Agatha Raisin 07 (1998) - The Wellspring of Death Page 4

  She scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Bill Allen. He glanced at it, turned brick-red and abruptly left the platform.

  Gleefully Agatha took his place. “The other thing I meant to tell you is that to launch the new bottled water, we are going to have a splendid fete right here in Ancombe, a good old–fashioned village fete. Yes, we’ll have film stars and people like that present, but I want you to have all your usual stalls, home-made jam, cakes, things like that, and games for the children. It will be the village fete to end all village fetes. Television will be there, of course, and we will show the world what Ancombe is made of. Won’t we?”

  She beamed around the audience and was greeted with a roar of applause.

  When the vote was taken, the villagers were overwhelmingly in favour of the water company. Many of the villagers belonged to the group of incomers that Andy Stiggs had so despised.

  Agatha found her hand being shaken warmly by the councillors who were in favour of the water company—Mrs Jane Cutler, Mr Fred Shaw and Miss Angela Buckley. Angela Buckley, a strapping woman, gave Agatha such a congratulatory thump between the shoulder-blades that she nearly sent her flying off the platform.

  “Mission accomplished,” whispered Guy in Agatha’s ear. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Outside the hall, Guy put his arms around Agatha. “You were marvellous,” he said. He gave her a kiss full on the mouth. Agatha drew back and stared at him. He was so incredibly handsome and she had felt a definite buzz when he kissed her. She gave a sad little sigh. She had never liked the idea of a toy boy. Better to grow old gracefully.

  “What did you write on that note to get the old bore off the platform?” asked Guy.

  “I told him his fly was open.”

  “Attagirl. Let’s have a drink.”

  Agatha was suddenly reluctant to take him home. “Let’s go to my local,” she said.

  The Red Lion was crowded. The first person Agatha saw was James Lacey, standing at the bar. Agatha looked at his tall, rangy figure, his black hair going grey and handsome face, and felt a lurch in the pit of her stomach. A couple were just vacating a table over at the window, well away from the bar. “Let’s sit over there,” said Agatha quickly.

  “I’ll get you something,” said Guy. “What’ll it be? I know. Let’s see if they have any champagne.”

  Agatha was about to protest, to say that she would be happy with a gin and tonic but she saw James staring across at her and smiled up at Guy and said, “How lovely!”

  Guy returned to the table and within a short time the landlord, John Fletcher, came over, carrying the bottle in an ice bucket. The pop of the cork was a festive sound. Several locals stopped by the table to congratulate Agatha on her speech at the village hall. James was left with the company of Mrs Darry.

  Agatha could not possibly be interested in that young man, he thought sourly. She was making a fool of herself, sitting there drinking champagne and flirting. She should remember her age! He desperately wanted to talk to her about the murder but did not know how to break the ice that he himself had caused to form.

  He talked as civilly as he could to Mrs Darry and then abruptly left the pub.

  An hour later, he heard a car drive up and stop outside Agatha’s cottage. He rushed to the little upstairs window on the landing which overlooked Agatha’s cottage. Agatha opened the car door. Guy Freemont was at the wheel. He could see that clearly because the light sprang on inside the car when Agatha opened the door. Guy put his hand on Agatha’s arm and said something. He saw Agatha smile and say something in reply. Then she went into her cottage and Guy drove off. At least he hadn’t gone in with her.

  He waited the next day expecting Agatha to call him, to suggest they investigate the murder together, but nobody called at all. He went out and bought all the newspapers. The locals had given the meeting a good show and there was even a photo of Agatha on the front page of the Cotswold Journal, but the nationals only carried small paragraphs.

  James began to feel restless and bored. He decided to investigate the murder himself.

  After several tries, he managed to get Bill Wong on the phone, and finding he was off duty that evening, offered to buy him dinner. Bill agreed. His beloved Sharon had said she had to wash her hair.

  James had chosen a Chinese restaurant, recently opened. The restaurant was quiet and the food good.

