Agatha Raisin 07 (1998) - The Wellspring of Death Read online

  “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 More-ton 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 si
mply 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?

  As she walked along to the pub, she was assailed with a feeling of loneliness, of isolation, and wondered, not for the first time, if the city was so deep in her bones that she could never put down roots in country soil. And yet it was all so beautiful and calm as she walked under arches of blossom. Far above her, the Cotswold sky was pale blue and cloudless. Going to be another hose-pipe ban soon, thought the practical side of Agatha.

  She was nearly at the pub when she realized she had forgotten to feed her two cats, Hodge and Boswell. She groaned. They would be all right until she got back. She was not going to turn into one of those drivelling women who were sentimental about animals.

  Nevertheless, she walked back to her cottage, fed her cats, let them out in the garden, and feeling she had endured enough exercise and fresh air for one day, got into her car and drove the short distance to the pub, plunging happily into its beer-smelling, smoky gloom.

  The barman, John Fletcher, gave her a gin and tonic and then the locals clustered around, anxious for news. Always happy to be the centre of attention, Agatha described in gruesome detail the finding of the body. “It may not be murder,” she finished. “He could just have fallen.”

  “Bound to be murder,” said Miss Simms, secretary of the Carsely Ladies’ Society and the village’s best-known unmarried mother. “And I know who done it!”

  “Who?” asked Agatha.

  Miss Simms cradled her half-pint of beer against her chest. “It was that Mary Owen.”

  “Go on with you,” said Fred Griggs, the local policeman, lumbering up to join the group. “Mary Owen is a nice old lady who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “How old?” asked Agatha.

  “Sixty-five.”

  Agatha winced. She was in her middle fifties and did not like to think of anyone in their sixties being considered old.

  “She may have been nice one time,” said Miss Simms defiantly, “but ever since this water company’s come on the scene, she’s been hollering and yelling about it. People can go batty when they get as old as that.”

  “We don’t know yet it was murder,” said Fred. “Is anyone going to buy me a drink?”

  “I will,” said Agatha. “Drinking on duty?”

  “Day off. I’ll have a pint of Hook Norton.”

  “I didn’t think you could get a day off with there being this death.”

  “The detectives are handling it.”

  Mrs Darry came up and joined them. Agatha turned her back on her, trying to exclude her from the group, but Mrs Darry pushed past her.

  “Are you talking about the murder?” she asked eagerly.

  “We have other things to talk about,” said Agatha huffily as she paid for the policeman’s drink.

  “I was saying as how Mary Owen did it,” said Miss Simms.

  “I’m surprised to find you here, Mrs Raisin,” said Mrs Darry. “I’ll have a Dubonnet, John.” She looked at Agatha. “I mean, I thought they would have been grilling you at police headquarters.”

  “Why?” Agatha stared at her belligerently.

  Mrs Darry gave a malicious little titter. “Surely the person who is found with the body is always chief suspect?”

  “That’s rubbish,” said Fred. “Mrs Raisin just happened to come across the body.”

  “It’s amazing how many bodies Mrs Raisin seems to have come across.” Mrs Darry took a birdlike sip of her drink. “And gained a certain notoriety for it, too. Life has been quite quiet for you recently, has it not?”

  Agatha’s face flamed red with anger. “Are you saying I go around murdering people so as to get in the newspapers?”

  Mrs Darry gave a shrill laugh. “Just my little joke.”

  “Then you can take your joke and shove it up your scrawny arse,” raged Agatha, as the whole full force of the shock of finding the body hit her. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Come on, now,” said Miss Simms, unhitching herself from the bar-stool. “We’ll find a quiet corner away from this bitch.”

  Agatha sat down with her, her knees trembling.

  “Sorry about the scene,” she mumbled. “I did get a bit of a fright.”

  “Have the press been bothering you?”

  “No,” said Agatha, surprised. “I wonder why.”

  “All it said in the Gloucester Echo was that the body had been found by a local woman.”

  Despite her distress, Agatha felt peeved. The police could have said something like, “The body was found by Mrs Agatha Raisin, who has been of great help to us in solving murders in the past.”

  “That Mrs Darry is an awful cat,” said Miss Simms.

  “There’s one in every village,” said Agatha gloomily. “I shouldn’t have risen to her remarks.”

  “Look, Mrs Raisin…”

  “Call me Agatha. Why is it we always seem to call each other by our second names?”

