Agatha Raisin 12-The Day the Floods Came

by Beaton, MC

  “Nothing to do with me,” lied Agatha. “Look, Charles, I wish you would just finish your coffee and go. I’m sore because you didn’t invite me to the wedding. Even though you had blabbed to your bride about me, you could have insisted, or at least have had the guts to phone me up and tell me about it.”

  “I told you. I let slip about us to Anne-Marie and so she wouldn’t let me invite you. I didn’t want to rock the boat. I don’t want to have a failed marriage like yours, Aggie. Marriage takes work,” he said pompously.

  Agatha leaned across the table and slid his coffee mug away from him. “Get out, Charles. I’d forgotten how insensitive you can be.”

  “What about a kiss for old times’ sake?”

  “OUT!!!”

  “No need to get sore. I’m going.”

  He walked off stiffly, giving Agatha a good view of his now large bottom.

  Agatha ran to the door and shouted just as Charles was getting into his car, “And don’t come back!”

  Agatha then saw John Armitage, who was entering his front door with a bag of groceries, staring at her and gave him a weak smile before retreating indoors.

  “I hate it when people change,” grumbled Agatha to her cats. Charles had really only changed in appearance, but to admit that to herself would have made Agatha feel worse.

  On Saturday, Agatha’s alarm failed to work and she awoke to find it was a quarter to nine, so instead of the long session she had planned with make-up and clothes, she washed quickly and dressed in the first clothes that came to hand, and put on a little foundation cream and lipstick before scrambling down the stairs just as the doorbell rang.

  “Ready?” asked John. He was wearing a blue shirt under a soft suede jacket and casual trousers.

  “Ready,” said Agatha breathlessly.

  “No disguise?”

  “Rats! Won’t be a minute.” Agatha ran back up the stairs and put on the blond wig and glasses.

  “I meant to advise you to put on your disguise in the car,” said John when she reappeared. “No, leave it now,” he added as Agatha reached up a hand to pull the wig off again. “We’ll take my car.”

  He drove out of the village, smoothly and competently, while Agatha tried to think of things to say but felt unusually shy. At last she said, “I hope he’s at home.”

  “We’ll try anyway. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m all right now. Things are never so scary in daylight.”

  “I’ve never done anything like this before,” said John. “In fact, I’ve never lived in a village before. Always been in cities.”

  “Like Birmingham? I read one of yours books and it was based in Birmingham.”

  “I only did research there. No, I lived in London until my divorce.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “An amicable divorce?”

  “Had to be done without fuss on her part. She had been unfaithful to me too many times.”

  “Did that hurt?” asked Agatha curiously.

  “Not now. I’m glad it’s all over. What about you?”

  “He left me for the church. Last heard, he’s in some monastery in France.”

  “That must have been difficult.”

  Agatha sighed. “I never really had him. It was an odd marriage. We were like two bachelors rather than a married couple.”

  “That wasn’t the man I heard you shouting at a few days ago?”

  “No, that was someone else. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why do you set your stories in inner cities?” asked Agatha. “You don’t look like an inner-city person.”

  He had a pleasant, cultured voice, no trace of accent.

  “I wanted to write about real people.”

  “Sordid surroundings don’t make people real,” said Agatha with sudden passion as she remembered her own impoverished upbringing. “Their minds are often twisted with drink or drugs and their bodies old before their time with cheap junk food.”

  “You sound as if you are speaking from personal experience.”

  Agatha was a snob, and Agatha was not going to admit she had been brought up in a Birmingham slum. “I’m a good observer,” she said quickly.

  “I thought I was, too. We must talk some more about this.”

  When they got to Evesham, Agatha instructed him to park in Merstow Green. They left the car and were soon walking along the road that Agatha had so recently fled along in terror. People were walking along, women pushing babies in prams, men talking in groups; it all looked so harmless.

  They arrived at the house. “Which bell?” he asked. “There aren’t any names.”