  “I’m fascinated by this murder,” said James. “Any idea who did it?”

  “We’re ferreting into backgrounds at the moment, and checking up on movements. You would think that somebody might have seen that body dumped at the spring, heard a car or something, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. It’s funny, you sitting there being interested in a case. It would be quite like old times, except that you haven’t got Agatha with you.”

  “I assume she’s too busy with her new job,” said James flatly.

  “Is that what she said?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her.”

  “Why?”

  “I really don’t want to discuss Agatha. Do you think one of the members of the parish council might have done it?”

  “They’re all too respectable,” mourned Bill. “Still, you never know. It’s amazing what you find out about people once you start digging into their past. I can’t really tell you what we’ve got so far because it’s all confidential. If you want to know anything, you’ll need to ferret around yourself, provided you don’t get under the feet of the police.”

  “I don’t trust that water company,” said James. “I don’t like that younger one, Guy Freemont.”

  Bill’s eyes crinkled up in a smile. “No, you wouldn’t, would you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not jealous.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So who are they? Where did these Freemont brothers come from?”

  “They had an import-export business in Hong Kong.”

  “Oh, yeah? Drugs?”

  “No, clothes. Cheap clothes going out and more expensive clothes for the rich coming in.”

  “I bet they ran sweatshops.”

  “Sure you’re not jealous? So far we can find out nothing against them. They made their pile in Hong Kong, all legit, and came back to Britain recently, just before the Chinese take-over. But we’re still investigating.”

  “Why water? Why Ancombe?”

  “Mr Peter Freemont said he happened to notice the spring during a weekend in the Cotswolds and thought a mineral-water company might be a good idea.”

  “So they bump someone off who might have stopped their plans?”

  “It’s hardly a good advertisement.”

  “It got the name Ancombe Water in all the papers.”

  “So it did. But, like I said, hardly a good advertisement. Anyone buying the water will remember the body was found lying with the head in the basin, and our Agatha’s vivid description in the newspapers of the blood swirling around in the moonlight. I think you can forget them. Why don’t you ask Agatha? She must have got to know them pretty well.”

  “I told you. For once in her life, Agatha seems too busy to concentrate on murder.”

  While Bill and James were dining, Agatha was having a pleasant dinner with Guy Freemont. He encouraged her to talk about herself, flattered her ability in public relations and then asked her what a ‘city girl’ like herself was doing buried in the Cotswolds.

  “I sometimes wonder,” said Agatha ruefully. “But you get used to the safe life, the sleepy life, and it’s so beautiful, particularly at this time of year. It’s beautiful everywhere you look. Have you seen that purple wisteria in Broadway? The blooms are so magnificent. It’s a wonder it doesn’t cause accidents, with so many drivers putting on their brakes to have a better look.”

  “But don’t you miss the excitement of London?”

  “London has changed so rapidly. Last time I was up, I had a meal in a restaurant in Goodge Street and decided afterwards to walk down Tottenham Court Road to
get the tube for the Central Line. There were beggars and drug addicts all the way along and shapeless bundles of clothes huddled in doorways. When I got off the tube at Notting Hill to change on to the Circle Line for Paddington, a man, drunk as a skunk, tried to throw himself under the next train. This big burly man snatched him back in the nick of time and marched him up the escalators to the ticket collector. At the top, the would-be suicide wrenched free, vaulted the turnstile and vanished into the night. His rescuer said to the ticket collector, “That man just tried to throw himself in front of the train!” The ticket collector shrugged and looked bored. Didn’t do anything about it. I was glad to get back down here. I don’t belong in London any more. It can be a lonely place.”

  He took her hand and gave it a warm squeeze. “Any romance in your life?”

  “Nothing that I want to talk about,” said Agatha as his thumb began to stroke the palm of her hand. Her mind raced. I can’t be doing this, she thought frantically. I’m too old. I don’t have stretch marks, but I have love handles and my boobs don’t perk up the way they used to.

