Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death (2 page)

But the God of Agatha’s understanding owed more to mythology than anything else and so she was hardly surprised to find out it was Roy Silver on the other end of the line.

‘Don’t hang up,’ said Roy quickly. ‘Look, you’ve still got a grudge against me because I found your husband.’

‘And ruined my life,’ said Agatha bitterly.

‘Well, he’s dead now, isn’t he? And if James doesn’t want to marry you, that’s hardly my fault.’

Agatha hung up.

The doorbell went. Perhaps He had heard her prayer. She stubbed out her cigarette.

‘Last one,’ she said loudly to the ceiling.

She opened the door.

Mrs Darry stood there.

‘I wondered if you would do me a favour, Mrs Raisin.’

‘Come in,’ said Agatha bleakly. She led the way into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and gloomily lit a cigarette.

Mrs Darry sat down. ‘I would be grateful if you refrained from smoking.’

‘Tough,’ said Agatha. ‘This is my house and my cigarette. What do you want?’

‘Don’t you know you are killing yourself?’

Agatha looked at her cigarette and then at Mrs Darry. ‘As long as I am killing myself, I am not killing you. Out with it. What do you want?’

‘Water.’

‘There’s water in the tap. Has yours been cut off?’

‘No, you do not understand. My mother is coming to stay.’

Agatha blinked. Mrs Darry she judged to be in her late sixties.

‘Mother is ninety-two,’ went on Mrs Darry. ‘She is very partial to good tea. I do not have a car and I wondered whether you would get me a flask of water from the spring at
Ancombe?’

‘I did not intend to go to Ancombe,’ said Agatha, thinking how much she disliked this newcomer to the village. She was such an ugly woman. How odd that people could be so ugly, not
particularly because of appearance, but because of the atmosphere of judgemental bad temper and discontent they carried around with them.

She was wearing one of those sleeveless quilted jackets, tightly buttoned up over a high-necked blouse. Her pointed nose, her pursed mouth and her sandy hair and her pale green hunting eyes made
her look more than ever to Agatha like some vicious feral animal, always looking for the kill.

‘Is there no one else you could ask?’ Agatha considered offering Mrs Darry coffee, and then decided against it.

‘Everyone else is so busy,’ mourned Mrs Darry. ‘I mean, it’s not as if you have much to do.’

‘As a matter of fact I do,’ retorted Agatha, stung to the quick. ‘I am going to be handling the public relations for the new water company.’

Mrs Darry gathered up her handbag and gloves and got to her feet. ‘I am surprised at you, Mrs Raisin. That you who live in this village should be aiding and abetting a company that is out
to destroy our environment is beyond belief.’

‘Push off,’ said Agatha.

Left alone, she lit another cigarette. On and off during that day, she turned over in her mind the idea of representing the water company. Of course, the offer might not still be open. If she
was employed in the launch, then she would need to work very hard, and if she was working very hard, she would not be impelled to make any more silly phone calls to James and suffer the inevitable
rejection.

A poor evening on television did little to lighten her mood. She ate a whole bar of chocolate and felt the waistline of her skirt tighten alarmingly. In vain did she tell herself that the
constricting feeling at her middle was probably psychosomatic. She decided on impulse to take a flask and walk over to Ancombe and get some water for tea, and to take another look at the
spring.

It was another beautiful evening. Bird cherry starred the hedgerows, orchards on either side of the road glimmered with apple blossom. She trudged along, a stocky figure, feeling diminished by
the glory of the night.

The walk to Ancombe was several miles and by the time she approached the spring, she was weary and already regretting her decision not to take the car.

The spring was at the far end of the village, the unlit end, where the houses stopped and the countryside began again.

As she approached she could hear the tinkling sound of the water.

She was about to bend over the spring when she started back with a gasp of alarm and dropped her flask. For lying at her feet, staring up at the faint light from the moon and stars above, was a
dead man.

Very dead, thought Agatha, feeling for his pulse and finding none.

She ran back to the nearest house, roused the occupants and phoned the police.

Waving aside offers of brandy or tea, Agatha returned resolutely to the spring and waited. Word quickly spread around the village and by the time the police arrived, there was a silent circle of
people around the body. The skull above the spring glared maliciously at them from over the dead man’s body.

