Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death (21 page)

Agatha went slowly into the sitting-room and put a match to the fire and then stood looking down at the flames.

‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’ Guy’s voice came from behind her.

She gave a little start. ‘Sorry, I was daydreaming. Whisky?’

‘Yes, please. Just a splash of soda.’

Agatha gave him a generous whisky and soda and poured herself a gin and tonic.

‘I’m glad you decided to see me, Agatha,’ said Guy. ‘I thought you had dropped me.’

‘Oh, we were never really an item,’ said Agatha. She must play for time. If Bill found that cat and if it were all connected to Guy, then the police would arrive in force.

‘I thought we were.’

‘That’s odd. Portia Salmond summoned me last night and told me you had been having an affair with her.’

‘Agatha, Agatha. That was all a long time ago.’

‘Can’t have been. The water company’s pretty new. You only hired Portia this year.’

‘I knew her before.’

‘In Hong Kong?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Been checking up on me, Agatha?’

‘Of course. When I was approached to represent your company, I asked a few questions about your background.’

‘And what did my busy little angel find out?’

‘I found out you’d been in the rag trade and had moved back here when Hong Kong went over to the Chinese. Dreadful for those poor people in Hong Kong. They should all have been given
British passports.’

‘Come on, Agatha. They’re Chinese, too.’

‘So? They’re people and they were British subjects.’

He shook his handsome head. ‘I never took you for a liberal.’

‘You mean the wogs begin at Calais?’

‘Let’s drop this. So boring. So you are a retired lady of leisure?’

‘Yes, and I plan to enjoy it. How’s the water business?’

‘We are doing so well. Exporting to Europe and soon to America. And all thanks to the publicity.’

‘I’ll never understand that. When I see a bottle of Ancombe Water with the skull grinning on the label, all I can think of is poor Mr Struthers lying at the well and the water
stained with his blood swirling around the basin.’

‘Don’t you see, Agatha? That’s the secret.’

‘The secret of what?’

‘Advertising, promoting a product. There’s a new health drink on sale which has a cannabis leaf on the label. Now it doesn’t contain the drug-type hash because the cannabis in
it is from the male leaf and it’s only the female leaf which causes a high. Do you think people buy it because they think it’ll be healthy? No, they think, Maybe I’ll get a
high.’

‘I’m still not with you. There’s nothing in Ancombe Water but water, surely.’

‘I discussed this with you before. All human beings are self-destructive. A lot of people go into health shops to buy stuff that will pep them up or slow them down but persuade themselves
that as they are buying whatever in a
health
shop, it makes it all right. People will sozzle their brains in pubs with alcohol and sneer about junkies. Vegetarians stuff their faces with
sugar. And in my opinion the health warning on a packet of cigarettes is one of the best advertisements going. People are drawn to death, Agatha, because of their fear of it, like people are drawn
to the edge of a cliff. And never have people been more afraid of death than in this age.’

‘I can’t really go along with that,’ said Agatha. ‘People have very short memories. Ancombe Water was flashed around the world because of the murders, yes. But then they
forget that and just remember they’ve heard about it. I don’t believe that dicing with death has any attraction at all.’ Agatha lit a cigarette.

Guy pulled a newspaper cutting out of his pocket. ‘Oh, yes? Well, I’ve brought you a cutting about a hypnotist in Mircester. You do want to stop smoking, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ lied Agatha, who did not really in her heart want to stop at all. ‘I’ll get you another drink and then I’ll fix dinner.’

‘Okay. I’ll join you in the kitchen.’

‘No, don’t do that. I don’t like anyone watching me cooking.’

She gave him another drink and then went into the kitchen and shut the door. All that talk about death being good for publicity. Was it Guy after all who was the murderer? She had arranged the
salmon mousse on plates. The duck would need to be heated in the microwave and then both portions, along with the already micro-waved potatoes and vegetables, kept warm in the oven.

What a fool she had been! James had kept insisting it was the Freemonts. How James would crow over her.

She looked back at the closed kitchen door. Maybe a call to police headquarters . . .

She cautiously picked up the receiver and got through to police headquarters. She asked for Bill but was told he was out. ‘Tell him,’ she said urgently, ‘that Guy Freemont is
at my home and I am convinced he committed those murders. This is Mrs Agatha Raisin. No, I haven’t time to wait to be put through to anyone else . . .’ She heard a movement outside the
kitchen door and quickly replaced the receiver.

