Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came by MC Beaton

Agatha’s alarm failed to work and she awoke to find it was a quarter to nine, so instead of the long session she had planned with make-up and clothes, she washed quickly and dressed in the first clothes that came to hand, and put on a little foundation cream and lipstick before scrambling down the stairs just as the doorbell rang.
    ‘Ready?’ asked John. He was wearing a blue shirt under a soft suede jacket and casual trousers.
    ‘Ready,’ said Agatha breathlessly.
    ‘No disguise?’
    ‘Rats! Won’t be a minute.’ Agatha ran back up the stairs and put on the blond wig and glasses.
    ‘I meant to advise you to put on your disguise in the car,’ said John when she reappeared. ‘No, leave it now,’ he added as Agatha reached up a hand to pull the wig off again. ‘We’ll take my car.’
    He drove out of the village, smoothly and competently, while Agatha tried to think of things to say but felt unusually shy. At last she said, ‘I hope he’s at home.’
    ‘We’ll try anyway. How are you feeling?’
    ‘I’m all right now. Things are never so scary in daylight.’
    ‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ said John. ‘In fact, I’ve never lived in a village before. Always been in cities.’
    ‘Like Birmingham? I read one of your books and it was based in Birmingham.’
    ‘I only did research there. No, I lived in London until my divorce.’
    ‘And when was that?’
    ‘Two years ago.’
    ‘An amicable divorce?’
    ‘Had to be done without fuss on her part. She had been unfaithful to me too many times.’
    ‘Did that hurt?’ asked Agatha curiously.
    ‘Not now. I’m glad it’s all over. What about you?’
    ‘He left me for the church. Last I heard, he’s in some monastery in France.’
    ‘That must have been difficult.’
    Agatha sighed. ‘I never really had him. It was an odd marriage. We were like two bachelors rather than a married couple.’
    ‘That wasn’t the man I heard you shouting at a few days ago?’
    ‘No, that was someone else. I don’t want to talk about it.’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Why do you set your stories in inner cities?’ asked Agatha. ‘You don’t look like an inner-city person.’
    He had a pleasant, cultured voice, no trace of accent.
    ‘I wanted to write about real people.’
    ‘Sordid surroundings don’t make people real,’ said Agatha with sudden passion as she remembered her own impoverished upbringing. ‘Their minds are often twisted with drink or drugs and their bodies old before their time with cheap junk food.’
    ‘You sound as if you are speaking from personal experience.’
    Agatha was a snob, and Agatha was not going to admit she had been brought up in a Birmingham slum. ‘I’m a good observer,’ she said quickly.
    ‘I thought I was, too. We must talk some more about this.’
    When they got to Evesham, Agatha instructed him to park in Merstow Green. They left the car and were soon walking down the road that Agatha had so recently fled along in terror. People were ambling about, women pushing babies in prams, men talking in groups; it all looked so harmless.
    They arrived at the house. ‘Which bell?’ he asked. ‘There aren’t any names.’
    ‘The light was on in the upstairs before I was attacked.’
    ‘We’ll try that.’
    He rang the bell.
    They waited a few minutes. Then John said, ‘May as well try the bottom one,’ and rang it.
    The door was opened by a young man, a very clean young man. He had neat light brown hair, a round face, a gleaming white short-sleeved shirt and jeans with creases like knife-edges. ‘Mr McCoy?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Yes, but if you’re selling anything –’
    ‘No, we represent a television company. We can’t cover the young people of Evesham without mentioning Kylie’s death. We would, of course, like to know what sort of amusements young people enjoy in a town like this. May we come in?’
    ‘I’ve got someone with me at the moment,’ he said. ‘Can we go somewhere? There’s a café along