either.
Agatha retreated. She decided to go back to the car-park and then call back at the house from time to time. She had forgotten her clipboard with the addresses of the other girls and was reluctant to go all the way home to get it. She sat in her car, smoking and listening to the radio, venturing out once more to take the long walk back to Harry’s house. She wished she had decided to park outside, but there was not a single parking space left in the street and to double-park would draw unwelcome attention to herself.
By ten o’clock, she got wearily out of her car again. Just one more time. To her relief, there was a light shining in the upstairs window. She pressed the bell and waited.
No reply.
She pressed it again and stepped back and looked up. No curtain twitched. No face looked down at her. Should she try the neighbours? No, scrub that. She didn’t want him to know she was looking for him or to start lying to neighbours about some fictitious television programme.
Agatha wearily turned away. A wasted evening. Why not just forget the whole thing and leave it to the police? She began to walk slowly along the deserted street.
And then she sensed danger.
Afterwards, she could not say why or what had alerted her or where the sudden feeling of menace had come from. She heard a car approaching. She twisted her head, saw headlights blazing, and in one split second realized the car was rushing at her at full speed.
She threw herself over the garden hedge next to her, hearing the car roar past as it mounted the pavement where she had been standing and then hearing it lurch back onto the road. She lay in someone’s front garden, shivering and panting. A door opened.
The next thing she knew was that someone was standing over her. She straightened up, ridiculously relieved to find that her wig was still in place.
“What the ‘ell do you think you’re doing?” demanded a small, thin woman angrily.
Agatha struggled up. “I’m sorry. I must have had a fainting fit and fallen over your hedge.”
She swayed and then regained her balance. Despite her shock and fright, she did not want to say she had been nearly killed. Questions would be asked. The police called. And this time Brudge would really tell her to leave the whole thing alone.
“I know your sort,” said the woman wrathfully. “Drunk, that’s what you are. And at your age. You oughter be ashamed of yourself.”
Agatha made for the garden gate. One of her high-heeled shoes got caught in a loose brick on the path and she stumbled; and nearly fell. “Get out o’ here,” shouted the woman. “And I sober up!”
Agatha felt that the walk to her car was the longest she had ever taken. She did not even feel safe when she was in her car.
She accelerated out of the car-park at speed. John Armitage had cut short his stay in London and was making his way leisurely down the road into Carsely when a car he recognized as his neighbour’s shot past him and hurtled off in front of him. “Crazy driver,” he muttered.
He proceeded at a reasonable rate and then parked in front of his cottage. Before he switched off his headlights, he saw his neighbour’s car and that she was still in it, hunched over the wheel.
He was about to open the gate and go in when he hesitated. Maybe she was ill.
John approached Agatha’s car cautiously and then looked in the window. She had her face in her hands and her shoulders were heaving. He rapped on the glass.
Agatha straightened up and gave him a look of wild terror.
He opened the car door. “I’m John Armitage. Your neighbour. We haven’t really met. Is there anything I can do?”
Agatha took a tissue out of a box on the seat beside her and blew her nose. “I had a fright,” she blurted out. “They tried to kill me.”
“Was it road rage? I’ll call the police for you.”
Agatha shook her head. She had been crying because, unnerved as she was, she had been feeling terribly alone. No Charles or James or even Roy to comfort her.
“Would you like a brandy or something?”
Agatha gave a choked sob. Then she said, “Help me indoors and I’ll tell you about it.”
? The Day the Floods Came ?
4
Once indoors, Agatha settled John in the living room with a drink and went upstairs. She removed the wig and glasses and put on fresh make-up, reflecting that the best treatment for shock must surely be the company of a good-looking man.
John looked up as she entered. She certainly had made a remarkable recovery, he thought.
Agatha poured herself a shot of brandy and sat down opposite him.
“Thank you for your help,” she said. “I don’t want the police to know about this. You see, someone’s just tried to kill me.”
He did not exclaim or protest that she should indeed tell the police, but merely looked at her questioningly.
She began to tell him all about the death of Kylie and about how she was masquerading as a television producer. John Armitage smiled.
“What’s so funny?” demanded Agatha.
“It explains the blond wig. You should really take it off before you return to Carsely. Your disguise has caused a lot of speculation. Mrs. Anstruther-Jones thinks she has the answer.”
“What’s that?”
“That you have a toy-boy and are striving to look younger.”
Agatha’s face flamed with anger. “Silly old bat.”
“Go on. You were telling me about this mystery.”
So Agatha proceeded to tell him the rest of it, ending up by saying that she did not want to report the attempt on her life because the police would be furious with her.
“So what are you going to do now?”
“Go on. If I got attacked just because I was trying to see Harry McCoy, then he might be the clue I need.”
He looked at her thoughtfully and then he said, “You’ve done this sort of thing before?”
“Yes,” said Agatha. She was about to brag about other cases, but her knees began to shake. She was still not over her shock. Had she shown off in her usual way, then John Armitage would have lost interest in her. But the very fact that she was not flirting or simpering or trying to impress him endeared her to him.
“You show a great deal of courage,” he said. “Were you always on your own when things like this happened before?”
“I usually had someone helping me. My ex-husband, James, or a friend, Charles. But I’m on my own in this one. I must admit I had a bad fright. I might leave it for a few days.”
He looked at the clock. “Goodness. It’s one in the morning. I’d better let you get some sleep.”
And that’s that, thought Agatha. She racked her brains trying to think of a way to keep him or suggest another meeting, but she was too shaky and tired.
He rose to his feet. “I tell you what: Why don’t you leave everything to Saturday, and I’ll come with you and we’ll talk to this McCoy fellow on Saturday morning, when he’s off work.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha. “What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at nine in the morning.”
Then Agatha’s face fell. “Your face is on the jacket of one of your books in Evesham. You’ll be recognized. I didn’t know what you looked like until I saw your photo. You see, when you arrived on my doorstep, carrying that Bible, I thought you were a Mormon.”
He laughed. “What have you got against the Mormons?”