Agatha learned from the hushed whispers that the body was that of a Mr Robert Struthers, chairman of Ancombe Parish Council. Blood was seeping from the back of his head into the spring, blood,
black in the night, swirling around the stone basin.

Sirens tore through the silence of the night. The police had arrived at last. Bill would not be among them. It was his day off.

But Agatha recognized Detective Inspector Wilkes.

She sat in one of the police cars and made a statement to a policewoman. She felt quite numb. She was told to wait and a police car would take her home.

At last she was dropped off at her own cottage. She hesitated on her doorstep, looking wistfully towards the cottage next door. Here was a splendid opportunity to talk to James. But the shock of
finding the dead man had changed something in her. I’m worth better than that, thought Agatha, as she unlocked her door and went in.

She was just making herself a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. This time she did not expect to see James standing on the doorstep and it was with genuine gratitude and relief that she
welcomed the vicar’s wife, Mrs Bloxby.

‘I heard the terrible news,’ said Mrs Bloxby, pushing a strand of grey hair behind her ear. ‘I came along to spend the night with you. You won’t want to be
alone.’

Agatha looked at her with affection, remembering nights before when Mrs Bloxby had volunteered to keep her company. ‘I think I’ll be all right,’ she said, ‘but I’d
be grateful if you would stay for a bit.’

Mrs Bloxby followed her into the kitchen and sat down. ‘Mrs Darry phoned me with the news. If you look out, you’ll see lights all over the village. They’ll be talking about it
all night.’

‘Tell me about this water business,’ said Agatha, handing her a mug of coffee. ‘I assume they were asked to make a decision on the water.’

‘Yes, indeed, and some very noisy debates they had on the subject, too.’

‘Who owns the water?’

‘Well, it comes from Mrs Toynbee’s garden, but as the well is out on the road, that bit belongs to the parish. There are seven members of the parish council and they’ve all
served for years.’

‘What about council elections?’

‘Oh, those come and go but nobody else wanted the job and so nobody ever stands against them. The late Mr Struthers was chairman, Mr Andy Stiggs is vice chairman, and the rest – Miss
Mary Owen, Mrs Jane Cutler, Mr Bill Allen, Mr Fred Shaw, and Miss Angela Buckley. Mr Struthers was a retired banker. Mr Stiggs is a retired shopkeeper, Miss Mary Owen, independently wealthy. Mrs
Jane Cutler, also wealthy, is a widow, Mr Bill Allen runs the garden centre, Mr Fred Shaw is the local electrician and Miss Angela Buckley is a farmer’s daughter.’

‘And who was for selling the water and who against?’

‘As far as I remember, Mrs Cutler, Fred Shaw and Angela Buckley were for it, and Mary Owen, Bill Allen and Andy Stiggs, against. The chairman had the casting vote and as far as I know he
had not yet made up his mind.’

‘It could be that one of the fors or one of the againsts could have known which way he was going to vote and didn’t like it,’ said Agatha, her bearlike eyes gleaming under the
heavy fringe of her brown hair.

‘I shouldn’t really think so. They are all quite elderly, except Miss Buckley, who is in her forties. They have all led unblemished lives.’

‘But this seems to have stirred them all up.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bloxby reluctantly. ‘The debates have been hot and furious. And of course the villagers themselves are split into two camps. Mary Owen claims the villagers have
not been consulted and she is holding a meeting in the village hall. I think it was due to take place next week but I am sure it will be put off in view of this murder.’

‘If it does turn out to be murder,’ said Agatha slowly. ‘I mean, he was old and he was lying face-up. He could have had a seizure, fallen backwards and struck his head on the
basin.’

‘Let’s hope that is the case. If not, the press will arrive and television crews will arrive and it is so beautiful here that we will have to suffer from more tourists than
usual.’

‘I’m a bit of a tourist myself,’ said Agatha huffily. ‘I don’t really belong here. It drives me mad when people in the village complain about those terrible
tourists when they’ve just come back from a holiday abroad where they’ve been tourists themselves.’

‘That’s not quite true,’ said the vicar’s wife gently. ‘Carsely people do not like leaving Carsely.’