  “I like that,” said Miss Simms. “More genteel, like. Are you going to investigate? Will Mr Lacey be helping you?”

  “I don’t know what James is doing these days and I don’t care,” said Agatha. “But I will probably find out more about the whole set-up because I will be doing public relations for the new water company on a freelance basis.”

  “Pity it’s water,” said Miss Simms. “Now if it was gin or whisky, you could get us all some free samples. My current boyfriend is in bathroom equipment. I can get you a toilet seat.”

  “That’s kind of you, but my toilet seats are all right. Do you know any of the members of the parish council?”

  “Ancombe, you mean. The ladies’ society did a concert over in Ancombe when you was away abroad. Old fuddy-duddies. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Probably it’ll turn out the old geezer just fell over.”

  The conversation moved to village gossip and Agatha finally left, feeling better. There was a message on her answering machine from Roy. She was to meet the two directors of the Ancombe Water Company the following day at three in the afternoon.

  Comforted by the thought of work, and by a long walk in the afternoon, Agatha managed at last to get a good night’s sleep.

  Two

  Misery had its compensations. Agatha found she could get into a tailored skirt which had been too tight at the waist when she had last tried it on a few months ago. She also put on a shirt blouse and tailored jacket, packed a writing-pad and pens into a Gucci briefcase, and decided she was ready for her new job.

  One of the pleasures of being independently wealthy, she thought, was she did not care very much whether she got the job or not.

  She stopped on her way out of the village at the general store and bought the newspapers. Nothing much yet. Only small paragraphs in each to say the police were continuing their investigations into the death of Mr Struthers.

  She drove to Mircester and then through the main town and out to an industrial estate on the fringe where the new water company was situated.

  Her practised eye took in the sparse furnishings of the entrance hall. Low sofa, table, glossy magazines, green plants in pots. Good appearance but not that much money spent.

  The receptionist with a smooth brown skin and large doe-like eyes had a Jamaican accent and shoulder-pads like an American football player. She took Agatha’s name, rang someone and then said, “The secretary will be with you presently.”

  Now let’s see how long they keep me waiting, thought Agatha. Successful company directors did not play at being important.

  After two minutes a tall, willowy Princess Di look-alike swanned in. “Mrs Raisin? Follow me, if you please.” Following a waft of Givenchy’s Amarige, Agatha trailed behind the vision along a corridor of offices. There didn’t seem to be much sound coming from behind those office doors. Agatha wondered if they were e
mpty.

  The secretary opened a door at the end of the corridor marked ‘Boardroom’ and stood aside to let Agatha enter.

  Agatha cast a quick eye around the boardroom. Long oak table, six chairs, Venetian blinds at the two windows, table in the corner with coffee machine, cups, milk, sugar and biscuits.

  “If you will sit here, Mrs Raisin.” The secretary drew out a chair at the end of the table. “Coffee?”

  “Black, please, and an ashtray.”

  “I don’t think we have an ashtray.”

  “If I am going to work for you, you’d better find one,” said Agatha, made tetchy with all the guilt the smoker feels these days.

  The secretary had wide blue eyes fringed with black lashes. A little flicker of dislike flashed in the blue shallows of her eyes and then was immediately gone.

  “What’s your name?” asked Agatha.

  “Portia Salmond.”

  “Well, Portia, are we going to get down to business this day?”

  “Mr Peter and Mr Guy will be with you directly.” Portia went to the coffee machine and poured a cup of coffee for Agatha. She returned and put it down in front of her, along with an extra saucer. “You can use that until I manage to find an ashtray.”

  The door at the far end of the room opened and a man entered, hand outstretched.

  “I am Peter Freemont,” he said. “Guy will be along in a minute.”

  Peter Freemont was about forty years old, powerful and swarthy with black hair already greying at the temples. He had a large fleshy nose and a small mouth, thick bushy eyebrows and a very large head. His broad figure was encased in a pin-striped suit and his feet, which were tiny, in black lace-up shoes, like children’s shoes. He looked like the figure of a man painted on the side of a balloon. Agatha wondered madly whether, if she tied string around his ankles and held him out of the window, he would float up to the sky.

  But then brother Guy walked in and Agatha promptly forgot about Peter. Guy Freemont was beautiful. He was tall and slim, with jet-black hair and very blue eyes, a tanned skin and an athlete’s body. Agatha judged him to be in his middle thirties. He gave Agatha such a blinding smile that she searched in her briefcase for her notebook to cover her confusion.