by M C Beaton
“Yes.” Agatha looked sour. “Okay, he’s a handsome man. I haven’t made a pass at him once. But it is galling that he doesn’t seem to see me as a woman.”
“Come, now. You surely don’t want another involvement after all you’ve been through.”
“It makes me feel ugly and unwanted,” said Agatha in a small voice.
“Agatha, you are not a teenager any more. You are a mature woman. You should be able to think well of your appearance without needing some man to make you feel good.”
“I know, I know, but that’s the way it is.”
“It looks very much as if this Mr. Barrington might be the murderer.”
“I suppose. I’m losing interest. Thanks for listening. I may as well have an early night.”
“Wait a minute. I’ve got something for you.”
Mrs. Bloxby walked off into the kitchen and came back carrying a casserole. “Here you are, some of my lamb casserole with dumplings. I don’t think you’re eating properly.”
“Thanks,” said Agatha. “I haven’t been eating much at all.”
She carried the casserole back to her cottage, noticing as she walked along Lilac Lane that Stephanie’s car was not parked outside John’s cottage.
Agatha put the casserole down on the kitchen table. She phoned him.
“Oh, Agatha,” he said. “I did try to call you. She just didn’t show up.”
“Mrs. Bloxby’s given me a lamb casserole and there seems loads there, enough for two. Want some?”
“That’s kind of you, but I’ve already eaten, and I should really get started on a new book. See you around. Bye.”
Agatha slowly replaced the receiver. So that was that. She heated the casserole, helped herself to a plate of it, and filled two small dishes for her cats.
The doorbell rang. Agatha leaped to her feet. John!
But when she opened the door, Mrs. Anstruther-Jones was standing there. “What is it?” demanded Agatha rudely.
“May I come in? I want to ask you a favour.”
“All right.” Agatha turned and walked indoors and Mrs. Anstruther-Jones followed her. “So what is it?” asked Agatha again.
“It’s the oddest thing. I knew this chap when I was very young. Tom Clarence. He’s phoned up and wants me to meet him in Evesham for a late drink.” She giggled. “I used to be awfully keen on him. He’s married. I’m meeting him at the Evesham Hotel.”
“So what’s it got to do with me?”
“Well, him being married and all. I don’t want to be recognized.”
“So?”
“I wondered if I could borrow that blond wig of yours and the glasses. Sort of a disguise.”
“Sure,” said Agatha, suddenly weary. “I won’t be needing either. I’ll get them for you.”
She went up to her bedroom. What a life, she thought, as she picked up the wig and glasses. Even an old trout like Anstruther-Jones has a date.
She went downstairs and shoved them at her. “Have fun.”
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“No.”
Mrs. Anstruther-Jones giggled again. “You must be so used to these sorts of liaisons,” she said, and before Agatha could think of a reply, she headed out of the cottage.
Agatha slammed the door after her.
She did not know that she would never see Mrs. Anstruther-Jones again.
∨ The Day the Floods Came ∧
6
Agatha awoke next morning to a sunny day and restored spirits. She would forget about the case and phone Roy in London and see if there was any free-lance work on offer to keep her busy. She looked out of her kitchen window. The garden seemed to be one green mass of weeds. Normally, she would have asked Joe Blythe, a village local who charged high rates for painfully slow work, but the realization – if Roy had nothing for her – that she was facing a prospect of inactivity, spurred her to find a hoe, put on gardening gloves and get down to the task of doing the weeding herself.
Her cats curled around her legs in the warm sunlight in a rare show of affection. Perhaps if I turned into a real village woman, pottering around the house and garden all day, my cats would appreciate it, thought Agatha. She should never have become involved in trying to solve Kylie’s murder. Somehow, John’s very lack of response to her as a woman had undermined her confidence and she felt that when it came to detective work she was nothing more than a bumbling amateur. She was just working the tough roots of a dandelion out of the soil when she heard her doorbell ring.
