Agatha Raisin And The Wellspring Of Death Part 12

"Keep going!" shouted Sybil from behind them. "Don't let the pigs stop you."

To the protesters' surprise, the policeman stood aside. They marched to the spring and one slit open the neck of the bag of cement.

That, of course, Agatha realized, was the moment the police had been waiting for. They had to be caught in the act of trying to block the spring. The men were seized, the bag wrenched away. The other protesters, about twenty of them, began attacking the police, kicking and punching and gouging.

Sybil was dragged past James by two policemen. She looked at him as she pa.s.sed with dawning recognition and then spat full in his face.

"I quite warm to that girl," said Agatha.

Six.

Agatha went back to London with Roy after the weekend. She knew journalists, ever fickle creatures, were quite capable of forgetting to turn up for the fete, and needed to be reminded of it and bullied all over again into coming. She also needed an excuse to get away from Ca.r.s.ely, James and Guy.

At first she found the journalists had become lukewarm about the prospect of a visit down to the country to a fete to celebrate the launch of water, of all things. So Agatha told them all about the attempt to block up the spring, which the television stations and national newspapers had heard about too late to film or photograph. Agatha hinted darkly at fears of an almighty punch-up on the day of the fgte, painting an alarming picture of sweet little children sent flying by protesters, and village ladies screaming in fright. Interest in the fete was reanimated to such an extent that Agatha thought at times it might be a good idea to pay the protesters herself to turn up.

By the end of her week, she felt she had done very well, only to receive a set-back just as she was preparing to leave. Jane Harris, the film star who was to open the fete, would not attend. Her agent phoned to say that Ms Harris had read the reports of the murder at Ancombe and the demonstrations and she sympathized with the demonstrators, as she considered English rural life should be protected.

"The silly b.i.t.c.h lives between Chelsea and L.A.," howled Agatha.

The agent hung up on her.

I'm losing my touch, thought Agatha miserably. Now who do I get? It had better be someone good or the Freemonts will be cancelling my contract.

The phone rang. It was Mrs Bloxby, the vicar's wife. "How did you get my number?" asked Agatha.

"You left it with me, don't you remember? How are things?"

"Not very well. I have to stay on. Jane Harris has cancelled. I haven't told the water company yet. I need to get a replacement."

There was a long silence.

"Are you still there?" Agatha demanded.

"I'm thinking."

Agatha sighed. She was very fond of the vicar's wife, but how on earth could she help?

"I have it," said Mrs Bloxby.

"What?" asked Agatha.

"The Pretty Girls."

"Who are they when they're at home?"

Mrs Bloxby laughed. "I never expected to be more up in the world than you. They are a pop group. Number one on the hit parade. They are a new type of pop singer. Very pretty, and wear oldfashioned clothes. They do a lot for charity. Who gets the money from the rete?"

"The water company, I suppose."

"If you say the money is going to help AIDS-The Pretty Girls support that-I think if they are free, they would do it. They would be a big crowd-puller. They also support animal liberation, so their presence at the fete will give it respectability with environmental groups."

"You're a genius," said Agatha. "I'll get on to it right away."

Some hard phoning later and Agatha to her delight had secured the presence of The Pretty Girls. She then phoned the water company in Mir-cester and was put through to Peter Freemont.

"I don't think Jane Harris is the right person," said Agatha, proceeding to lie. She felt that Jane Harris turning down the fete reflected badly on her business abilities. "So I secured The Pretty Girls."

"You're brilliant, Agatha. How on earth did you get them to come?"

"We'll contribute the money from the fete to AIDS."

"After deductions for the costs?"

"Of course."

"I just don't know how you do it. They're number one on the hit parade."

"I know." Agatha felt uncomfortable at not giving Mrs Bloxby any credit for the idea, but it was a hard world and she did not want to admit she had never heard of the pop group, Agatha's interest in pop groups having stopped when she retired and gave up representing some of them.

She found out afterwards that The Pretty Girls had risen to fame in one meteoric month and felt better about being so behind the times. She then stayed on in London anyway to make the rounds with this new information, this time choosing journalists from the entertainment pages.

