M.C. Beaton - The Day the Floods Came

“We’ll follow carefully,” he said, switching on the ignition and letting in the clutch. “Don’t want her to know she’s being followed.”

“She won’t know she’s being followed,” Agatha pointed out. “It’s only in spy stories that they know they are being followed.”

Mrs. Barrington, if it was Mrs. Barrington, drove into Evesham and parked in Merstow Green. When she emerged from her car, they saw she was slim and blonde, with long tanned legs ending in trainers. She headed straight for the beauticians.

“It’s the Pilates class today,” said Agatha. “I forgot. I’ll run around the corner to that cheap shop in the High Street and buy leggings and a T-shirt.”

“I’ll get something as well,” said John. “Bit of exercise would do me good.”

“I don’t think there’ll be room for you. But we can try.”

Ten minutes later, Rosemary welcomed them both. “You’re in luck,” she said to John. “Two of my ladies didn’t turn up. But we’ve done the relaxation bit.”

♦

While they performed knee stirs, hamstring stretches and the diamond press – the last a pretty gruelling exercise – Agatha stole covert looks at Mrs. Barrington. She had dyed blond hair, worn long. She was very slim and had an even tan, that faintly orange tan which comes from a bottle. Her face was only faintly lined, a long face, a Modigliani face. Her concentration was fierce. The other members of the class groaned and chatted and laughed as they performed their exercises, but her face remained throughout a mask of almost narcissistic concentration.

Hardly the sort of woman to get on chatty terms with, thought Agatha. A lot of money had gone into keeping her slim and fairly unlined. Her leotard was an expensive one.

After the class was over, John stayed behind in the exercise room while the women went into the other room to change.

“I feel better after that,” commented Agatha to Mrs. Barrington. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Agatha Raisin.”

“Stephanie Barrington,” she replied with a cool look. “Now, I must go.”

Agatha watched helplessly as Stephanie put on her coat and headed for the stairs. Agatha struggled quickly out of her leggings and T-shirt and put on her street clothes. She rushed to join John in the other room and stopped in surprise. He was chatting to Stephanie, who looked quite animated and was saying, “But I’ve read all your books.”

Over her shoulder – her slim back was to Agatha – John gave Agatha a dismissive roll of the eyeballs.

She went reluctantly downstairs. Now what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t sit in the car. John had the keys.

She stood behind the shelter of the car and finally saw them emerge. They stood talking for a while on the pavement and then, to her relief, John headed towards the car-park.

“So how did you get on?” demanded Agatha impatiently.

“I’m giving her dinner tonight,” he said triumphantly.

“Where?”

“My place.”

“Can I come?”

“Bad idea. She wants to talk to me about writing a book. She won’t talk freely with you around.”

“When her husband knows who it is she’s meeting, he’ll put a stop to it. He’ll remember you from this morning.”

“He won’t know. She said he sneers at everything she does, so she’s not going to tell him.”

“Fancy you, does she?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Wouldn’t fancy her a bit, if I were a man,” said Agatha as they drove off. “Looks a cold fish.”

He grinned. “I am sure she has hidden passions.”

♦

That evening, Agatha fretted alone. She did not have a crush on John, and yet she resented his interest in other women like Joanna Field and now Stephanie Barrington. Of course, it had all to do with the case. She decided to visit Mrs. Bloxby.

Mrs. Bloxby listened carefully to Agatha’s adventures and then said, “You are very, very lucky the police did not book you for impersonating a television researcher.”

“They’ve got enough to do. I found things out for them they wouldn’t have known otherwise and I wasn’t conning anyone out of money.”

“So he’s with this Stephanie Barrington at the moment?”

“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.