Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

The Agatha Raisin series
(listed in order)

Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet

Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener

Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley

Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came

Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate

Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance

Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon

Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor

ROBINSON
London

Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the US 1998 by St Martin’s Press
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010

First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2006

Copyright © 1998, 2006 M. C. Beaton

The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library

ISBN 13: 978-1-84529-319-2
ISBN 10: 1-84529-319-3

Printed and bound in the EU

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Agatha Raisin was bored and unhappy. Her neighbour, James Lacey, had returned at last to the cottage next door to her own in the Cotswold village of Carsely. She tried to tell
herself that she was no longer in love with him and that his coldness towards her did not matter.

She had almost married him, but her husband, still then very much alive, had surfaced at the wedding ceremony, and James had never really forgiven her for her deception.

One spring evening when the village was ablaze with daffodils, forsythia, magnolia and crocuses, Agatha trudged along to the vicarage to a meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, hoping to
find some gossip to enliven the tedium of her days.

But such that there was did not interest her because it concerned a spring of water in the neighbouring village of Ancombe.

Agatha knew the spring. In the eighteenth century, a Miss Jakes had channelled the spring through the bottom of her garden, through a pipe in the garden wall, and into a fountain for the use of
the public. The water gushed out through the mouth of a skull – a folly which had caused no end of criticism even in the grim days of the eighteenth century – then to a shallow basin
sunk into the ground, over the lip of the basin and down through a grating and under the road. On the other side, it became a little stream which meandered through other gardens until it joined the
river Ancombe.

Some lines of doggerel, penned by Miss Jakes, had been engraved above the skull. They read:

Two hundred years ago, the water was held to have magical, restorative properties, but now only walkers paused to fill their flasks, and occasionally locals like Agatha brought along a bottle to
fill up and take home to make tea, the water being softer than the stuff which came out of the tap.

Recently, the newly formed Ancombe Water Company had attempted to secure permission from the Ancombe Parish Council to drain water from the spring each day, paying a penny a gallon.

‘Many are saying it is sacrilege,’ said Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife. ‘But there was never anything religious about the spring.’

‘It is bringing a sour note of commercialism into our gentle rural life,’ protested a newcomer to the ladies’ society, a Mrs Darry, who had recently moved to the Cotswolds from
London and had all the incomer’s zeal for preserving village life.

‘I say it won’t bother anyone,’ said the secretary, Miss Simms, crossing her black-stockinged legs and showing with a flash of thigh that they were the hold-up variety.
‘I mean ter say, the truck for the water’s going to come each day at dawn. After that, anyone can help themselves as usual.’

Agatha stifled a yawn. As a retired businesswoman who had run her own successful public relations company, she thought it was a sound commercial idea.

She did not like Mrs Darry, who had a face like a startled ferret, so she said, ‘The Cotswolds are highly commercialized already, bursting with bus tours and tea-shops and
craft-shops.’

The room then split up into three factions, those for the business plan, those against, and those like Agatha who were heartily bored with the whole thing.

Mrs Bloxby took Agatha aside as she was leaving, her gentle face concerned.

‘You are looking a bit down in the dumps, Agatha,’ she said. ‘Is it James?’

‘No,’ lied Agatha defensively. ‘It’s the time of year. It always gets me down.’

‘“April is the cruellest month.”’

Agatha blinked rapidly. She suspected a literary quotation and she hated quotations, damning them as belonging to some arty-farty world.

‘Just so,’ she grumped and made her way out into the sweet evening air.

A magnolia tree glistened waxily in the silence of the vicarage garden. Over in the churchyard daffodils, bleached white by moonlight, nestled up to old leaning tombstones.

I must buy a plot in the churchyard, thought Agatha. How comforting to rest one’s last under that blanket of shaggy grass and flowers. She sighed. Life at that moment was just a bowl of
withered fruit, with a stone in every one.

She had almost forgotten about the water company. But a week later Roy Silver phoned her. Roy had been her employee when she had run her own business and now worked for the
company which had bought her out. He was in a high state of excitement.

‘Listen to this, Aggie,’ he chirped. ‘That Ancombe Water Company – heard of it?’

‘Yes.’

‘They’re our new clients and as their office is in Mircester, the boss wondered if you would like to handle the account on a freelance basis.’

Agatha looked steelily at the phone. Roy Silver was the one who had found her husband so that he had turned up just as she was about to get married to James.

‘No,’ she said curtly and replaced the phone.

She sat looking at it for a few minutes and then, plucking up courage, picked up the receiver and dialled James’s number.

He answered after the first ring. ‘James,’ said Agatha with an awful false brightness. ‘What about dinner tonight?’

‘I am very sorry,’ he said crisply. ‘I am busy. And,’ he went on quickly, as if to forestall any further invitation, ‘I shall be busy for the next few
weeks.’

