Agatha Raisin 12-The Day the Floods Came

by Beaton, MC

  Agatha and John sat side by side on a green velvet-covered sofa. Looking round, Agatha decided that much of the family life must go on in the kitchen because everything in the lounge looked new and barely used. The room was cold.

  A few moments after her father had left, Ann came into the room. She was fairly pretty, with a round face, wide brown eyes and dark curls.

  “Like a drink?” asked Ann, going to a cocktail cabinet against the wall and opening it. The strains of “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms” filled the room. Inside, the cabinet was lit with pink neon. Agatha noticed that the bottles were all full and glasses of different sizes neatly ranged. Obviously not a family of drinkers.

  Agatha glanced at John, who shook his head. The thought flashed into her mind that if John did not drink much, there was little hope of softening him up for the kill.

  “Not for us,” she said. “Come and sit down, Ann. I decided it would be better to interview each one of you individually.” She went on to ask Ann about her job and her hobbies and the entertainments of Evesham before getting on to the subject of Kylie’s death.

  “I can’t think how anyone could murder her,” said Ann. “I mean, there was nothing to murder.”

  “What do you mean?” asked John.

  “Well, she was pretty friendly towards everyone, easy to get on with.”

  “Apart from Zak, did she have any boy-friends?” asked Agatha.

  “She was engaged to a boy called Harry McCoy, but she dumped him for Zak.”

  “Anyone else? What about any of the bosses?”

  She laughed. “Mr. Barrington? No, not possible.” So Harry hadn’t gossiped to the girls.

  “So tell me about her engagement to Zak. Was she happy?”

  Agatha looked in irritation at John, who had risen and crossed to the cocktail cabinet and was opening and shutting the lid, letting out bursts of tinkling music.

  “Help yourself,” said Ann.

  John regained his seat. “I was fascinated by the mechanism.”

  “You were asking about her engagement,” said Ann. “She was ever so happy. She had a lovely diamond ring. Phyllis was mad at her, of course.” Ann blushed. “Don’t tell Phyllis I said anything. She’s got a temper.”

  “Yes, I gather Phyllis was dating Zak before he got engaged to Kylie.”

  “Ever so cut up about it, Phyllis was,” said Ann. “And Kylie did rather flash that ring under Phyllis’s nose.”

  “And yet you say there was nothing about her that would drive anyone to murder her!”

  “Oh, well, girls are always quarrelling,” said Ann sententiously.

  “So you don’t think Phyllis could have murdered her?”

  Ann giggled. “Are you doing Crime Watch for the TV? Sounds like it.”

  “No, no,” said Agatha quickly. “Kylie’s death intrigues me. And John Armitage here is a detective-story writer, a famous one.”

  Ann surveyed John without much interest. “Didn’t think anyone read books these days, with so many channels on the telly to watch.”

  “John sells millions of books,” said Agatha.

  “Must be to old people,” said Ann. “Awful lot of them around these days.”

  To be on the safe side, Agatha turned her questioning back to the pleasures of the youth of Evesham and then they took their leave.

  “Not much there,” said John, stifling a yawn.

  He’s getting bored, thought Agatha. Not surprising. Men of his age who look like him usually go after younger women. I’m getting old. Soon no one will want me.

  As she got into his car, she said in a small voice, “Maybe you’ve had enough.”

  “Not yet. Who’s left?”

  “Mary Webster and Joanna Field.”

  “Okay, let’s get rid of one of them and have lunch.”

  Agatha consulted her notes. “Mary Webster lives in that new housing development on the Four Pools Estate. Make a left here.”

  But when they got to the address Mary Webster had given them it was to find no one was at home. “That leaves Joanna Field,” said Agatha.

  FIVE

  JOANNA Field lived in a flat above a flood-damaged shop in Port Street. They rang the downstairs bell. “I don’t think they’ll have any electricity yet,” said John. He tried the door. “It’s open. Let’s go up.”

  On the stairs up they could see the watermark from the flooding. John knocked at a door at the top.

