The Day the Floods Came

“What?” said Bill, looking at her quizzically. “You haven’t told me all. You’re holding back something.”

“If I tell you, you’ll tell the police.”

“That bad?”

“Yes, that bad.”

He looked around the restaurant. The tables were spaced well apart.

“I think you’d better tell me. Okay, I won’t tell the police. Something’s happened, and knowing you, it’s something dangerous.”

“It’s like this. I went to try to see Harry McCoy. He wasn’t at home. I turned to walk back to Merstow Green car-park, along Horres Street. The street was deserted. I heard the sound of a car and I don’t know why I knew it was coming for me, but I threw myself over a garden hedge just as it roared past.”

“Agatha, why didn’t you tell the police?”

“Because I was in my disguise of television researcher and I thought they’d make a fuss and stop me investigating. It seems silly now, but I’ve left it too long.” She looked up impatiently. John and Joanna were standing next to their table, smiling down at her.

“We wondered if you would like to join us in the lounge for coffee?” said John.

Agatha gave them both a basilisk look. “No, go away.”

“That was very rude of you, Agatha,” said Bill severely.

“That was my neighbour, John Armitage, and one of the girls from Barrington’s, Joanna Field.”

“So what gives? I thought you and this John were investigating together.”

“Joanna and John came round. Joanna was full of the news that Mrs. Barrington had turned up and made a scene in the office, I told you that. But then she said she was hungry, John invites her out for dinner, and they both swan off without even offering to take me along.”

“Maybe he thought she would talk more freely without you around. Anyway, this attempt on your life. I think the murder of Mrs. Anstruther-Jones was chance. She just happened to have been spotted. But I can’t think that the attempt on Horres Street was chance. Cars don’t normally drive through it going anywhere at night, but they do drive along Waterside. Are you sure there was no one at home? You say that Marilyn Josh lives there in the upstairs flat and that Phyllis is having an affair with Harry McCoy. One of them could have been at home, looked out of the window and seen you, and phoned someone. Or there’s a lane at the back of Horres Street. One of them could have nipped out the back way, run round, got into a car and headed for you. That’s what’s so baffling. I keep getting a feeling of panic combined with amateurism. I could swear that whoever’s doing this hasn’t got a record, has never killed before.”

They discussed everything over and over again without coming to any firm idea of who might have done it.

When they had finished their meal and were driving back, Bill said, “I can tell you’re not in love with this John Armitage.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, there’s no use flying off the handle with someone who isn’t a boyfriend, is there? Yes, they should have invited you, but I’ll bet John thought he might have been able to get more out of her without you. I told you that already. You’ve been involved with men since I’ve known you who’ve treated you badly, so you automatically think any man is rejecting you. Forget it, Agatha. It’s bad policy to quarrel with neighbours anyway.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Agatha sulkily. “Want to come in for more coffee?”

“No, I’d best be getting back. Mother sits up until I get home.”

Agatha, not for the first time, wanted to point out to him that his mother was a possessive bag who drove off all his young girlfriends, but she knew Bill would be deeply hurt. He adored his parents.

She said good night to him and waved him goodbye and went indoors. A few minutes later, there was a ring at the door. She looked through the spyhole. John Armitage.

Let him rot, thought Agatha mulishly.

? The Day the Floods Came ?

7

Agatha awoke next morning to find a letter pushed through her door. She opened it while Boswell dug his claws into the hem of her housecoat and tugged hard. She carried it into the kitchen, dragging the cat along with her.

Agatha sat down and, after dislodging Boswell’s claws from her housecoat, she opened the envelope, noticing as she did so that it was unstamped.

“Dear Agatha,” she read, “I am so sorry about last night. I could see that you were angry because I had not included you in the invitation to dinner. I thought that perhaps Joanna would tell me some more details if we were on our own. As it turned out, she had nothing new to add. Yours, John.”

Agatha felt she had been churlish. It might be an idea to phone Roy Silver first and ask about work. But she would not rush next door immediately. She would take her time and read the morning papers.

In a copy of the morning Bugle, she found an article by a celebrity who had given up smoking through hypnosis. “It worked,” Agatha read. “The first thing I noticed was that I had more energy. Then friends started commenting on the clearness of my skin. I’m so glad I quit. My looks are important to me. You can always tell a middle-aged woman who smokes. They’ve got these nasty wrinkles on their upper lips. I didn’t want to end up like that.”

Agatha’s hand strayed nervously to her upper lip. She remembered she had the phone number of a hypnotist in Gloucester. She had always been meaning to go, but had kept putting it off. She phoned the hypnotist, who said he could see her if she could be at his consulting rooms in an hour and a half’s time, as he had just received a cancellation. Agatha agreed to be there and then rushed to get ready. The day was dry but misty. Agatha drove steadily through a grey world. Water dripped from the trees beside the road.

She managed to find a parking place near the hypnotist’s consulting rooms. She was five minutes early, so she celebrated with what she swore would be her last cigarette.

Half an hour later, it was all over. He had told her that from now on every cigarette she smoked would taste terrible, like burning rubber.

With a feeling of having actually done something for her health and well-being, she drove back home.

As she parked outside her cottage, she saw a familiar figure standing on her doorstep. Freda Stokes. What now? thought Agatha as she got out of the car. Another row? She pinned a smile of welcome on her face.

Freda greeted her with a cry of “Oh, Agatha. I’m so sorry.”

“Come inside,” said Agatha, opening the door. “Come through to the kitchen. Sit down. I’ll make some coffee.”

Agatha plugged in the percolator and sat down at the kitchen table opposite Freda.

“I didn’t want to believe what you told me. I couldn ‘t believe what you told me,” said Freda. “The police called on me. Mr. Barrington has admitted paying Kylie – my Kylie! – to keep her quiet. I’m beginning to wonder if I knew my daughter at all. She was always like a child to me. Innocent. ‘I’m not like those other girls, Mum,’ she’d say. ‘I don’t sleep around. I’m saving myself for my wedding day’.”

“Did she need a lot of money?” asked Agatha, wondering if Kylie had indeed had a drug habit.

“She was always asking me for money. It was a bit hard for me, for I don’t make that much. But she was my only child. I couldn’t refuse her. Now I remember things about her, like she would wear clothes for a few months and then take them back to the shop and try to get her money back. She had this raincoat, oh, for about eight months, and she took it back to the shop and tried to say she had just bought it. But they wouldn’t take it back. So she asked me to take it to the dry-cleaners. I did that and gave her the coat. She took it into her bedroom and then she came out with it and it was covered in grease spots. She said the cleaners had ruined it and I had to take it to them and demand the price of the coat. They paid up in the end but they accused me of having put the grease stains on myself. They said there was no way it could have happened otherwise.” Freda looked tearfully at Agatha. “Do you think Kylie was greedy?”

“Perhaps,” said Agatha cautiously.

“And then there were times when there was money missing from my purse. I had a young girl working at the