Her cats curled around her legs. She opened the kitchen door and shooed them out into the garden. ‘You’ll be safe there,’ she whispered, and was later to wonder why she had not
run out of the kitchen door and fled to safety herself.

She put the duckling in the microwave, picked up the two plates of salmon mousse and headed for the dining-room.

She put down the plates and lit the candles. Then she went through to the sitting-room.

‘Were you on the phone?’ asked Guy. He was standing by the fireplace.

‘Were you listening?’ asked Agatha lightly.

‘No, when you pick up the receiver in the kitchen, the receiver in here gives a little ping.’

‘Yes, I was on the phone. I was calling Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife.’

His face was hard and his eyes glittered oddly in the firelight. He took a step towards her.

The doorbell rang.

The police, thought Agatha.

‘I’ll just get that.’

He caught hold of her arm. ‘Don’t you want to be alone with me?’

He studied her face. Agatha tried to look as puzzled and offended as she would have been in normal circumstances.

‘All right,’ he said, releasing her.

Agatha went to the door and opened it. Mrs Bloxby stood on the doorstep.

Agatha goggled at her and then raised her voice. ‘I was just saying to Guy when I phoned you a moment ago that it was bound to be you.’ She winked desperately.

‘I brought you some of my trifle.’ Mrs Bloxby held out a bowl.

‘Come in and meet Guy,’ said Agatha.

‘If you’re entertaining, I don’t want to interrupt you.’

‘Just a drink,’ pleaded Agatha.

‘Yes, how nice.’ Guy loomed up behind Agatha.

‘How good to see you, Mr Freemont,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I won’t stay long. As I was saying to Agatha a moment ago on the phone, I thought she might like some of my special
trifle.’

Guy looked as relaxed now as he had been tense a moment before. ‘You take the trifle, Agatha, and I’ll get Mrs Bloxby a drink.’ Mrs Bloxby handed over the bowl of trifle and
then put her umbrella in the stand in the hall.

‘Such a dreadful evening, Mr Freemont,’ she said. ‘Oh, this is comfortable. I always think a log fire is so pretty. Just a sherry, please.’

Agatha came in and sat down. The fact that Guy was more than likely a cold-blooded killer had finally sunk in and she felt sick and frightened.

Mrs Bloxby looked brightly at Agatha and then at Guy. ‘Do you go to church, Mr Freemont?’

‘What?

‘I asked, do you go to church?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am the vicar’s wife and I like to collect as many souls for the church as possible.’

Mrs Bloxby knows, thought Agatha. Somehow she knows. It was totally out of character for the vicar’s wife to ask anyone if they went to church.

Guy gave an awkward laugh. ‘Well, Christmas, Easter; I’m afraid I am a two-service-a-year Anglican.’

‘But are you never afraid for your immortal soul?’

‘Never think about it.’

‘Oh, but you should. We will all be judged on Judgement Day.’

‘I don’t want to offend you, Mrs Bloxby, but it’s all a lot of tosh. When someone dies, they just die – finish, the end.’

‘That is where you are wrong.’

‘How do you know that? God tell you so?’

Mrs Bloxby took a sip of sherry and looked meditatively at the leaping flames. ‘No, but I have observed goodness in people as well as evil. There is a bit of the divine spirit in all of
us. I have also observed an odd pattern of justice.’

‘Justice?’ demanded Guy sharply and Agatha groaned inwardly.

‘Oh, yes, I have seen evil people thinking they have got away with things, but they always suffer in the end.’

‘The fires of hell?’

‘Yes, and they suffer from them in their lifetime. I think whoever killed poor Mr Struthers and Robina Toynbee will eventually suffer dreadfully.’

‘Not if the police don’t catch him, or her.’ Guy stood up. ‘Excuse me, I’ve left my cigarettes in my coat pocket.’

‘Have one of mine,’ said Agatha. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

‘There’s a lot about me you don’t know.’

He went out. Agatha looked at the vicar’s wife with agonized eyes. She mouthed, ‘Don’t go too far.’

Guy came in and stood in the doorway. He had his coat on and a small serviceable revolver was pointed straight at them.

‘Fun’s over,’ he said coldly. ‘We’re going for a ride. Into the car and one squeak and I’ll shoot both of you.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ demanded Agatha.