Agatha very gently replaced the receiver. Her stomach hurt. People always talked about hearts breaking but the pain was always right in the gut.

A blackbird sang happily somewhere in the garden, the sweetness of the song intensifying the pain inside Agatha.

She picked up the phone again and dialled the number of Mircester police headquarters and asked to speak to her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, and, having been told it was his day off,
phoned him at home.

‘Agatha,’ said Bill, pleased. ‘I’m not doing anything today. Why don’t you come over?’

Agatha hesitated. She found Bill’s parents rather grim. ‘I’m afraid it will just be me,’ went on Bill. ‘Ma and Pa have gone to Southend to see some
relatives.’

‘I’ll be over,’ said Agatha.

She drove off, eyes averted from James’s cottage.

Bill was delighted to see her. He was in his twenties, with a round face and a figure newly trimmed down.

‘You’re looking fit, Bill,’ said Agatha. ‘New girlfriend?’ Bill’s love life could be assessed from his figure, which quickly became plump the minute there was
no romance in the offing.

‘Yes. Her name is Sharon. She’s a typist at the station. Very pretty.’

‘Introduced her yet to your mother and father?’

‘Not yet.’

So he would be all right for a while, thought Agatha cynically. Bill adored his parents and could never understand why the minute he introduced one of his lady-loves to them, the romance was
immediately over.

‘I was just about to have lunch,’ said Bill.

‘I’ll take you somewhere. My treat,’ said Agatha quickly. Bill’s cooking was as awful as that of his mother.

‘All right. There’s quite a good pub at the end of the road.’

The pub, called the Jolly Red Cow, was a dismal place, dominated by a pool table where the unemployed, white-faced youth of Mircester passed their daylight hours.

Agatha ordered chicken salad. The lettuce was limp and the chicken stringy. Bill tucked into a greasy egg, sausage and chips with every appearance of enjoyment.

‘So what’s new, Bill? Anything exciting?’

‘Nothing much. Things have been quite quiet, thank goodness. What about you? Seen much of James?’

Agatha’s face went stiff. ‘No, I haven’t seen much of him. That’s over. I don’t want to talk about it.’

Bill said hurriedly, as if anxious to change the subject, ‘What’s all this fuss about the new water company?’

‘Oh, that. They were talking about it at the ladies’ society last week. I can’t get excited about it. I mean, I don’t see what the fuss is about. They’re coming at
dawn each day to take off the water and for the rest of the day everything will be as normal.’

‘I’ve got a nasty feeling in my bones about this,’ said Bill, dousing his chips with ketchup. ‘Anything to do with the environment, and sooner or later some protest group
is going to turn up, and sooner or later there’s going to be violence.’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Agatha poked disconsolately at a piece of chicken. ‘Ancombe’s a pretty dead sort of place.’

‘You might be surprised. Even in dead-alive sort of places there can be a rumpus. There are militant groups who don’t care about the environment at all. All they want is an excuse
for a punch-up. I sometimes think they’re in the majority. The people who really care about some feature of the environment are usually a small, dedicated group who set out on a peaceful
protest, and before they know where they are, they find themselves joined by the militants, and often some of them can end up getting badly hurt.’

‘It doesn’t interest me,’ said Agatha. ‘In fact, to be honest, nothing much interests me these days.’

He looked at her in affectionate concern. ‘What you want is for me to produce a murder for you to investigate. Well, I’m not going to do it. You can’t go around expecting
people to be murdered just to provide you with a hobby.’

‘It’s a bit rude calling it a hobby. What
is
this crap?’ She pushed her plate angrily away.

‘I think the food here is very good,’ said Bill defensively ‘You’re just being picky because you’re unhappy.’

‘I’m slimming anyway. The wretched Roy Silver phoned me up wanting me to do public relations for this water company.’

‘There’s a thing. Their office is right here in Mircester.’

‘I’m retired.’

‘And unhappy and miserable. Why don’t you take it on?’

But Agatha was not going to tell him the real reason for her refusal. Days away at the office meant days away from James Lacey, who might miraculously soften towards her.

After they had parted, Bill went thoughtfully home. On impulse, he phoned James.

‘How are things going?’ asked James cheerfully. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages.’

‘You’ve been abroad. I’ve just been having lunch with Agatha and realized I hadn’t spoken to you for some time.’

‘Oh.’ And James’s ‘oh’ was so frigid that Bill thought if he were holding some cartoon phone receiver there would be icicles forming down the wire. So he chatted
idly about this and that while all the while he wanted to ask James why he did not give poor Agatha a break and take her out for dinner.

A week later Agatha had just finished her usual breakfast of four cigarettes and three strong cups of black coffee when the phone rang. ‘Let it be James,’ she
pleaded to that anthropomorphic God with the long beard and shaggy hair with whom she often, in moments of stress, did deals. ‘Let it be James and I’ll never smoke again.’