  “The light was on in the upstairs before I was attacked.”

  “We’ll try that.”

  He rang the bell.

  They waited a few minutes. Then John said, “May as well try the bottom one,” and rang it.

  The door was opened by a young man, a very clean young man. He had neat light brown hair, a round face, a gleaming white short-sleeved shirt and jeans with creases like knife-edges. “Mr. McCoy?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, but if you’re selling anything—”

  “No, we represent a television company. We can’t cover the young people of Evesham without mentioning Kylie’s death. We would, of course, like to know what sort of amusements young people enjoy in a town like this. May we come in?”

  “I’ve got someone with me at the moment,” he said. “Can we go somewhere? There’s a café along towards the river.”

  “That’ll do fine.”

  “I’ll get my jacket.”

  He closed the door. “Seems a nice-enough fellow,” said John.

  “Shhh!” said Agatha.

  “Why can’t I come, too?” demanded a shrill female voice. Harry McCoy mumbled something in return and then the door opened. His face was red with embarrassment.

  They walked along the road together until they came to a café, the kind that sold light snacks. They took a table at the window. Outside, the river Avon slid along on its green-black way. A launch cruised past, sending waves of water to either bank.

  “I’m surprised this place is still open,” said Agatha. “I thought it would have been flooded out.”

  “It came right up to the doors,” said Harry. “Mrs. Joyce, that’s her behind the counter, who owns the place, had piles of sandbags at the front. Also the café’s higher up on a sort of mound than the houses on either side. They got the worst of it.”

  John returned from the counter, where he had gone to fetch cups of coffee.

  Agatha started by asking him questions about how young people amused themselves. Harry said sometimes they went up to Birmingham, a few of them sharing a car and taking turns at staying sober.

  “And what about Hollywood Nights, the disco?”

  “I wouldn’t be seen dead there,” said Harry. “Lot of layabouts.”

  “You were engaged to Kylie?”

  “Yes.”

  “What went wrong with the engagement?”

  “Zak’s what went wrong,” said Harry moodily. “Have you seen that car of his?”

  Agatha shook her head.

  “It’s a Jag. It turned her head. He took to waiting outside Barrington’s for her when she finished work and offering her a lift home. Phyllis Heger, she was engaged to Zak at the time, had told him Kylie was a virgin, and he said something like he would soon see to that. I tried to warn her. I couldn’t believe it when she broke off her engagement to me and became engaged to him.”

  “I thought Phyllis would be here any moment,” said Agatha.

  “Why?”

  “That was her with you this morning. I recognized her voice.”

  “I told her we were going to Butler’s in the High Street,” said Harry and flushed under Agatha’s curious gaze.

  “And are you and Phyllis an item?”

  He flushed again. “Naw. Phyllis is … Well, she’s just a girl. Not the k
ind you get serious about.”

  “So was Kylie really in love with Zak?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think she could see beyond the wedding. Zak’s father insisted on paying for a grand wedding. And they were going to spend their honeymoon in the Maldives. Kylie had never been abroad before, never been on an aeroplane, never even been up to London. She couldn’t talk about anything else.”

  “Bit insensitive of her to talk about it to you.”

  “She talked to the other girls in the office and they told me.”

  “Who lives upstairs from you?” asked John, speaking for the first time.

  “Marilyn Josh.”

  Agatha consulted her notes. “She works at Barrington’s?”

  “That’s right.”

  Was it Marilyn who had seen her the other night and alerted whoever it was who had tried to run her down? wondered Agatha.

  “We might have a word with her afterwards,” said John. “Is she away? She didn’t answer the doorbell.”

  “She sleeps late on Saturdays and nothing usually wakes her.”

  “So,” pursued Agatha, “what kind of girl was Kylie?”

  “She was lovely to look at. I mean, you see girls like that on the telly,” said Harry, “but you never expect to see one like that here. I couldn’t believe my luck when she agreed to be my fiancée. Mind you, I was a bit worried I’d got her on the rebound.”

