatha. “What time?”

  “I’ll pick you up at nine in the morning.”

  Then Agatha’s face fell. “Your face is on the jacket of one of your books in Evesham. You’ll be recognized. I didn’t know what you looked like until I saw your photo. You see, when you arrived on my doorstep, carrying that Bible, I thought you were a Mormon.”

  He laughed. “What have you got against the Mormons?”

  “Nothing at all. I’m sure they are splendid people. I just don’t like being preached at on my own doorstep.”

  “I have no intention of going in disguise,” he said. “You can say you have drafted in a celebrity author to help you with the script. I have done television scripts before.”

  “Then I’ll see you Saturday.”

  After he had gone, Agatha went upstairs, undressed, washed, put on a voluminous night-gown and crawled under the duvet. The events of the evening now seemed like a dream. He was a handsome man. How old was he? Despite his looks, probably around fifty. But men who kept their looks and figures after the age of forty were usually gay. Still, she found the thought of his support comforting. And, she told herself firmly, she had no intention of starting to think romatically about him.

  She fell asleep and woke two hours later, suddenly sweating with fear. The old cottage creaked and the wind sighed around outside. Agatha switched on the bedside light and then got out and switched on the overhead light as well. Her cats, who usually slept downstairs in their basket, appeared in the bedroom at that moment and climbed onto the bed. She settled down with a cat on either side of her and their purring soon soothed her back to sleep.

  ♦

  “How old do you think John Armitage is?” Agatha asked Mrs. Bloxby when the vicar’s wife called on her the next day.

  “Older than he looks. Miss Simms said she read an article about him. He’s actually fifty-three.”

  “I think he’s gay,” said Agatha.

  “Despite the fact that he’s been married? Why?”

  “Heterosexual men let themselves go.”

  “No necessarily. Look at my husband. Alf’s in good shape.”

  Agatha thought of the vicar – grey-haired, glasses, scholarly, slightly stooped – and reflected that love was indeed blind.

  “But to get back to the attempt on your life,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “That really worries me. Couldn’t you even tell Bill Wong about it?”

  “Bill Wong is a dear friend, but he’s a policeman, first and last. He would feel obliged to put in a report.”

  “Anything to do with drugs is highly dangerous,” cautioned Mrs. Bloxby.

  “I can’t understand it,” said Agatha, half joking. “I thought all the drug barons had gone over to smuggling cigarettes. They keep jacking up the price so it’s getting a bit like the States during prohibition. Do you know, there was an item on the news that said that twenty-five per cent of the British population bought their cigarettes on the black market. No one’s ever approached me.”

  “I think you’re in enough trouble as it is without buying contraband cigarettes,” said Mrs. Bloxby severely. “Anyway, I thought you were giving them up.”

  “I will, I will.” Agatha lit a cigarette. “When this case is over.”

  “If you’re still alive. Why don’t you believe Phyllis’s story that she and Zak had sex?”

  “Because she’s a nasty bitch and a compulsive liar.”

  “Still…Let’s think about Zak. It appears Kylie was a decent girl and her mother is a sterling woman. What sort of man orders his fiancée to get a bikini wax before the wedding? I mean, a lot of women who are going on their honeymoon get it done as a matter of course, not because of sex, but because of those thong swimsuits or even the ones that are high-cut on the leg.”

  “How do you know all this?
”

  “I’m not totally cut off from the world.”

  “But Zak was genuinely upset about her death. Those weren’t fake tears.”

  “Keep an open mind and do be careful, dear Mrs. Raisin.”

  “I’ll have John to look after me.”

  “May I give you some advice?”

  “I hate it when people say that. Okay, go on.”

  “I think it’s important you have some sort of protection during your inquiries,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “But men do not like needy women. Believe me, they can smell needy across two continents. Please do not think of him in terms of romance. I think he could be easily driven away.”

  “I don’t fancy him,” said Agatha sulkily. “You seem to think I’m like some sort of teenager.”

  That was what the vicar’s wife did think but she refrained from saying so.

  ♦

  Half an hour after Mrs. Bloxby had left, the doorbell went again. Agatha gave a nervous shiver but reassured herself that the sun was shining brightly outside, and the villain or villains, whoever they were, surely did not know her real identity. Unless they followed you home, came the heart-stopping thought. She peered through the spyhole she’d had installed in the door. At first she did not recognize the man standing outside, and then, with surprise, she did. She opened the door.

  “Charles?”

  It was indeed Sir Charles Fraith, her old friend and sometime lover. But instead of being small, and neat and slim, he was decidedly chubby. His hair had thinned and he had a double chin.

  “Come in,” said Agatha. “I’ve a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Although I shouldn’t even be speaking to you. Why didn’t you invite me to your wedding? I could have flown over to Paris.”

  Charles sat down at the kitchen table. “I couldn’t. You see, I’d told my wife, Anne-Marie, that we’d once been…er…intimate. It came up, sort of, when I was telling her about some of the murder cases we’d been involved in. She ordered me not to invite you.”

  “So what does she think about you being here today?”

  “She doesn’t know. I don’t like to upset her. She’s expecting twins.”