Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came

∨ The Day the Floods Came ∧

EPILOGUE

Once more on Robinson Crusoe Island, Agatha sat with Marie and Carlos in the lounge and watched the rain clouds sweep across the bay. It was cold. She should have realized it would be winter in August on the Juan Fernandez Islands.

But somehow there was still that atmosphere of peace and comfort, that feeling of being very far away from worries and troubles. Marie and Carlos were good listeners and took Agatha through her story over and over again, until it all seemed so incredible, almost as if it had all never happened.

“This Evesham sounds like a wicked place,” said Marie.

“On the contrary, the people are wonderful. That’s what makes it seem so odd,” said Agatha.

“And has this Marilyn Josh been arrested?”

“Yes; I read about it in the newspapers before I left. The police are keeping very quiet about me. I think they don’t want anyone to know I was masquerading as a woman from a television company. So I don’t get any glory.”

“You get the glory of knowing that a lot of villains are locked up,” pointed out Carlos.

“True,” agreed Agatha, although she privately thought it would have been nice to get some praise and recognition for her efforts.

When Carlos took himself off to go for a long walk, Maria asked, “And what about you ex-husband?”

“Oh, that’s definitely over,” said Agatha. “I’ve closed that chapter in my life.”

“So what about this writer who was supposed to be helping you?”

“He insulted me. I don’t want to have anything to do with him again.”

“Why?”

“He took me out for dinner. He is very attractive-looking. We went to a restaurant in Oxford.” Agatha broke off and bit her lip.

“So what happened?”

“You may as well know. He wrote a detective story I’d read based in the Birmingham slums, only you don’t call them slums any more. You refer to them politely as inner cities. I had said the background didn’t ring true and he asked me how I knew.”

“And how did you know?”

May as well tell the truth, thought Agatha. I’m so very far from home.

“Because I was brought up in that sort of environment until I escaped and clawed my way to the top, got a posh accent, got money and success. But my background is something I like to keep quiet about.”

“I do not see why,” said Marie. “It is a sign of how far you have come by your own efforts.”

“Britain isn’t so very class-conscious now, but it was when I was growing up. I’ve always had this feeling of not fitting in anywhere and that in itself breeds a sort of snobbery. Anyway, I told him because we’d had a fair bit to drink. He propositioned me, just like that. He hadn’t uttered one word of praise about my appearance, he hadn’t shown me any affection, he hadn’t even shown he desired me. So I thought it was because of my poor background that he felt he could dispense with the preliminaries.”

Marie sat like a small round Buddha, lost in thought, her mind going over Agatha’s previous stories about the case.

“I remember,” she said, “that your young friend, this Roy Silver, gave the impression that he was having an affair with you. Yes?”

“Yes, he did.”

“So you are a mature worldly woman who he believes has affairs. A lot of men do not court or woo these days, Agatha. It started in the seventies. Women’s magazines urging us to believe that we were the same as men and could behave like men. You can have it all. Do you remember that one? And endless articles about erogenous zones and sexual tricks of the brothel. Women were suddenly even more available for sex than they had ever been before, and so the courtesies between the sexes disappeared. When was the last time you saw a man on public transport stand up to give a woman a seat? And the women were equally to blame. Some even insulted men who held doors open for them. And the dignity of the housewife and mother was taken away. Women who did not work were held in contempt. Children are often brought up by cheap, uncaring help while the mother works.” She sighed. “Sometimes I feel we women have thrown off one set of chains only to be weighed down by another. I do not think he propositioned you because of your background, but because he, too, had been drinking. He is probably quite naive where women are concerned. And you must still have been suffering from shock.”

“Perhaps,” said Agatha moodily.

“Were you in love with him?”

“No, he’s too cold, too robotic.”

“And could it not be that you misjudged him? You said he’d had an unhappy marriage.”

“No need for him to take it out on me,” said Agatha waspishly. “He’s probably forgotten about the whole thing.”

♦

“Any news of Agatha?” John Armitage asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“No, she took off and left her cats at home for her cleaner to take care of. I think she told Doris Simpson where she was going, but Doris is very loyal and I think Agatha told her not to tell anyone. The near-death experience she had must have overset her. Or,” went on the vicar’s wife, “someone humiliated her. In the past, when Agatha has been hurt, she’s always run away.”

She gazed at John with her mild, clear eyes. He fidgeted and turned slightly red.

Mrs. Bloxby gave a little sigh. “You did something, didn’t you?”

He gave a reluctant laugh. “I took her out for dinner in Oxford. We drank a fair bit. I suggested we spend the night together.”

“Just like that?”

“She’s not a young girl,” said John defensively, “and she’d been having an affair with that horrible-looking young man…”

“Agatha is not having and never has had an affair with Roy Silver. She is very thin-skinned and doesn’t think much of herself. She has also surprisingly old-fashioned ideas when it comes to relationships. Agatha craves affection and romance and you offered a one-night stand. I assume there were no kisses or hand-holding?”

“Women don’t need that nowadays.”

“Women will always need that sort of thing.”

“I’ll make it up to her when she gets back.”

“Mr. Armitage, why don’t you just leave her alone?”

He stared at her in surprise.

“I must make some sort of amends.”

“Well, a simple apology should do. But don’t chase after her if you’re not in love with her.”

“Love?”

“It does exist,” said Mrs. Bloxby wearily.

♦

In his office in Worcester, Detective Inspector Brudge had an uneasy conscience. He should have warned that Raisin woman from doing any investigation right from the beginning. He was proud to be a member of the Worcester Police Force, which he considered the best in the country. Now he was having to cover up that small lapse. Of course it had come out about Agatha’s masquerade and he had been truthful enough in explaining to his superiors that he had warned her off, but had failed to explain that he had not warned her off in the beginning. Why couldn’t the woman go legal? Set up her own detective agency? Get licensed? He might just suggest it.

♦

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.