  John and Agatha exchanged glances.

  “Who was she rebounding from?” asked John.

  “Mr. Barrington.”

  “What? The owner of Barrington’s.”

  “Him. Yes.”

  “Wait a bit. He can’t be a young man, surely, to own a firm like that.”

  Harry scowled. “He’s a dirty old man, nearly fifty.”

  “And not married?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, he is, but he told Kylie he would get a divorce.”

  Agatha looked at Harry in amazement. “And what did the other girls think about Kylie dating the boss?”

  “They didn’t know. She never told them. I knew, because I was mad about her.” He flushed an even deeper red than before. “I used to follow her. She’d told the other girls she was taking French classes at Evesham College, so after work, she’d walk to the car-park at Evesham College and he’d pick her up there.”

  “And were they having an affair?”

  “Kylie swore to me they’d never had an affair. He used to drive her out to restaurants in the country for dinner. He’d give her presents.”

  “Like what?” asked John.

  “He gave her a solid-gold necklace, that I know. She showed it to me and said she’d told her mum it was gilt.”

  “So how did that end?” asked Agatha, who was rapidly revising her opinion of Kylie.

  “A friend of his wife’s saw them together in that Greek restaurant in Chipping Camden and told her. Turns out his wife has a lot of money and he’d never intended getting a divorce. He managed to persuade his wife that Kylie had been thinking of leaving work and that because she was such a good worker, he had taken her out for dinner to persuade her to stay. Anyway, Kylie started going out with me. I thought all my Christmases had come. She was a beautiful girl.”

  “But what was she like?” demanded Agatha.

  “Of course, you never met her. She had a sweet face and this long blond hair and a figure like a model and …”

  Agatha did not want to say she had once seen Kylie at the beauticians because that might give Harry a hint that she was a local. “I’m not interested in what she looked like,” said Agatha. “I’m interested in her character.”

  Harry blinked a little, a puzzled frown between his brows. John thought that Harry had never bothered much about what Kylie was really like.

  “She chattered away about the office and the girls and things like that. Girl talk, you know. She said she was ambitious. She didn’t want to be stuck in Evesham for the rest of her life.”

  Agatha sighed. “But that’s exactly what would have happened if she had married you. Was she a virgin?”

  Harry turned red. “That’s a very personal question.”

  “No harm in answering it now she’s dead.”

  “No, she wasn’t,” he mumbled. “She was pretty hot.”

  Agatha said, “I think we should have a word with Marilyn, seeing as how she lives above you. Do you think she’ll be awake now?”

  “I’ll phone her.” He took a mobile phone out of his pocket and proceeded to dial. He turned a little away from them and muttered into it, but Agatha caught the gist of his remarks, which amounted to that he was with the television people and he didn’t want Phyllis to know because she would muscle in on the interview.

  Agatha’s previous mental picture of Kylie, reinforced by the visit from her decent mother, was beginning to change. Instead of Kylie being a fresh-faced innocent, if Harry McCoy’s remarks were anything to go by, Kylie had been an empty-headed little tart. Still, the girl had been murdered and no one should be allowed to get away with that.

  Marilyn arrived, breathless and excited, wearing black leggings, high-heeled white sling-backed shoes, a skimpy T-shirt, and a purple fake fur jacket. Her thin shoulders were hunched and her small mouth hung perpetually open under a long nose and heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Is there a hidden camera?” she asked, looking excitedly around.

  “It’s not Candid Camera,” said Agatha. “We’re just asking a few questions about the youth of Evesham in general and Kylie Stokes in particular.”

  “What’s your names?” asked Marilyn.

  “John Armitage,” said John with a smile. “And this is Pippa Davenport.”

  He could have thought of a better name for me, thought Agatha. John took over the questioning. He started by asking her about her life. Marilyn flirted with him, giggling and punctuating her answers with hundreds of “you knows.”

