Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came (8 page)

‘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.’

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 Sunday, and I’ll come with you and we’ll talk to this McCoy fellow on Sunday 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 Sunday.’

After he had gone, Agatha went upstairs, undressed, washed, put on a voluminous nightgown 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 romantically 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 on to 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.’

‘Not 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.’

Agatha put a mug of coffee down in front of him. ‘So what did you come for?’ she demanded harshly.

‘Curious to see how you were getting along.’

‘Splendidly, thank you.’

‘Any news of James?’

‘No.’

‘Any murders? What about this business in Evesham?’

‘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 Sunday, 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 your 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 I 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 down the road that Agatha had so recently fled along in terror. People were ambling about, 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?’