  When he drove her home, he stopped outside her cottage and, leaning across, planted a warm kiss on her mouth. Agatha blinked at him, dazed and shaken. “I’m going up to London for a few days,” he said softly. “I’ll call you when I get back. You’ve been working like a beaver. Why don’t you take a few days off and relax?”

  “I’ll do that,” said Agatha huskily.

  She let herself into the cottage and stood in her hallway, her knees shaking.

  You are ridiculous, she told herself fiercely. She peered in the hall mirror at the lines around her mouth, at the lines on her neck.

  The phone rang, making her jump. It was Bill Wong. “Been out?” he asked.

  “Yes, Bill. I had dinner with Guy Freemont. Got anyone for the murder yet?”

  “Not yet. I had dinner with James Lacey.”

  Agatha went very still. “And?”

  “And he seems hell-bent on playing the amateur sleuth again.”

  “He won’t get very far without me.”

  “He supposes you’re too busy to be interested.”

  “Too right. In the murder and in him.”

  “If, on the other hand, you do hear any gossip, let me know, Agatha. We seem to be at a dead end.”

  Agatha then asked about his girlfriend and his parents, and after a few more moments’ conversation, rang off.

  She had a few days off. She could not bear the idea of James’s finding out anything and taking all the glory. It would do no harm to drop in on some of the parish councillors in the morning, just to see if she could find out anything.

  Three

  Agatha decided to start off with one of the councillors friendly to the water company. That way, it might be easier to get gossip. She looked up Mrs Jane Cutler in the phone book and noted down her address. She hesitated, wondering whether to phone first, but then decided it would be a better ploy just to land on the doorstep.

  Mrs Cutler Jived in Wisteria Cottage in Ancombe, near the church. Wisteria Cottage turned out not to have any wisteria in evidence, nor was it a cottage. It was a modern bungalow with double glazing and niched curtains. The lawn was a severe square of green grass surrounded by regimented flowers which looked as if they had been measured to stand exactly four inches apart from each other, no more, no less.

  Agatha knew that Mrs Cutler was aged sixty-five and did not look it, but she was startled again at the appearance of the woman who opened the door to her and confirmed that she was, indeed, Mrs Cutler.

  Mrs Jane Cutler had expensively blonded hair, her skin was smooth and her figure excellent. Only the eyes were old and watchful and the wrists and ankles had that fragile, brittle appearance of old age. No plastic surgeon had yet found the way to make eyes look youthful. She must be very rich indeed, thought Agatha, as she followed her indoors. It took a mint to look like that.

  She was wearing a clinging wool jersey dress of goldy-brown with a colourful Hermes scarf at her neck.

  “I am so glad to see you, Mrs Raisin,” she said. “Such a silly fuss about some water! I’ll just go and get us some coffee. Shan’t be a tick.”

  Agatha looked round the sitting-room, which was furnished in Bastard Country House. Hunting prints on the wall, chintz on the sofa, expensive fake fire where gas flames flickered among fake logs, Country Life and The Lady on the coffee-table, very new oriental rugs spread over the hair-cord fitted carpet.

  In a short time Jane Cutler reappeared with coffee and biscuits on a tray. Agatha reflected bitchily that wim the money that had gone into maintaining her appearance, Jane Cutler could have bought a real country mansion. After the coffee had been served, Agatha said, “I do not understand why any of the councillors should be against the water company. Such a fuss about nothing.”

  “Oh, you know what village people can be like,” said Mrs Cutler. “So narrow-minded. Now I have always had broad vision. And my vision tells me that this water-company business is a good idea. I can understand why you work for them. I suppose people like you have to go on earning money, no matter what their age.”

  “I—” began Agatha furiously.

  “Have a biscuit. You obviously are a sensible woman and can’t be bothered with all this silly dieting.”

  Now I know why people don’t like you, thought Agatha, feeling her skirt-band tightening against her waist and wondering again if people could suffer from instant psychosomatic fat.

  “I can’t help thinking,” ventured Agatha, deciding not to rise to insults, “that this awful murder might have something to do with the row about the water. I mean, why would anyone want to bump off a nice man like Mr Struthers?”