  It was opened by Joanna Field. So domineering had Phyllis been when Agatha had first met the girls that she had not registered then that Joanna was pretty. She had curly auburn hair and intelligent grey eyes in her smooth young face.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Come in.”

  “I hope we’re not disturbing you,” said John. The room into which she led them was sunny and filled with a cosy clutter of books, flowers, chintz-covered furniture and the strains of Max Bruch’s Violin Concerto in G Minor. Joanna switched off the music and urged them to sit down.

  Agatha asked her now-usual opening questions and Joanna replied that she spent a lot of her evenings at Evesham College studying computer programming. “I want to get on,” she said. “My father died shortly after I was born and then my mother got ill with cancer while I was at school. I gave up a chance of getting to university to nurse her. She’s dead now.”

  “Sorry,” said Agatha gruffly, feeling rather shabby at involving this girl in lies about television. Determinedly she ploughed on. “We’re also interested in the death of Kylie, as you know.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Joanna. “I think poor Kylie was one of those people who set up their own murder.”

  “How is that? I mean, what makes you say that?”

  “In the old days, she would have been called a minx. She liked winding up men. She liked her bit of power and she liked money. That’s the only reason she was interested in old Barrington.”

  Agatha stared at her. “You know about Barrington? I thought that was a well-kept secret. How did you find out?”

  “She’d gone out to powder her nose one day and I went to her desk to look for some forms. There was a message on her computer screen. ‘See you tonight, lovey. Usual place. Arthur.’ Arthur is Mr. Barrington’s first name, and there’s only one Arthur in the firm. After that, I noticed that he would often summon her to his office on some pretext or another and she’d come out after about half an hour with her lipstick smeared and her hair tousled.”

  “You are a very observant girl,” commented John, smiling at her.

  Those intelligent grey eyes turned on him. “I’m sure I recognize you,” said Joanna. Rising, she went to the bookshelves and took out a book and looked at the photograph on the back cover. “You’re John Armitage, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “So what’s your interest in the youth of Evesham?”

  To Agatha’s horror, John leaned forward as Joanna sat down again and said, “I’ll tell you the truth. Agatha Raisin, here, has been employed by Kylie’s mother to try to find out who killed her daughter. I am Agatha’s neighbour and decided to help. Please keep this to yourself.”

  “I thought there was something odd in the way you kept trying to find out about Kylie,” said Joanna. “I tell you what. I’ll ferret around and see if I can find anything for you.”

  “Here’s my card,” said John. “Let me know if you hear anything.” He smiled at Joanna and she smiled back. Agatha cleared her throat with an irritated sound.

  “Who do you think might have killed Joanna?” she asked. “Zak?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, Zak was besotted with her.”

  Agatha’s mind flashed back to the couple on Robinson Crusoe Island. She had forgotten that Zak and Kylie had reminded her of them. But she herself had witnessed how distressed Zak was.

  “What about Harry McCoy?”

  “Not him either. I really don’t know. Her death involved drugs. Maybe she heard something she shouldn
’t.”

  John said, “Well, keep your eyes and ears open. You could be of great help to us.” Again that smile.

  Agatha and John rose. “Before you leave,” said Joanna to John, “you must sign your books.”

  Agatha fidgeted impatiently while John signed four books. “Thank you,” said Joanna and John kissed her on the cheek.

  When they were both outside in the street again, Agatha muttered, “So, Humbert Humbert, where now?”

  He swung round. “What did you say?” he demanded.

  “I was wondering about lunch,” said Agatha quickly.

  “We’ll get a snack somewhere. What about a pub?”

  “There’s a quiet pub up in the High Street. The food won’t be very exciting but it’s never busy and we can talk there.”

  Once inside The Grapes, they ordered beer and sandwiches. The sandwiches were dry and curling at the edges. “I can see why this place is quiet,” said John. “Let’s see how far we’ve got. Phyllis, maybe with the help of Harry McCoy, somehow lured her out of her home in her wedding gown and bumped her off. ‘Show us the wedding dress,’ that kind of thing.”