Agatha had also secured the attendance of old Lord Pendlebury, a local peer, to give away the prizes at a children's talent compet.i.tion.

By the time she travelled back to Ca.r.s.ely, she felt she was on the brink of pulling off the biggest public relations coup of her career.

The weather in July was perfect, one sunny day following another. Agatha kept herself busy. She had resolved to end the affair with Guy, but each cold, hard look from James, when she crossed his path, sent her straight back into Guy's ever-ready company. She hated the age difference. She had completed her delayed appointments with the beautician, and still felt all the strain of keeping up appearances. She found she kept studying women of her own age, anxious to avoid wearing the sort of clothes that middle-aged women wore, such as the aforementioned velvet trouser suits. In fact, decided Agatha, unless the middle-aged figure was slim and youthful-looking, all trouser suits were out. And those striped French sailor sweaters. Sign of a skittish, middle-aged woman. Noel Coward's Mrs Wentworth-Brewster.

But at least all the worries about ageing and all the arrangements for the fete kept her very busy and James was centred somewhere deep inside her, a little dark ache, but nothing more.

The golden days moved into August. Murder and the non-existence of a white Persian cat were forgotten. There were no more anti-spring demonstrations.

Finally it was the eve of the fete. Agatha returned with Roy from patrolling the site, checking the marquees, going over all the arrangements. The weather forecast was doubtful. Showers were expected but not due to arrive until the following evening, when the fete would be all over.

Agatha and Roy sat out in the garden of her cottage with tall, cold drinks. "Anyone been trying to get hold of you?" asked Roy lazily.

"I'd better go in and check the Call Minder," said Agatha. "In a minute,"

"So you and James are definitely finished?"

"It was all over a long time ago. I don't want to talk about it. I'll go and check for messages."

Agatha went in and dialled her code. How many times had she dialled those digits, hoping to hear a message from James. "You have three messages," said the prissy voice. "Do you want to hear them?"

"Yes," said Agatha. It was no use shouting, "Of course I want to hear them, you stupid b.i.t.c.h," because the computer rejected insults.

The first message was from Robina Toynbee. She sounded strained. "Please phone me, Mrs Raisin. It is very important."

The second message was from Portia, the Freemonts's elegant secretary. She did not like Agatha and her voice was thin and cold. "Please liaise with Mr Peter at the management tent at nine a.m."

The third message was from The Pretty Girls' agent. "Disaster, isn't it? Of course they won't be there. Can you believe it? How could they destroy success just like that?"

Agatha looked up the agent's office number, but got the 'engaged' signal. She called to Roy. "I can't make head or tail of a message from Carol, The Pretty Girls' agent, and her line's engaged. She says they won't be there and they've destroyed their success."

"Put on the television. It's near the hour.".

Agatha put on Sky, and they sat down in front of it, both of them with their backs rigid and their eyes staring at the screen.

It was the very first news item. Police had raided a house in Fulham where The Pretty Girls had been giving a party and had seized large quant.i.ties of Ecstasy, heroin, uppers and pot. Pretty Girl Sue, the leader of the group, had been found stuffed in a cupboard, unconscious from an overdose. Then followed a brief history of the pop group, whose fame had been built up on their clean family image.

"What'll we do?" said Agatha, her face white. "We can't get anyone else at this late date."

"We're stuck with Lord Pendlebury," said Roy.

"But don't you see what this means?" howled Agatha. "The press will not turn up, not the nationals, only the locals. I didn't bother a lastminute chase-up of the press because of The Pretty Girls. We'd better start now. What do I say?"

"Christ knows," said Roy. "Hint at another murder. Hint at a demonstration."

Agatha began to phone up every newspaper and television station. She said things like, "I hope those animal-rights people don't wreck the place. Hundreds are threatening to demonstrate. We've had one murder at Ancombe. I hope we don't have another." When she got tired, Roy took over.

Then Agatha phoned Guy. "I saw it on the news," he said. "Let's just hope we get something out of it. It isn't your fault, Agatha."

