M.C. Beaton: The Day the Floods Came

♦

By the time Agatha boarded the small propeller plane to take her to Santiago, where she planned to spend one night before catching the flight to London, she felt talked out and soothed.

She was finally free of men, free of obsessions. From now on, she would be her own woman. For a start, she would wear sensible shoes and comfortable loose clothes, instead of teetering about on high heels and worrying about her waistline. Her face was shiny and free from make-up.

The captain climbed in behind the controls. He was extremely good-looking. Agatha automatically fumbled in her handbag for her make-up and then decided against it. Give your skin a chance to breathe, she lectured herself crossly.

In Santiago, she checked into the overfurnished Spanish decor of the Hotel Fundador. Not wanting to eat a formal meal by herself in the hotel restaurant, she unpacked the few things she needed for the night and the morning, and made her way to a cafe-restaurant on O’Higgins Avenue. She opened her Spanish-English dictionary and began to try to translate the food on offer, displayed on coloured placards on the wall. She ordered roast lamb and an avocado salad and a beer.

Distressingly small and beautiful children occasionally tried to make sorties into the café to beg before being chased away. Music was thudding out. Outside on the avenue, crowds sauntered up and down. It was a cold, clear evening.

Agatha’s food arrived. To her delight, not only was it cheap, it was delicious.

She felt happy and relaxed, her brain free from worries, anxieties and obsessions.

Agatha raised her glass of beer to her lips.

And then outside, amongst the crowds, James Lacey walked past.

Agatha dropped her glass with a crash. She would have recognized that rangy walk anywhere. Seizing her handbag and deaf to the shout of the waiter, who saw what looked like a customer escaping without paying, she darted out of the door and set off in pursuit.

She thrust her way through the crowds, sometimes losing him, and then seeing that dark head a distance in front of her. The crowd thinned and she put on a desperate spurt.

She caught up with him and seized his arm. “James!” she panted.

A total stranger turned round and looked down at her, a puzzled look on his face.

Agatha backed off, her face flaming. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “M-mistake.”

She turned away from him and scurried back off towards the café, where the waiter who was standing at the door was relieved to see her return.

She asked for her bill. He indicated her half-eaten food on the table. She shook her head, tipped him and paid her bill at the cash desk.

Then she walked slowly back to the hotel. She went up to her room and fell face-down on the bed. “Oh, James,” said Agatha. “Where are you?”

♦

In the morning, she sat down at a desk in the room, and taking a sheet of hotel stationery, she wrote to James at the Benedictine Monastery. She should have thought of it before, she told herself. Of course he was there. It was Marie’s questioning that had put the uneasy thought in her head that he might have lied about taking holy orders and becoming a monk.

She kept her letter short and cheerful, ending by asking him if he could send her a note to her home address and let her know how he was getting on. Then she packed her cases and left them for collection and went down to reception and asked them to post die letter for her.

Feeling better that she had taken some action to find out how he was, Agatha Raisin set out on the long journey home.