  “Don’t like it,” said Agatha, giving up on the sandwiches and reflecting that the ongoing battle of the middle-aged bulge was at least getting some help.

  “So now we come to Barrington. He was frightened of his wife finding out. Kylie liked money, or so we gather. I wonder what this Barrington looks like. I mean, for a young girl like that to have an affair with a middle-aged man can only mean money was the attraction.”

  “Exactly,” said Agatha forcefully, thinking of Joanna.

  “So just suppose she was blackmailing him.”

  “I wonder. I wonder if the police have looked at her bank account.”

  “There’s no reason for them to do so. They’d need to know about Barrington and I bet they don’t.”

  “We could go and see Freda Stokes,” said Agatha. “But what reason do we give for asking to see her daughter’s bank statements?”

  “We could just ask to see them. She might just take it as part of the investigations. Where does she live?”

  “Near Joanna. Up and round the corner by the tax office.”

  “So let’s go. Are you going to eat your sandwiches?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then let’s see how we get on with Freda Stokes.”

  Freda lived in a red brick terraced house. “This is quite near where Sharon Heath lives as well,” said Agatha.

  Freda Stokes answered the door. She stared at them for a minute and then smiled at Agatha. “It is you. My! I wouldn’t have thought a wig and glasses would make such a difference. Come in. I should be at work but I’m having a break.”

  The small downstairs living-room into which she led them had been turned into a sort of shrine for her dead daughter. There were framed photographs of Kylie everywhere—on the table, on the walls. Kylie at school. Kylie as May Queen. Kylie as a toddler being held in the arms of a small man.

  “Is that your husband?” asked Agatha, pointing to the man in the photograph.

  “Yes, that’s Bill. Cancer took him off when she was young.”

  Agatha thought guiltily of the packet of cigarettes nestling in the depths of her handbag and once more silently vowed to give up smoking.

  “Can I offer you anything? Tea?”

  “Maybe in a minute,” said Agatha. “We wondered if we could have a look at Kylie’s bank statements.”

  “Why?”

  “Just part of our investigations,” said John.

  “And who are you?”

  “Sorry,” said Agatha, and introduced John.

  “I’ll go and get them but I still don’t see why you want them.”

  As they said nothing in reply to this, Freda, after another doubtful look at them, went out. They heard her mounting the stairs.

  “Nice woman,” said John. “Do you know, for her sake, I hope there’s nothing of interest in those statements.”

  They waited patiently. The room grew dark, and outside, it started to rain. Rain smeared the windowpanes and a gust of wind soughed down the street outside.

  At last, Freda returned with a sheaf of bank statements. Her eyes were red with fresh weeping. “Here you are,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute. It fair upset me going through her things.”

  John separated the bank statements. “Here. You take this lot and I’ll look through these.”

  They studied the statements. At first it appeared that Kylie’s wage, each week, was spent soon after it had been deposited in the bank. Then John gave an exclamation and passed a statement to Agatha. “Look at that. Fifteen thousand pounds deposited the week before her death!”

  “It may not be Barrington,” said Agatha. “Maybe it was from Zak’s father to buy a trousseau or something.”

  Freda came back in. “I’ll get you some tea now.”

  “There’s something here we should discuss first,” said Agatha. “Fifteen thousand pounds was deposited in your daughter’s account the week before her death.”

  “That’s not possible. Let me see it!”

  Agatha held out the relevant bank statement, which Freda snatched from her.

  “I don’t understand,” Freda said piteously. “She was always broke. Always asking me for money. The bank must have made a mistake.”

  Agatha took a deep breath. “I am sorry to have to tell you this, Freda, but your daughter, Kylie, was having an affair with her boss, Mr. Barrington. We fear she might even have been blackmailing him.”