Agatha sat back on her heels, debating whether to answer it. In the days of James Lacey, she would have run to the door, her heart bursting with hope. But even the thought that it might be John did not move her. The bell went again, and faintly she heard a voice shouting, “Police!”
Now what? Agatha got to her feet and made her way quickly through the house. She opened the door just as the bell shrilled again. Detective Inspector Brudge stood there, flanked by a policewoman and a plain-clothes officer.
Agatha led them into the living-room. “Where were you last night?” demanded Brudge.
“Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I’ve often seen this on television and I didn’t believe it happened in real life,” said Agatha. “No, I won’t just answer the question until you tell me what this is about.”
They locked eyes for a long moment, then he shrugged. “Mrs. Anstruther-Jones was found dead in the early hours of this morning.”
The wig, the glasses, thought Agatha desperately. Did someone mistake her for me?
“How was she killed?”
“Hit and run.”
“Where?”
“On Waterside. May we have your movements for last night?”
“I came back here late afternoon,” said Agatha. “I went to visit Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife.”
“At what time?”
“Oh, around seven o’clock. I’m not sure. We talked for a bit. Then I came back here.” Agatha steeled herself. “Mrs. Anstruther-Jones called on me.”
“Time?”
“Again I’m not sure. Ten, maybe.”
“And what did she want?”
“She was meeting an old flame. She wanted to borrow my blond wig and glasses. She said he was married and she was meeting him for a late drink at the Evesham Hotel and didn’t want to be recognized. I gave them to her.”
“So what was she doing walking along Waterside? Why not park at the Evesham Hotel?”
“I would guess,” said Agatha, “that she was enjoying the secrecy of meeting a married man for a drink. She giggled a lot. I think she probably parked on Waterside so that she could walk up to the hotel.”
There was a silence. Then Agatha asked, “How do you know it was a hit and run? And if it took place on Waterside, why was the body not found until the early hours of the morning?”
“She had been thrown clear over some bushes. You must see the obvious, Mrs. Raisin. In the dark and with the wig and glasses, someone obviously mistook her for you. Have you told me everything you know about the Kylie Stokes case?”
“Yes,” said Agatha. She could not tell him now, at this late date, about the attempt on her life.
“We’d better take time and go over everything – and I mean, everything – you know again. Someone obviously thinks you do know something that might incriminate him.”
So Agatha talked and talked. The policewoman took notes in rapid shorthand. The cats, sensing Agatha’s distress, coiled around her ankles.
And then a policeman appeared in the room, escorting John Armitage. Oh, God, thought Agatha. I must do something. He might tell them that I was nearly the victim of a hit and run.
“Sit down, Mr. Armitage,” said Brudge. John sat down next to Agatha on the sofa.
He outlined what had happened to Mrs. Anstruther-Jones. John gave an exclamation and turned to Agatha. “Why, that’s what…”
Agatha threw herself into his arms and kissed him on the mouth. �
�Don’t tell them,” she mumbled against his lips, and then drew away, saying, “Oh, darling. I am so frightened. I lent her my wig and glasses and somebody obviously thought it was me.”
John looked at Agatha impassively and then turned to Brudge. “I suppose you want to know where I was last night?”
“More than that. I want to know everything you have found out. You have been investigating a murder with Mrs. Raisin here. Somebody obviously finds her a threat. Let’s go over again what you’ve got.”
While John talked, Agatha nervously fingered her lips. She found that one sturdy hair was growing just above her upper lip and blushed red with mortification. Had he felt it? Should she excuse herself and run up to the bathroom and yank it out? But if she left the room, and without her controlling presence, John might let slip about the attempt on her life.
Such was her worry about that hair that she could hardly feel all the fear she should have been feeling about what had been another attempt on her life.
Brudge turned back to her. “Did Mrs. Anstruther-Jones tell you who she was meeting?”