‘I don’t care. They go into Evesham and Moreton to do their shopping, so they are taking up someone else’s bit of space. The world is one planet full of tourists.’

‘Or displaced people. Think of Bosnia.’

‘Bugger Bosnia,’ said Agatha with all the venom of one who has been made to feel guilty. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I must be a bit upset.’

‘I am sure you are. It must have been a shocking experience.’

And it had been, thought Agatha. Some women such as herself were cursed with the same machismo as men. Her first thought had been to say, ‘Oh, it was all right. I’m used to dead
bodies, you know.’ But Agatha had been afraid of so many things during her life that she had gone through the world with her fists swinging until the gentle life of Carsely and the kindness
of the villagers had got under the carapace she had created for herself.

‘If it should be murder and I concentrate on that,’ said Agatha slowly, ‘I might take this job of public relations officer for the Ancombe Water Company.’

‘Mrs Darry said you already had it.’

‘What a gossip that frump is! I only told her because she called round to ask me to get her some water from the spring and said, more or less, that I had nothing else to do. She made me
feel as if I were already on the scrap-heap.’

‘It could be dangerous for you if you asked too many questions.’

‘If it’s murder, it will probably be quickly solved. One of the fors didn’t want Struthers to block it or one of the againsts thought he was going to break up village life and
pollute the environment.’

‘I don’t think that can be the case. You don’t know the parish council; I do. Certainly this issue has made them very heated, but they are stable, ordinary members of the
community. Shall you and James be investigating it? You have both had a lot of success in the past.’

‘He has been very rude to me and snubbed me,’ said Agatha. ‘No, I shall not go near him.’

When Mrs Bloxby left, Agatha got ready for bed. The old cottage creaked as it usually did when it settled down for the night and various wildlife rustled in the thatch. But
every little noise made her jump and she wished she had not pretended to be so brave and had asked the vicar’s wife to stay the night. Then there was James, just next door, who must have
heard of the murder by now. He should be here with her to protect and comfort her. A tear rolled down Agatha’s nose and she fell into an uneasy sleep.

Another fine spring day did much to banish the horrors of the night before, and Bill Wong called, accompanied by a policewoman, to go over her statement.

James Lacey had seen the police car arrive, knew all about the murder and that it was Agatha who had found the body. He had assumed she would call him, for he was eager for details, but finally
Bill Wong left and his phone did not ring.

Agatha phoned Roy Silver. ‘I’ve decided to take that freelance job with the water company,’ she said gruffly. Roy longed for the power to tell her to get lost, but the fact
that his boss would look on the getting of Agatha as a great coup stopped him.

‘Great,’ he said coldly. ‘I’ll set up a meeting for you tomorrow with the directors.’

‘I suppose you’ve seen the papers?’ said Agatha.

‘What about?’

‘The chairman of Ancombe Parish Council was found dead last night – by me.’

‘Never! You’re quite a little vulture, Aggie. They’ll need you more than ever to counteract the bad publicity. Is it murder?’

‘Could be, but he was very old and maybe just fell over and struck his head on the stone basin.’

‘Anyway, I’ll get back to you, sweetie, and give you the time you’re to see them.’

‘Who will I be dealing with?’

‘Co-directors, Guy and Peter Freemont, brothers.’

‘What’s their pedigree?’

‘City businessmen, wheeler-dealers, you know the kind.’

‘All right, let me know.’

Agatha looked at the clock. Nearly lunchtime. She decided to go along to the Red Lion, the local pub, and see what gossip she could glean. Perhaps James might be there . . . forget it!

She made up with care, studying her face intently in her fright mirror, one of those magnifying ones. Her skin was still smooth on her cheeks but there were threads of wrinkles about her eyes
and nasty ones on her upper lip. Her hair was thick and glossy and her legs were good. Her figure was a bit on the stocky side and her neck was a trifle short. She sighed as she spread foundation
cream over the wrinkles and then applied powder and lipstick. She reached for a tube of mascara and then decided against it. Waterproof mascara simply meant it took longer to clean off and had a
habit of sticking under her eyes for days. She should get her eyelashes dyed. Would a face-lift be worth it, or would it stop her from facing up to ageing gracefully? Did anyone ever age
gracefully, or was it a choice between giving up or going down fighting?