Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came (12 page)

‘There are other things to talk about. Books. Movies.’

‘Ah, books. You read
A Cruel Innocence
. You said it did not ring true. Take me through that.’

Agatha bit her lip. She did not want him to know that she had intimate knowledge of Birmingham slums.

To her relief she saw a woman driving out of the entrance to Barrington’s villa.

‘Look!’ she cried. ‘That’s probably her.’

‘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 blond, 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.

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 freelance 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.

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.’