  Freda’s face was mottled with red. “I won’t listen to this filth. I’ll show you. That money probably came from Terry Jensen.” She walked to the phone and dialled a number. They heard her saying hullo and then asking Terry whether he had given Kylie a present of fifteen thousand pounds. The answer was obviously in the negative, for she put the phone down, shaking her head in bewilderment. Then she swung round on Agatha, her eyes glittering with rage. “Get out of here and don’t come back!”

  “But, Freda—”

  “Don’t you Freda me. You’re nothing but an interfering old busybody. I should have listened to that Anstruther-Jones woman in your village. She stopped me after I’d called on you, saying I looked distressed and could she help. I told her why I had visited you and she said I was to be careful. That she had heard you hadn’t really solved any crimes at all. It was the police that did it every time. All you ever do is just ask silly questions or dig up dirt. Well, you’re not going to ruin my daughter’s good name. I’m finished with you.”

  Agatha backed towards the door where John was already waiting, holding it open for her. She tried to protest. “Don’t you want to know who killed your daughter?”

  “OUT!” shouted Freda.

  And so they left. As they walked to the car, Agatha said in a small voice. “What now?”

  “We’ll see Barrington another time. Let’s try Mary Webster again.”

  They drove to the Four Pools Estate, off the Cheltenham Road, past Evesham College where Kylie used to meet Arthur Barrington and turned right into the housing estate opposite Safe-ways supermarket. “Just there,” said Agatha, pointing to a house at the end of a row. “Yes, that’s it.”

  Agatha still felt shaken after the confrontation with Freda. While she had been investigating on Freda’s behalf, she had felt like a real detective. Now she felt diminished. She longed to go home and forget about the whole thing. John wasn’t much company, handsome though he was. There was something almost robotic about his good looks, surely too smooth and unmarked for a man of his age. James Lacey was handsome, but in a high-nosed, rangy sort of way, and Charles was chatty. Maybe John Armitage had paid for a face-lift. As he rang the bell, she studied around his ears for any tell-tale signs until he turned and looked at her curiously with that green gaze of his that gave so little away.

  The door opened. A tired, flustered woman faced them. From behind her came the wail of a baby. “We’re from television,” sa
id Agatha. “Is Mary Webster at home?”

  The woman turned and called, “Mary!” in a high shrill voice. Then, facing them again, she said, “I’m ever so sorry, I can’t ask you in. Mary’ll need to take you somewhere.”

  She stood aside as Mary appeared, pulling on a raincoat. “Still wet, is it?” she asked.

  “It’s stopped now,” said John.

  “Take them somewhere for a coffee,” pleaded her mother. “Bunty needs her feed.” Another angry wail from somewhere inside the house bore out what she said.

  “’S awful,” grumbled Mary over her shoulder as she preceded them down the short garden path. “Mum’s too old to have more babies, but she would go and do it.”

  “There’s a Little Chef round the corner,” said Agatha to John. “Let’s take her there.”

  Mary was a very small girl wearing very high heels. She had perky features and an upturned nose. She reminded John of illustrations of Piglet in Winnie the Pooh. Her eyes were small and close together and those eyes surveyed them curiously as some five minutes later they sat over cups of coffee in the Little Chef.

  Feeling weary, Agatha introduced John and then asked the same questions about the amusements of the youth of Evesham before turning to Kylie’s murder. “What we really want to know at the moment,” said Agatha, “is whether you think Kylie was taking drugs or not.”

  “I know she did, just the once, like.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  She looked suddenly alarmed. “This won’t go out on the telly, will it? My ma would kill me.”

  “No, I promise you,” said Agatha. “Look, no tape recorder, no camera.”

  “I went into the Ladies’ at Barrington’s one day and Kylie was smoking. I said, ‘That cigarette smells funny.’ She giggled and said it was grass and would I like a puff. So we shared the joint and we was laughing all over the place. She made me promise not to tell anyone.”

  “When was this?” asked John.

  “Oh, would be last year.”

  “Was she with Zak then?”

  “No, she was engaged to Harry—Harry McCoy.”