Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death (7 page)

There was a knock at the door. Perhaps it was James! But it was only Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife.

‘I’ve brought you some home-made marmalade,’ she said. ‘You are looking very well this morning.’

‘Thanks,’ said Agatha, leading the way into the kitchen and nervously eyeing the laundry basket of sheets she had left on the kitchen floor. ‘I’ll just pop these in the
machine and then we’ll have coffee.’

‘So you’ve been out with that young man from the water company?’ said Mrs Bloxby. One is never too old to blush. Agatha bent over the washing machine and loaded it. ‘How
did you know?’ she asked over her shoulder.

‘Mrs Darry was round at the vicarage first thing this morning to tell me that he had gone in with you after driving you home and hadn’t come out again. You know what villages are
like.’

‘That cow lives at the other end of the village!’

‘But she has a nasty little yapping dog and dogs are very useful for walking about the streets at night by someone who is more interested in other people’s lives than they are in
their own.’

Agatha plugged in the coffee percolator. ‘So I went to bed with him. Does that shock you?’

‘No dear, but it probably shocks you. Women of our generation never got used to casual sex. Now young people these days just seem to go and do it without feeling any loss of dignity at
all. And yet it is a most undignified performance, unless one is in love, of course.’

‘I suppose that Darry woman will spread it all round the village and James will get to hear of it.’

‘Is that so very bad? He has been neglecting you. He cannot expect you to carry a torch for him forever.’

Agatha poured two cups of coffee and sat down wearily at the kitchen table. ‘I feel a fool. I think Guy Freemont is a taker. He took me to a quite dreadful French restaurant in Oxford,
very expensive, and then said he had forgotten his wallet.’

‘Perhaps he did.’

‘I doubt it. I have endured a long series of dinners and lunches with men who forget their wallets or go to the men’s room the minute the bill comes up.’

‘Then I suggest you forget your own cards and money the next time you go out. He might find he has his wallet on him after all.’

Agatha grinned. ‘I’ll try that. No more trouble about the water, is there?’

‘As a matter of fact, there is.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve heard of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a new lot nobody heard of before this year. Save Our Foxes.’

‘But they’re hunt saboteurs!’

‘Yes, but they are organizing a march on the spring for this Saturday.’

‘What’s it got to do with them?’

‘They say it is an example of how capitalism is ruining rural life.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Quite. They will not get a welcome because the water company has started hiring staff, and young people from Ancombe are getting first priority.’

‘I hope this won’t mean bad publicity.’

‘I think it will mean some violence and I hope the police can control it. You see, most of these protesters come from the towns and they do not seem to understand country life. I am
talking about the genuine protesters, usually serious and mild-mannered people. But they often find their protests are hijacked by thugs looking for a punch-up.’

‘I’d better be there,’ said Agatha.

‘Do be careful.’

‘I will.’

After the vicar’s wife had left, Agatha sat down to bring her expenses for the water company up-to-date, knowing of old the horror of leaving expense accounts to the last
minute. Then she opened her handbag and took out the bill from the French restaurant. She neatly typed into her computer, ‘To entertaining Mr Guy Freemont, ninety-two pounds, plus ten pounds
gratuity,’ and grinned as she ran it off on the printer.

Guy Freemont and his brother were sitting discussing business two days later when their accountant, James Briggs, came in.

‘Yes, Briggs, what is it?’ asked Peter.

‘There is an item on Mrs Raisin’s expense account I thought you might like to consider?’

‘What’s up with the old bat?’ demanded Peter. ‘Charging us for clothes or make-up, or what?’

‘It’s this.’ James Briggs placed a list of figures in front of the two brothers. ‘Everything seems in order except that I find it odd that she has put in an expensive
restaurant bill for entertaining Mr Guy Freemont.’

Peter tapped it. ‘What’s this, Guy?’

‘I did invite her out for dinner, but forgot my wallet.’

‘Again? Let it go this time, Briggs.’

When the accountant had left, Peter said wrathfully, ‘She’s a good PR. Don’t screw her around until we get this water safely launched.’

‘I forgot my wallet,’ said Guy. ‘That’s all.’

