M.C. Beaton - The Day the Floods Came

“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 people 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.”