  A merry laugh. “Dear Mrs Raisin, who gave you the odd idea that Mr Struthers was a nice man?”

  “I mean,” floundered Agatha, “there was surely nothing about him that bad to make anyone want to murder him.”

  “We-ell, I probably shouldn’t be saying this…”

  Agatha waited patiently, convinced that nothing in this world could make Mrs Cutler refrain from saying anything nasty about anyone else.

  “You see, Mr Struthers owned the paddock which borders on Angela Buckley’s father’s land. Do you know our Angela? Great strapping monster. Big powerful hands. Well, the Buckleys wanted to buy that paddock. Take it from me, dear, land greed is a worse addiction than drink or drugs or”—her glance flicked up and down Agatha’s figure—“chocolate. There was quite a stormy scene at the last council meeting and it wasn’t about the water. Angela said that Mr Struthers never used that paddock, that it was a waste of land and that the only reason he wasn’t selling it was out of spite. Mr Struthers said it was no wonder she had never married, she was such a frump, and it was no wonder Percy Cutler had jilted her almost at the altar, and Angela slapped his face! My dear, we had to pull her off! ”

  “Cutler,” said Agatha slowly. “Percy Cutler? Your son?”

  “No, my late husband.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, there was an age difference, I admit, but what does that matter when there is real love? When poor Percy died of cancer, that bitch Angela said I had known that he had cancer and had only married him to get my hands on his money.”

  “How dreadful,” said Agatha faintly.

  “I pointed out to her that the husband before Percy, my Charles, had been very rich and I had no need to marry again for money.”

  “How many husbands have you had?” blurted out Agatha.

  “Just the three.”

  “And what did the first two die of?”

  “Cancer. So sad. I nursed them all devotedly.”

  It might be considered a brand-new way of gold digging, thought Agatha. Marry a man who knows he’s got cancer and not long to live.

  “So you think,” she said aloud, “that perhaps Angela or her father might have murdered Mr Struthers. But why? How would that give them the land?”

  “Because the son and the father never got
on. The son, Jeffrey, was always nagging his father to sell them the land. They’ll get it now.”

  There was a silence while Agatha digested this news. “Anyone else have it in for old Struthers?”

  “Well, everyone knows about Andy Stiggs.”

  “Not me,” said Agatha fervently.

  “Of course, you’re one of those incomers from…where? Birmingham, maybe?”

  Agatha coloured angrily. She had been brought up in a Birmingham slum and had done her best with clothes and accent to bury her past forever.

  “London,” she snapped.

  “Really? I could have sworn there was a trace of Brummie there. Anyway, the late Mrs Struthers, away back before God was born, was the belle of Ancombe. I never saw it. One of those rather common blowsy creatures with a loud laugh, you know—the kind you see on a bar-stool in a road-house, skirt hitched up, laughing insanely when not taking sips out of one of those drinks that come with an umbrella sticking out of the glass. Andy Stiggs was passionately in love with her and swore Robert Struthers had lured her away.”

  “So does anyone know which way Mr Struthers meant to vote?”

  “Oh, who cares? We all got tired of him nodding his stupid head and saying, “I’ll make up my mind when the time comes.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to change. I am expecting a gentleman caller.”

  Feeling quite stunned by all this gossip, Agatha made her way out. She got into her car and was about to drive off when she was suddenly overcome with curiosity to see who this gentleman caller might be. She drove as far as the end of the road and parked under a lilac tree where she could still command a good view of Jane Cutler’s front door.

  She waited and waited and after three quarters of an hour was just beginning to decide that Jane had used a fiction of a gentleman caller to get rid of her when she saw a familiar car drawing up outside her house and a familiar figure got out. James Lacey!

  Agatha’s hand tightened angrily on the steering wheel. So he, too, had begun investigations!

  She drove along the village street, stopped at the newspaper shop and asked for directions to the Buckley farm, and headed off.