Agatha had learned that the protest was to take place at eleven o’clock on Saturday morning. She was there in good time. Other people were gathered around. Mary Owen came
straight up to Agatha. ‘You’re not going to get away with this,’ she snarled.

‘Oh, sod off,’ said Agatha. ‘Is this protest your idea?’

‘No, but it goes to show that people all over Britain are not going to sit back and see the life of the country ruined.’

Agatha shrugged and moved away, only to bump into Bill Allen. ‘You’d better be careful,’ he said in his odd, strangled Savoyard voice. ‘You have stirred up deep
feelings.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Just a warning, Mrs Raisin.’

A silence fell on the crowd as eleven o’clock came and went. Agatha suddenly saw James’s tall figure at the edge of the crowd. She longed to join him but was frightened of being
snubbed. And yet he had phoned her. She was just edging her way towards him when someone shouted, ‘Here they come!’

A small procession was heading towards the spring. At the front were gentle-faced middle-aged people, but behind them came burly young men with tattoos, camouflage jackets, earrings, and trouble
written all over them. Five policemen were standing in front of the spring.

The onlookers cleared a way for them. A woman with a face like that of a worried sheep turned to face the crowd and took out a sheaf of papers.

‘We are here,’ she said in a wavering voice, ‘to protest against the commercialization of this spring. Our village life must be protected.’

‘Where do you live?’ shouted Agatha.

The woman blinked, opened and shut her mouth, then held on to her notes more firmly and went on. ‘As I was saying, we must protect –’

‘Where do you live?’ demanded Agatha again.

‘Shut your face!’ shouted one of the tattooed young men.

‘No, I will not shut up,’ yelled Agatha. ‘Does this woman know anything about village life? Or did you all come from Birmingham or London to make trouble?’

The tattooed man began to work his way towards Agatha. He had thick lips and a beetling brow. Agatha wondered whether to flee. But the police were there. And James – James, who had
miraculously appeared at her side.

‘I think she should answer the question,’ came Jane Cutler’s voice. ‘These protesters look as if they come from the slums of Birmingham. They are strangers to the
country, and to the bath, from the smell of them.’

‘That’s torn it,’ muttered James.

The truculent young man had reached Agatha. ‘You shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.’

James moved in front of Agatha. ‘You’ll get nowhere with your protest uttering threats.’

In time, James saw the bulletlike head moving forward to head-butt him and jumped to one side. Several women screamed. The police moved forward.

A scrawny woman wearing, of all things, a flak jacket, grabbed hold of Jane Cutler and pulled her hair. Jane screamed like a banshee. The police wrestled the woman to the ground. Sirens sounded
in the distance as police reinforcements began to arrive.

Agatha’s would-be assailant was trying to land a punch on James. James was dodging and weaving, knowing that these days if he landed a punch on the man himself, he could well end up in
court for assault.

The spokeswoman for the demonstrators was now crying helplessly. Agatha saw Mrs Bloxby go up to her, say a few words and then begin to lead the weeping woman away.

Police swept into the crowd. They grabbed the young man who had been trying to hit James and carried him off. ‘Pigs!’ he was screaming. And as he was dragged backwards, his burning
eyes looked straight at Agatha and he shouted, ‘I’ll fix you.’

‘Come along,’ said James, taking Agatha’s arm. ‘We need a drink.’

‘Where? Here? In the village?’

‘No, let’s go back to Carsely.’

The Red Lion was quiet and they found a table in a corner next to the log fire which had been lit, for the day was cold.

‘Bill Wong told me you had better success with Jane Cutler than I had.’

‘So he told you?’

‘Why not? I hope we are not going to work against each other.’

‘I don’t think I’m going to be working on this at all,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve got to go up to London next week. Got a lot of journalists to see.’

‘Oh, so I’m on my own?’

‘For the moment. It certainly looks that way.’ Agatha wondered what on earth had prompted her to say such a thing. Had she kept her mouth shut, they could have gone on discussing the
case.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said James. He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Just a friendly word of advice, Agatha. Don’t take this the wrong way.’