  Then he said, “Have any of you ever been in trouble over drugs?”

  “Don’t think so.” Marilyn looked sideways under her heavy lids at Harry. “There’s Phyllis. She’s tough, you know. She could be taking something, know what I mean?”

  “But no one you know has been in trouble with the police?”

  Marilyn shook her head.

  “How long had you all known each other?”

  “’Bout a year, you know. Phyllis has been with Barrington’s the longest. Maybe three years. Me, a year. The others had just joined before me. New business, you know. Been building up staff ever since, you know. They was a small firm in Worcester before then, you know. Just plumbing, like. Then Mr. Barrington decided to expand into bathroom fittings.”

  “How old was Kylie?”

  “Eighteen, same as me. She’d been working at the market with her mum when she left school at sixteen. She’d taken a computer course at the college. Said she wanted to better herself. Quite the little madam,” added Marilyn with sudden venom.

  “You don’t seem to have liked her,” said Agatha.

  The thin shoulders under the purple jacket shrugged.

  “And yet you all gave her a hen party?”

  “Oh, offices, you know. You get along, have a bit of a laugh.”

  “So tell me about the hen party.”

  “Mr. Barrington let us use the office after hours. We had drinks and a few laughs and then we dressed up Kylie in streamers and put on funny hats and walked her a bit of a way home through the town, you know. We was all a bit drunk, laughing, you know, and shouting rude remarks at the boys in the streets. Then we all split up when we got to the High Street.”

  “And were there any quarrels?”

  “Naw. Phyllis wasn’t there.”

  “Trouble-maker, is she?”

  “Yes, but don’t you go telling her I said so. She’s got a terrible temper.”

  They asked her a few more questions and then parried her questions about when the programme was going to appear before taking their leave.

  “There are lot of nice pe
ople in Evesham,” said Agatha as she and John walked to the car-park.

  “But not that lot at Barrington’s,” commented John. “Which of the girls have you still got to question separately?”

  “Three of them,” groaned Agatha. “Ann Trump, Mary Webster, and Joanna Field.”

  “Got their addresses?”

  “Yes.”

  “So let’s try them.”

  “You seem to be enjoying this.”

  “Oh, it keeps me away from the computer and it’s much more interesting than fiction.”

  When they got to the car, Agatha studied her notes. “Ann Trump lives out on the Cheltenham Road. We could try her.”

  “What other stones are we going to lift up?” he asked, letting in the clutch.

  “We’ve got to see Barrington himself.”

  “Better see him at the office. Even if we find out where he lives, he won’t talk easily with his wife there.”

  Agatha cast a covert glance at John as he negotiated the traffic. Here she was with a very good-looking man and, instead of feeling thrilled, feeling puzzled. He was easy in her company, rather, she judged, in the way he would be relaxed with an author he met at a book convention. That was it! His behaviour towards her was like that of a business colleague. His attitude was definitely sexless. Not a frisson.

  Still, Mrs. Bloxby had advised her not to scare him off, to play it cool. But what did the vicar’s wife know about men? thought Agatha sulkily.

  They had expected to find another flat, but Ann Trump’s home was a prosperous-looking villa. “Must live with her parents,” commented John as they walked up the garden path. “I never asked you. How are you feeling now after your fright?”

  “I’m all right now. Thanks,” said Agatha. She was about to add that she felt all right during the day, but was still sleeping with the light on and waking up in a sweat at the slightest sound during the night, but he was already ringing the doorbell.

  A man in golfing clothes answered the door. Agatha went into her usual television speech and desire to interview Ann Trump. He said he was Mr. Trump, Ann’s father, and turned away and shouted, “Ann! That telly woman you were talking about is here!”

  “I’ll leave you in the lounge,” he said. “My lady wife is out shopping and I’m off to play golf. Make yourselves comfortable.”