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.

? The Day the Floods Came ?

6

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 free-lance 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?”

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