Now, Agatha knew as well as anybody that when someone says, ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ the best thing to do is to stop them saying anything, but something inside her
seemed to have pressed the ‘destruct’ button that morning, so she said, ‘Go on.’

‘I think you are making a spectacle of yourself with that young man from the water company. This new taste in young men is a bit sad. There was Charles in Cyprus and now this one. It
doesn’t matter if the man is wealthy; toy boy is the label stuck on him if he consorts with a woman as old as you.’

Agatha’s face had turned a muddy colour with hurt.

She stood up, knocking her chair backwards as she did so. ‘Damn you,’ she said in a choked voice.

James got up as well. ‘Look here, Agatha. I only –’

‘Shut up!’ screamed Agatha. ‘Just shut up!’

As she raced out of the door, she saw Mrs Darry standing at the bar, her face avid with curiosity.

James slowly finished his drink, aware all the time of curious eyes turned in his direction, of the fact that Mrs Darry was eagerly grabbing hold of every newcomer and
whispering fiercely.

He rose and went out and walked slowly home. He could not admit to himself he had been at fault, or that his remarks had been prompted by jealousy. He was overwhelmed instead by a burning desire
to find out something about this murder. Then perhaps, just perhaps, he would tell Agatha what he had found out. Her scene in the pub had been unforgivable.

The following Monday, Agatha packed her bags and headed for London. She had a heavy week’s work ahead of her talking to journalists. James’s words still burnt and
hurt.

The Charles he had referred to was Sir Charles Fraith, a baronet in his forties with whom Agatha had enjoyed a fling in Cyprus. Although she had only gone to bed with Charles out of pique over
James’s own unfaithfulness, she knew he had no more forgiven her for that brief affair than for trying to marry him when she was already married.

Charles had phoned Agatha several times since their return from abroad, but she had always told him she was too busy to see him and so he had stopped calling.

She was glad she was leaving. There was a police force to cope with murder investigations. She would concentrate on her work and forget James and forget murder and forget Carsely for a
little.

She passed a busy week in London, cajoling journalists into promising to come to the fête. Instead of bringing the new brochures over to Carsely as he had promised, Guy had sent them to
her hotel in London.

At the end of her week’s work, Agatha finally accepted an invitation to lunch from Roy Silver.

Roy took her to an old City restaurant where the public relations company they both worked for had an account. It was quiet and stately, mahogany and brass and solid old-fashioned City food. It
was hardly Roy’s scene. He would have preferred a trendy wine bar full of bright young things, but he had no intention of paying for the meal when he could charge it to the firm.

Roy was wearing an Armani suit which looked a size too large for his thin figure. His tie was a noisy psychedelic glare in the gloom of the conservative restaurant.

They both ordered roast beef, Agatha eating hers with every appearance of enjoyment and Roy poking at his and occasionally eating little nibbles.

They discussed various aspects of the fête, who was definitely going to attend, who was iffy. Then Roy leaned back in the chair and ran his fingers through his hair. He had a thin face, a
weedy body and sharp clever eyes. After working for Agatha and taking up his present job, he had adopted a more sober style of dress – if you discounted the tie – and the hole in his
left ear where he used to wear an ear-ring was the only mute sign of his discarded image.

‘You haven’t mentioned James Lacey or murder all week, Aggie,’ he said.

‘Been too busy,’ said Agatha. ‘I wonder if I should have a pudding?’

‘It’s your waistline, sweetie.’

Agatha signalled the waiter. ‘I’ll have the spotted dick.’

Roy giggled. ‘What a name for a pudding! Sounds like a case of syphilis. So, like I said, how’s murder?’

‘I told you, I’ve been too busy.’

‘Not like you. What’s happened to that famous curiosity of yours?’

‘I’ve decided to do my job and leave the police to do theirs.’

‘So what happened with you and James in Cyprus?’

‘He went off with a tart. He claims it was all part of his investigations into drugs.’

‘And you don’t think so? Come on, Aggie. Our James isn’t the kind to go with tarts for any reason other than investigation. Too much of a puritan.’

‘Well, I had a bit of a fling with someone and he got miffed.’

‘Naughty old Aggie. You really ought to do something about this murder.’