‘Just shut up and get moving. Move!’

Outside, he snarled at Agatha. ‘You drive and the Holy Roller can sit beside you. One false move and I’ll kill you both.’

‘Take the road through Ancombe,’ he ordered as Agatha drove off.

Agatha felt all hope die. The police would come into the village the other way and so miss them. The cold muzzle of the revolver was pressed against her neck.

Mrs Bloxby sat quietly beside her, hands clasped in prayer. What good will that do? Agatha wanted to scream at her.

‘Down to Moreton and take the Fosse towards Stratford,’ ordered Guy.

Agatha obeyed. There was nothing else she could do. Jammed beside her on the seat was her handbag, which she had picked up through force of habit. Was there anything in it she could use as a
weapon? Nail scissors? Forget it. There was a little can of spray lacquer. If only she could get that and spray it in his face. But how?

Start him talking, she thought. ‘So you killed them?’ she said.

‘Just drive and keep your mouth shut.’

In books, thought Agatha wildly, the criminals always bragged about their crimes, allowing the hero to escape. The windscreen wipers moved rhythmically like metronomes.

They left Moreton-in-Marsh behind and out they went along the Fosse Way, the Roman road which, like all Roman roads, went straight up hills and down the other side. Roman armies had not gone in
for easy detours.

‘Right here!’ barked Guy.

‘This goes to Toddenham,’ said Agatha. ‘We could have gone round the back of Budgen’s.’

‘Drive!’

Would Doris Simpson look after her cats? He surely meant to kill them.

‘Stop!’ he commanded.

Agatha stopped with a squeal of brakes. ‘You first,’ Guy said to Mrs Bloxby. ‘If you run for it, I’ll kill her.’

‘Run for it,’ Agatha urged the vicar’s wife. ‘He’s going to kill both of us anyway.’

But Mrs Bloxby got out and stood meekly beside the car.

‘Into the field,’ said Guy.

Agatha found she was still clutching her handbag.

As she ducked under the fence, she released the flap and groped for that little can of lacquer.

‘Now stand there, together.’ The rain had stopped and faint starlight shone on the black revolver in Guy’s hand.

He levelled the pistol at them.

Mrs Bloxby left Agatha’s side and walked forward and put a hand on his arm.

‘This will not do,’ she said gently. ‘You cannot get away with this.’

He jerked his arm away.

Agatha darted forward and sprayed lacquer in his face. He shouted, clutched at his eyes and dropped the revolver.

The vicar’s wife grabbed the revolver and shouted, ‘Stand back, Agatha.’

Guy looked at them blearily. ‘So go on and shoot.’ He advanced on Mrs Bloxby. ‘But you won’t, will you, oh lady of God? You can’t!’

His hand reached out.

Mrs Bloxby shot him full in the chest.

He stared at her in surprise and then down at the spreading stain on his white shirt. ‘I’ll be damned,’ said Guy Freemont.

Mrs Bloxby sat down suddenly on the wet grass. ‘Probably,’ she said faintly and then buried her face in her hands.

Guy toppled forward on his face and lay still. The moon swam out from behind ragged black clouds. Far away the thunder grumbled.

Agatha walked on shaking legs and pulled Mrs Bloxby to her feet. ‘We need to get help and I’m not leaving you here.’

‘God forgive me,’ whispered Mrs Bloxby. ‘I’ve killed him.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Agatha. ‘But we’re not waiting to see.’

She helped the vicar’s wife into the car. The keys were still in the ignition. Agatha found that her legs were trembling so much that she could barely press the accelerator.

But she managed to start the car and drive into Toddenham, stopping at the first house.

The householder who answered the door looked at the two women and then down at the gun which Mr Bloxby was still holding in her hands, screamed and slammed the door.

‘Give me the gun.’ Agatha put it in her handbag.

They walked next door. A slim young man answered it and after listening to their pleas to use the phone, that they had to call the police, invited them in. Agatha called for the police and
ambulance, breaking off to ask the young man his address.

‘We’d best go back,’ said Agatha. ‘You wait here, Mrs Bloxby, and I’ll stop them.’

‘No, I’ll come with you. I killed him.’

The young man who had given his name as Gabriel Law made a move to accompany them and then decided against it. If one of these women had killed someone, he felt it would be safer to stay
behind.

Agatha drove the short distance to the field.