M.C. Beaton - The Day the Floods Came

“She insisted sulkily that she’d thought she was. I said, so what about these twins? She said the doctor must have made a mistake. She was going back to Paris and wanted a divorce. I said she could get one if she took all the blame. God, I never realized what she was really like. She pointed out, quite rightly, that there was nothing on record that she was pregnant. And there wasn’t! She had made me swear not to tell her parents. After the wedding I said, ‘Let’s tell them now,’ and she said, ‘Oh, no, Maman and Papa would be so shocked.’ And to think I went along with it!

“I mean, she certainly was no virgin when I’d first had her. I felt stuck, and I would have been stuck if it hadn’t been for my man, Gustav.”

“He’s back with you, is he?” Agatha remembered Charles’s terrifying butler.

“Yes, and terribly keen on gadgets is old Gustav. I kept forgetting appointments, dinners and things that people had phoned up to invite me to. So Gustav bought this thingy that plugs into your phone and records things. He went over the tapes and glory be, there were the two calls from her saying she thought she was pregnant and then the one saying she had been to the doctor and it had been confirmed.

“Anyway, my lawyers are dealing with it and I don’t want to see her or anyone from France again.”

“Why pick on you?”

“That’s where it gets interesting.”

“I thought it was all already interesting enough,” commented Agatha.

“Boofy Pratt-Rogers, an old school friend of mine who works at the British Embassy in Paris, got the low-down. Anne-Marie Duchenne, that’s the wife, had one flaming affair with some French comte. Can’t remember his name. They were supposed to get married and were engaged and all and then this comte ups and offs at the last minute and marries someone else. Anne-Marie devastated and furious and with a bad case of the ‘I’ll show him.’ Family take her to Saint Trap to recover and she’s tipped off that I’m a rich English milord. Of course I’m only a baronet, but what does a frog know?” said Charles with a burst of xenophobic bitterness.

“Mrs. Bloxby would say,” said Agatha, “that the good Lord was punishing you for years of philandering.”

“Mrs. Bloxby would not say anything so unkind. Shall we go?”

“After you’ve paid the bill,” said Agatha.

Charles had parked a little way down the High Street from the restaurant. Agatha was walking along to the car with him when she suddenly came face to face with Marilyn Josh. She quickly ducked her head and scurried along to the car. Open the door, Charles, quickly, her mind pleaded as he fumbled for his keys. Just before Agatha slid into the passenger seat, she glanced back. Marilyn was standing looking along the street at her.

“Lost something?” asked Charles as Agatha crouched down. “No, that was Marilyn Josh on the High Street, just before we reached the car. She was looking straight at me, and when I got into the car I looked back, and she was standing in the High Street staring at me.”

“I thought you were wearing some disguise when you interviewed her.”

“Yes, a blond wig and glasses. It really did alter my appearance.”

“Were you by any chance wearing the clothes you’re wearing now?”

Agatha glanced down at her biscuit-coloured trouser-suit. “Lord, I was wearing this last time I saw her.”

“Can’t be helped. She probably thought there was something familiar about you, but couldn’t quite think what.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Agatha. Charles had left and she was preparing for bed when the phone rang. It was Bill Wong. “The most peculiar thing has happened, Agatha,” he said. “We’ve just arrested two young fellows high on drugs, who frightened the life out of a woman in Mircester by driving straight at her. She said she jumped clear and was able to give us a description of the car and the licence number. Tough old bird with nerves of steel. So we picked them up. The car was stolen. They’re being charged with that, plus possession of drugs. Now Worcester police are going to have to be brought into this because they’ll want to know if they were the ones who killed Mrs. Anstruther-Jones. They could be the ones that went for you.”

“Don’t tell Brudge about me,” pleaded Agatha.

“I can’t very well tell him now,” said Bill, “and more’s the pity. They’re trying to say they only did it to give her a fright, just a joke, they would have slammed on the brakes at the last minute. There’s been a few more instances of this kind of thing. We’ll need to sweat it out of them, find the other cars they’ve stolen and try to get forensics to come up with something. It could be that the attack on you was just these silly buggers playing games.”

“What about Mrs. Anstruther-Jones?”

“Could be them as well and it was a joke that went wrong. I’ll let you know.”

Agatha, after she had rung off, found herself hoping that it had been they. But before she fell asleep, Marilyn Josh’s face rose before her eyes. She could only hope she hadn’t recognized her.

♦

The following day was sultry and warm. The sun was veiled in thin cloud. The leaves on the trees hung motionless. What a day for standing behind a counter with a hot tea urn and a hot coffee urn, Agatha thought crossly.

She put on a loose summer gown and made her way along to the hall. At the back of the hall, tables and chairs had been laid out to make a temporary tea-room. There was a long trestle-table filled with home-made cakes and sandwiches and the urns of tea and coffee.

Three o’clock arrived. Agatha shifted restlessly in the heat. Very few people were coming in. The school hall smelled of dust and chalk. Dust motes drifted in shafts of sunlight.

Mrs. Bloxby, who had been selling tickets at the school hall door, surrendered her post to Miss Simms and joined Agatha. “It’s quite sad,” she said. “Poor Mr. Parry. That’s him over there.”

Agatha looked to where a stooped, elderly gentleman was standing in front of one of his photographs.

“Who’s he?”

“Mr. Parry is the man whose collection of old photographs it is. So sad. I would have thought more people would have been interested.”

“Take over from me,” said Agatha. “I’ll have this place full in an hour.”

She went to a cupboard where she knew materials were kept for finger-painting, having once been drafted by Mrs. Bloxby to supervise a kindergarten class while the teacher went to the doctor. She pulled out a large square of cardboard and painted FREE TEAS, HOME-BAKING, CHURCH HALL, ALL WELCOME on the card. She went to her car and drove up to the main road and tacked the card onto a tree. Then she went back to the hall.

“We’re giving away the teas and stuff,” she told Mrs. Bloxby. “Don’t panic. I’ll pay you for them.”

“That’s awfully generous of you. Are you sure?”

“Real little Lady Bountiful, me,” said Agatha with a shrug. “Anything to liven this dump up.”

Cars started to arrive and then a whole coach-load of people. Mrs. Bloxby was once more at the door, saying sweetly, “It’s two pounds for admission, but that covers your afternoon teas.” Agatha grinned. The vicar’s wife had jacked up the price from twenty pee. Then she was kept so busy serving that the rest of the afternoon flew past until every cake and sandwich had gone. Old Mr. Parry had spent a happy time taking people round his exhibition of pictures.

“I think you’ve done enough, Mrs. Raisin,” beamed Mrs. Bloxby. “The ladies and I will clean up.”

“Thanks,” said Agatha with relief. “I’m so hot and sticky, I need a bath.”

“Oh, before you go, Mr. Parry would really like to show you his photographs. He says you’ve been working so hard you haven’t had enough time to see them.”