As if to complete the disaster, when Agatha and Roy awoke the next morning, a steady drenching rain was falling from lowering skies.

Roy tried to console her. "You made arrangements for rain, Aggie. Remember? All the events can take place in the marquees."

"But we were to march to the spring behind the village band," mourned Agatha, "and I pictured it all sunny. Now all we'll get's a straggling row of umbrella-covered people."

"We can only do our best," sighed Roy.

Agatha expected the Freemont brothers to blame her for the weather, but they both seemed quite calm and cheerful. "Everything looks quite jolly," said Guy, "and loads of people are beginning to arrive."

"What about the press?"

"They're already getting liquored up in the press tent."

"I'd better go and join them. Come along, Roy."

Entering the press tent, Agatha's expert eye ranged over the a.s.sembled journalists and her heart sank. There was the Birmingham Mercury-good paper, that-the Cotszvold Journal, the Gloucester Echo, Midlands Television and so on, all local. Where were the nationals?

She moved among them, chatting brightly away. Lord Pendlebury Would open the fgte at eleven in the main tent, then everyone would have a chance to buy things at the stalls. At twelve the village band would lead a procession to the spring.

When Agatha went to the main tent to hear Lord Pendlebury's speech, she knew the whole thing was a ghastly failure. The rain dampened everything, despite the flowers and heaters inside the tents. The ground was muddy and spongy underfoot and the day was cold. A malicious wind had got up and flapped the sodden canvas.

Lord Pendlebury made a long and boring speech about his military service during World War II. He did not mention the water company and Agatha was suddenly convinced he had totally forgotten why he was there. A baby began to cry. One little boy kicked his sister in the shins; she began to scream and other children screamed in compet.i.tion.

Teenagers who had travelled down from Birmingham in the hope of seeing The Pretty Girls were drinking beer from cans and looking surly.

When the time for the procession to the spring arrived, all Agatha wanted to do was run away and hide. The plan was that she and the Free-mont brothers and Lord Pendlebury would lead the procession. Originally it was to be led by The Pretty Girls. And how often Agatha had fondly imagined that original picture. The crowds, the laughter, the jolly band, the sun beating down.

She saw James talking to an attractive woman in the refreshment tent. He was laughing at something she was saying. Agatha's misery was complete.

She found Guy at her elbow. "Where were you during Lord Pendlebury's speech?" she asked.

"Off somewhere thinking about getting drunk but not doing it. Let's go and join the procession."

"How are the band to play in this rain?"

"The band leader a.s.sures me they're used to it. Get the press and tell them we're off."

The press had obviously been making up for lack of a newsworthy event by swapping stories and drinking hard. They looked reluctant to leave, but they dutifully picked up their gear and followed Agatha out into the rain.

As they approached the spring, the band had opted to play 'Bridge Over Troubled Water'. It sounds like a dirge, thought Agatha, feeling she would like to cry, and this is like a funeral procession.

"Oh, my G.o.d," said Guy, grabbing Agatha's arm.

"What?"

"Look there!"

The music behind them faltered off into silence except for the drummer, who did not have a clear view of what was transfixing the rest of them.

Robina Toynbee hung head down over her garden wall. Blood from a gaping wound in her head dripped down into the spring. Boom, boom, boom, went the drum. Then it too was silent.

A woman screamed, high and long and loud.

Chaos erupted.

The galvanized press pushed and shoved to get photographs.

Guy whipped out his mobile phone and thrust it at Agatha.

"Find a quiet corner and get on to the nationals-quick!"

"But the police-"

"I'll get them. Go!" He gave her a little shove.

Agatha thrust her way round the edge of the crowd and then ran to the deserted press tent. She sat down and poured herself a stiff brandy and then started to phone while inside her grew a loathing for her job.

She was joined by Roy. She pushed him a list of the media she had already phoned. "I'll do some," said Roy. "G.o.d, I feel sick. That poor woman."

"She called me last night, and the news about The Pretty Girls put it straight out of my head," said Agatha.