M.C. Beaton: The Day the Floods Came

“Cost you,” said the driver.

“Just go!” ordered Agatha.

She was too upset and humiliated even to cry. Not once had John tried to kiss her or show any sign of affection. He had wanted to get laid and she seemed easy.

When she got home, she sat down and switched on her computer and sent an e-mail to Marie, saying that she had changed her mind. She would like to go back to Robinson Crusoe Island. What dates?

Later that evening, she heard her doorbell. She was sure it was John. She put her head under the duvet. The ringing went on for some time. Then, after that, the phone began to ring. She got out of bed and pulled the jack out of the wall.

She would wait for Marie’s reply and then book her planes. Tomorrow, she would pack up her computer and luggage and move to a hotel in London until it was time to leave. She would tell Worcester police where she was and make them promise to tell no one else.

Agatha felt a pang. She would need to leave her cats again, but her cleaner, Doris Simpson, would look after them and they adored Doris.

She felt she hurt all over.

∨ The Day the Floods Came ∧

EPILOGUE

Once more on Robinson Crusoe Island, Agatha sat with Marie and Carlos in the lounge and watched the rain clouds sweep across the bay. It was cold. She should have realized it would be winter in August on the Juan Fernandez Islands.

But somehow there was still that atmosphere of peace and comfort, that feeling of being very far away from worries and troubles. Marie and Carlos were good listeners and took Agatha through her story over and over again, until it all seemed so incredible, almost as if it had all never happened.

“This Evesham sounds like a wicked place,” said Marie.

“On the contrary, the people are wonderful. That’s what makes it seem so odd,” said Agatha.

“And has this Marilyn Josh been arrested?”

“Yes; I read about it in the newspapers before I left. The police are keeping very quiet about me. I think they don’t want anyone to know I was masquerading as a woman from a television company. So I don’t get any glory.”

“You get the glory of knowing that a lot of villains are locked up,” pointed out Carlos.

“True,” agreed Agatha, although she privately thought it would have been nice to get some praise and recognition for her efforts.

When Carlos took himself off to go for a long walk, Maria asked, “And what about you ex-husband?”

“Oh, that’s definitely over,” said Agatha. “I’ve closed that chapter in my life.”

“So what about this writer who was supposed to be helping you?”

“He insulted me. I don’t want to have anything to do with him again.”

“Why?”

“He took me out for dinner. He is very attractive-looking. We went to a restaurant in Oxford.” Agatha broke off and bit her lip.

“So what happened?”

“You may as well know. He wrote a detective story I’d read based in the Birmingham slums, only you don’t call them slums any more. You refer to them politely as inner cities. I had said the background didn’t ring true and he asked me how I knew.”

“And how did you know?”

May as well tell the truth, thought Agatha. I’m so very far from home.

“Because I was brought up in that sort of environment until I escaped and clawed my way to the top, got a posh accent, got money and success. But my background is something I like to keep quiet about.”

“I do not see why,” said Marie. “It is a sign of how far you have come by your own efforts.”

“Britain isn’t so very class-conscious now, but it was when I was growing up. I’ve always had this feeling of not fitting in anywhere and that in itself breeds a sort of snobbery. Anyway, I told him because we’d had a fair bit to drink. He propositioned me, just like that. He hadn’t uttered one word of praise about my appearance, he hadn’t shown me any affection, he hadn’t even shown he desired me. So I thought it was because of my poor background that he felt he could dispense with the preliminaries.”

Marie sat like a small round Buddha, lost in thought, her mind going over Agatha’s previous stories about the case.

“I remember,” she said, “that your young friend, this Roy Silver, gave the impression that he was having an affair with you. Yes?”

“Yes, he did.”

“So you are a mature worldly woman who he believes has affairs. A lot of men do not court or woo these days, Agatha. It started in the seventies. Women’s magazines urging us to believe that we were the same as men and could behave like men. You can have it all. Do you remember that one? And endless articles about erogenous zones and sexual tricks of the brothel. Women were suddenly even more available for sex than they had ever been before, and so the courtesies between the sexes disappeared. When was the last time you saw a man on public transport stand up to give a woman a seat? And the women were equally to blame. Some even insulted men who held doors open for them. And the dignity of the housewife and mother was taken away. Women who did not work were held in contempt. Children are often brought up by cheap, uncaring help while the mother works.” She sighed. “Sometimes I feel we women have thrown off one set of chains only to be weighed down by another. I do not think he propositioned you because of your background, but because he, too, had been drinking. He is probably quite naive where women are concerned. And you must still have been suffering from shock.”

“Perhaps,” said Agatha moodily.

“Were you in love with him?”

“No, he’s too cold, too robotic.”

“And could it not be that you misjudged him? You said he’d had an unhappy marriage.”

“No need for him to take it out on me,” said Agatha waspishly. “He’s probably forgotten about the whole thing.”

♦

“Any news of Agatha?” John Armitage asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“No, she took off and left her cats at home for her cleaner to take care of. I think she told Doris Simpson where she was going, but Doris is very loyal and I think Agatha told her not to tell anyone. The near-death experience she had must have overset her. Or,” went on the vicar’s wife, “someone humiliated her. In the past, when Agatha has been hurt, she’s always run away.”

She gazed at John with her mild, clear eyes. He fidgeted and turned slightly red.

Mrs. Bloxby gave a little sigh. “You did something, didn’t you?”

He gave a reluctant laugh. “I took her out for dinner in Oxford. We drank a fair bit. I suggested we spend the night together.”

“Just like that?”

“She’s not a young girl,” said John defensively, “and she’d been having an affair with that horrible-looking young man…”

“Agatha is not having and never has had an affair with Roy Silver. She is very thin-skinned and doesn’t think much of herself. She has also surprisingly old-fashioned ideas when it comes to relationships. Agatha craves affection and romance and you offered a one-night stand. I assume there were no kisses or hand-holding?”

“Women don’t need that nowadays.”

“Women will always need that sort of thing.”

“I’ll make it up to her when she gets back.”

“Mr. Armitage, why don’t you just leave her alone?”

He stared at her in surprise.

“I must make some sort of amends.”

“Well, a simple apology should do. But don’t chase after her if you’re not in love with her.”

“Love?”

“It does exist,” said Mrs. Bloxby wearily.

♦

In his office in Worcester, Detective Inspector Brudge had an uneasy conscience. He should have warned that Raisin woman from doing any investigation right from the beginning. He was proud to be a member of the Worcester Police Force, which he considered the best in the country. Now he was having to cover up that small lapse. Of course it had come out about Agatha’s masquerade and he had been truthful enough in explaining to his superiors that he had warned her off, but had failed to explain that he had not warned her off in the beginning. Why couldn’t the woman go legal? Set up her own detective agency? Get licensed? He might just suggest it.