M.C. Beaton - The Day the Floods Came

Her cats curled around her legs in the warm sunlight in a rare show of affection. Perhaps if I turned into a real village woman, pottering around the house and garden all day, my cats would appreciate it, thought Agatha. She should never have become involved in trying to solve Kylie’s murder. Somehow, John’s very lack of response to her as a woman had undermined her confidence and she felt that when it came to detective work she was nothing more than a bumbling amateur. She was just working the tough roots of a dandelion out of the soil when she heard her doorbell ring.

Agatha sat back on her heels, debating whether to answer it. In the days of James Lacey, she would have run to the door, her heart bursting with hope. But even the thought that it might be John did not move her. The bell went again, and faintly she heard a voice shouting, “Police!”

Now what? Agatha got to her feet and made her way quickly through the house. She opened the door just as the bell shrilled again. Detective Inspector Brudge stood there, flanked by a policewoman and a plain-clothes officer.

Agatha led them into the living-room. “Where were you last night?” demanded Brudge.

“Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I’ve often seen this on television and I didn’t believe it happened in real life,” said Agatha. “No, I won’t just answer the question until you tell me what this is about.”

They locked eyes for a long moment, then he shrugged. “Mrs. Anstruther-Jones was found dead in the early hours of this morning.”

The wig, the glasses, thought Agatha desperately. Did someone mistake her for me?

“How was she killed?”

“Hit and run.”

“Where?”

“On Waterside. May we have your movements for last night?”

“I came back here late afternoon,” said Agatha. “I went to visit Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife.”

“At what time?”

“Oh, around seven o’clock. I’m not sure. We talked for a bit. Then I came back here.” Agatha steeled herself. “Mrs. Anstruther-Jones called on me.”

“Time?”

“Again I’m not sure. Ten, maybe.”

“And what did she want?”

“She was meeting an old flame. She wanted to borrow my blond wig and glasses. She said he was married and she was meeting him for a late drink at the Evesham Hotel and didn’t want to be recognized. I gave them to her.”

“So what was she doing walking along Waterside? Why not park at the Evesham Hotel?”

“I would guess,” said Agatha, “that she was enjoying the secrecy of meeting a married man for a drink. She giggled a lot. I think she probably parked on Waterside so that she could walk up to the hotel.”

There was a silence. Then Agatha asked, “How do you know it was a hit and run? And if it took place on Waterside, why was the body not found until the early hours of the morning?”

“She had been thrown clear over some bushes. You must see the obvious, Mrs. Raisin. In the dark and with the wig and glasses, someone obviously mistook her for you. Have you told me everything you know about the Kylie Stokes case?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. She could not tell him now, at this late date, about the attempt on her life.

“We’d better take time and go over everything – and I mean, everything – you know again. Someone obviously thinks you do know something that might incriminate him.”

So Agatha talked and talked. The policewoman took notes in rapid shorthand. The cats, sensing Agatha’s distress, coiled around her ankles.

And then a policeman appeared in the room, escorting John Armitage. Oh, God, thought Agatha. I must do something. He might tell them that I was nearly the victim of a hit and run.

“Sit down, Mr. Armitage,” said Brudge. John sat down next to Agatha on the sofa.

He outlined what had happened to Mrs. Anstruther-Jones. John gave an exclamation and turned to Agatha. “Why, that’s what…”

Agatha threw herself into his arms and kissed him on the mouth. “Don’t tell them,” she mumbled against his lips, and then drew away, saying, “Oh, darling. I am so frightened. I lent her my wig and glasses and somebody obviously thought it was me.”

John looked at Agatha impassively and then turned to Brudge. “I suppose you want to know where I was last night?”

“More than that. I want to know everything you have found out. You have been investigating a murder with Mrs. Raisin here. Somebody obviously finds her a threat. Let’s go over again what you’ve got.”

While John talked, Agatha nervously fingered her lips. She found that one sturdy hair was growing just above her upper lip and blushed red with mortification. Had he felt it? Should she excuse herself and run up to the bathroom and yank it out? But if she left the room, and without her controlling presence, John might let slip about the attempt on her life.

Such was her worry about that hair that she could hardly feel all the fear she should have been feeling about what had been another attempt on her life.

Brudge turned back to her. “Did Mrs. Anstruther-Jones tell you who she was meeting?”

“Tom someone,” said Agatha, “I know – Tom Clarence.” Brudge said to his detective, “Get on to that right away. He might still be there. Now, Mrs. Raisin, I have warned you before and I am warning you again – no more amateur investigation. If it weren’t for you, that woman would still be alive. If you plan to leave the area, you must let us know where you are going. The same goes for you, Mr. Armitage. You will now accompany us to headquarters, where you will both make formal statements.”

“I’ll just go to the bathroom first,” said Agatha. She fled up the stairs and into the bathroom, found a pair of tweezers and yanked the offending hair out. Damn middle age and all its indignities.

♦

John and Agatha had followed the police cars to Worcester. After they had given their statements and were making their way back to Carsely, John said stiffly, “I’ll drop you off and then I really ought to get down to some work.”

“I wasn’t making a pass at you,” said Agatha, studying his stern profile. “I was trying to shut you up from saying anything about the attempt on my life.”

“I gathered that. Nonetheless, I do have to work and we have been told not to interfere anymore. That poor woman. What a mess!”

Agatha realized that they only connection she had with John was Kylie’s murder. Now he would no longer have time for her.

It must have been that hair, she thought. He must have felt it and got a disgust of me. The world is full of young, pretty, smooth-skinned women; why should he even look at me?

She gave a strangled sob.

“There, now,” said John. “Don’t cry. I know you must be feeling dreadfully guilty about poor Mrs. Anstrather-Jones’s death. But you lent her the disguise in good faith.”

And Agatha now did feel guilty about the fact that she was sobbing over middle-aged vanity and not Mrs. Anstruther-Jones’s death.

She blew her nose defiantly and then said, “I wonder how the police got on with Barrington.”

“We may never know now,” said John, underlining the fact that as far as he was concerned, the case was closed.

♦

Later that day Agatha decided to go and see Mrs. Bloxby. The vicar’s wife greeted her, exclaiming, “I heard it on the news. Poor Mrs. Anstruther-Jones.”

“It’s worse than you know,” said Agatha, following her in. She told her about the wig and glasses.

“If she hadn’t been so very silly, it wouldn’t have happened,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s a lovely day. Go into the garden and have a cigarette and I’ll bring you something.”

Agatha went out to a table in the garden and sat on a rustic seat under the shade of a magnificent wisteria which hung down over a pergola. Mrs. Bloxby had a magic touch with flowers and the garden was a riot of daffodils, tulips, impatiens and a late-flowering cherry tree whose blossoms were rising and drifting on the lightest of breezes.