“Tom someone,” said Agatha, “I know – Tom Clarence.” Brudge said to his detective, “Get on to that right away. He might still be there. Now, Mrs. Raisin, I have warned you before and I am warning you again – no more amateur investigation. If it weren’t for you, that woman would still be alive. If you plan to leave the area, you must let us know where you are going. The same goes for you, Mr. Armitage. You will now accompany us to headquarters, where you will both make formal statements.”
“I’ll just go to the bathroom first,” said Agatha. She fled up the stairs and into the bathroom, found a pair of tweezers and yanked the offending hair out. Damn middle age and all its indignities.
♦
John and Agatha had followed the police cars to Worcester. After they had given their statements and were making their way back to Carsely, John said stiffly, “I’ll drop you off and then I really ought to get down to some work.”
“I wasn’t making a pass at you,” said Agatha, studying his stern profile. “I was trying to shut you up from saying anything about the attempt on my life.”
“I gathered that. Nonetheless, I do have to work and we have been told not to interfere anymore. That poor woman. What a mess!”
Agatha realized that they only connection she had with John was Kylie’s murder. Now he would no longer have time for her.
It must have been that hair, she thought. He must have felt it and got a disgust of me. The world is full of young, pretty, smooth-skinned women; why should he even look at me?
She gave a strangled sob.
“There, now,” said John. “Don’t cry. I know you must be feeling dreadfully guilty about poor Mrs. Anstrather-Jones’s death. But you lent her the disguise in good faith.”
And Agatha now did feel guilty about the fact that she was sobbing over middle-aged vanity and not Mrs. Anstruther-Jones’s death.
She blew her nose defiantly and then said, “I wonder how the police got on with Barrington.”
“We may never know now,” said John, underlining the fact that as far as he was concerned, the case was closed.
♦
Later that day Agatha decided to go and see Mrs. Bloxby. The vicar’s wife greeted her, exclaiming, “I heard it on the news. Poor Mrs. Anstruther-Jones.”
“It’s worse than you know,” said Agatha, following her in. She told her about the wig and glasses.
“If she hadn’t been so very silly, it wouldn’t have happened,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s a lovely day. Go into the garden and have a cigarette and I’ll bring you something.”
Agatha went out to a table in the garden and sat on a rustic seat under the shade of a magnificent wisteria which hung down over a pergola. Mrs. Bloxby had a magic touch with flowers and the garden was a riot of daffodils, tulips, impatiens and a late-flowering cherry tree whose blossoms were rising and drifting on the lightest of breezes.
The garden bordered the churchyard where ancient stones leaned this way and that among the tussocky grass.
Mrs. Bloxby emerged bearing a tray with a glass of chilled wine and a plate of ham salad, saying, “There you are. You’ll feel better when you’ve had something.”
As Agatha ate, Mrs. Bloxby said, “Yes, she didn’t have to wear the wig and glasses. You say she was going to meet an old school friend? So why the secrecy? She envied you, you know. I think she wanted to be like you.”
“That makes me feel worse,” groaned Agatha. “Now the police have told me very firmly to back off and John doesn’t want to have anything to do with me and I think it’s because I kissed him.”
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin!”
“No, it’s not what you think. I was trying to warn him not to tell the police something. But you see, I’d got this hair growing above my upper lip and maybe he felt it against his skin and got disgusted.”
The vicar’s wife emitted an odd sound. Agatha glared at her. Were Mrs. Bloxby not such a lady, Agatha could have sworn she actually sniggered.
“Mrs. Raisin, here is a man who has just learned that a woman who used to visit him as much as she could has been brutally killed. Then you kiss him. I really don’t think he would have noticed if you’d had a full beard.”
“May I stay here for a bit?” asked Agatha. “I don’t feel like going back to my place. I let the cats out into the garden before I went to Worcester and they’ve been fed.”
“Stay as long as you like,” said Mrs. Bloxby, and then started guiltily as she heard her husband arriving home.
She rose hurriedly to her feet. “Back in a minute.”
Agatha heard the murmur of voices. Then she heard the vicar exclaim, “That wretched woman is nothing but trouble.”
Mrs, Bloxby returned to the garden just as Agatha heard the vicar’s study door slam.
“On second thoughts, I’d better be going.”
“Oh, do stay.”
“No, I planned to phone Roy Silver and see if there was any free-lance work going. I never got round to it. I’ll do it now. Keep myself occupied.”
A sad Agatha walked along to her cottage. Nobody liked her and nobody wanted her.
She was just turning into Lilac Lane when she saw Joanna Field going into John’s cottage.
She hesitated. Should she join them? What had Joanna found out?
Probably nothing, she thought sourly. Just finding some excuse to call on him.
Agatha decided to check her face for any other hairs and then put on a face-pack. The green goo was just beginning to harden when the doorbell rang.
She splashed water on her face and scrubbed it with a clean towel, and then ran downstairs.
Agatha opened the door to find John and Joanna there. “Why aren’t you at work?” she asked Joanna.
“We were all sent home early.”
“Joanna has some interesting news.” John smiled. “You’ve got little patches of some green stuff on your face.”
“Go into the kitchen,” said Agatha. “Back in a minute.”
She rushed upstairs again and this time looked in her magnifying mirror. Sure enough, there were little bits of green stuck to various parts of her face.
I need glasses, came the thought, but she quickly dismissed it. She washed and creamed her face and washed it again. Carefully she applied make-up before going back down to join them.
Joanna was wearing figure-hugging trousers in a biscuit colour and she had a crisp white blouse tied at her slim waist. John was wearing a blue shirt and blue cords in a soft material. Despite the difference in their ages, they looked to Agatha’s jaundiced eyes very much a couple.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Wait till you hear Joanna’s news first,” said John.
Agatha joined them at the kitchen table and smiled at Joanna. I will not be jealous, she told herself firmly.
“It’s like this,” said Joanna. “Barring
ton was taken away on Sunday evening by the police.”
“How do you know this?”
“Wait. We didn’t know about it until yesterday, when Mrs. Barrington burst into our room at the office. She was raging. She said, “Have any other of you sluts been having an affair with my husband and trying to blackmail him?” Then she began to cry and it all came out. The police had taken him away for questioning. He’d spun her some story that they wanted to know more about Kylie’s friends. Then this morning they were back again and took him away again and this time she learned about Kylie blackmailing her husband. Well, we gave her tea and soothed her down. Phyllis added fuel to the fire by saying that she knew something had been going on when she didn’t know a thing. Mrs. Barrington ended up saying she’d had enough of him and would divorce him.”
“Did she think he might have killed her?”
“That’s just it,” said Joanna, her eyes glowing. “She said he could be very violent and she’s sure he did it and she’s going to tell the police that!”
“There’s only one problem with that,” said Agatha. “Why kill Kylie and in such an elaborate way after he had paid out the money?”
“Perhaps,” said John, “because she’d asked for even more.”
“And what about Mrs. Anstruther-Jones?”
“I think our murderer happened to be driving along and just saw her, the way he saw you. He recognized the fair hair and glasses and gunned the engine.”
“What do you mean, ‘the way he saw you’?” asked Joanna.
Agatha shot John a repressive look and said quickly, “Just what he said. He means the murderer thought Mrs. Anstruther-Jones was me.”
“How exciting!”
How exciting to be young and not have anyone out to kill you, thought Agatha. Then she had an awful idea. “What if the police release the fact that the killer thought she was me? What if they bring out all that stuff about me masquerading as representing a television company? Then everyone will know my true identity and whoever it is could come here looking for me.”
“I don’t think they’ll do that,” said John slowly. “Brudge won’t want to let his superiors know that he didn’t do much to stop you investigating. No, I don’t think they’ll do that.”
