Agatha Raisin And The Wellspring Of Death Part 3

"Must have been someone very strong, or more than one."

"Exactly."

"And do you think it had something to do with this water business?"

"It certainly looks that way. Mr Struthers was a widower. He lived alone. He has a son down in Brighton who was certainly in Brighton on the night of the murder. He hadn't all that much money to leave. Anyway, the son has a first-cla.s.s job in computers and has no need of money."

"What are the other members of the parish council like? Miss Mary Owen, for example."

"She's quite a commanding personality, tall, thin and leathery. One of those ladies who does good works, not out of any feeling of charity for the less fortunate, but because that's the sort of work ladies do. She's independently wealthy. Some family trust."

"She's going to make some sort of protest speech. Has she enough personality to sway the villagers?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"Rats. What about the others?"

"The others against the water company. I'll start with them. Mr Bill Allen. He runs the Ancombe Garden Centre. Very cla.s.s-conscious and got a bit of an inferiority complex. Father was a farm labourer. So Mr Allen supports all the things he considers Right. Bring back hanging, slaughter the foxes, bring back National Service, that sort of thing."

"Then I would have thought he would have been all for this water company. Capitalism rules, okay."

"I believe Miss Owen implied that the Free-mont brothers were not gentlemen. Enough said. Now the last of those against is Mr Andy Stiggs, a retired shopkeeper. He's seventy-one and hale and hearty."

"Maybe there's something in this water after all."

"Maybe. Anyway, he loves the village and thinks that lorries rumbling through it to take away the water will be a desecration of rural life. Do you remember that supermarket that was proposed for outside Broadway? Well, he got up a pet.i.tion against it."

"So what about the ones in favour?"

"There's Mrs Jane Cutler. She's a wealthy widow, sixty-five but doesn't look it. Rumoured to be on her third face-lift. Blonde and shapely. Not very popular in the village but I can't see why. I found her charming. She says the village could do with more tourist trade and Ancombe Water will publicize the village and bring trade in. Then there's Angela Buckley, big strapping girl, forty-eight, but still called a girl. Not married. Rather loud and red-faced, good-natured, but apt to bully the villagers in a patronizing I-know-what's-best-for-the-peasants manner which irritates the h.e.l.l out of them. Fred Shaw is the last. Electrician. Bossy, sixty, aggressive manner, powerful for his age."

"Oh, dear," said Agatha. "Those against sound more palatable than those for."

"So what did you make of the Freemonts?"

"Peter Freemont seemed like the usual City businessman. Guy Freemont is charming. Where did they come from?"

"I gather that they ran some export-import company in Hong Kong and got out like everyone else before the Chinese took over. What do you think, Agatha? That they murdered someone to get the publicity?"

"Hardly. I'm sure it's a village matter and it may have nothing to do with the water. People always think of villages as innocent places, not like the towns, but you know what it's like, Bill. An awful lot of nasty pa.s.sions and jealousies can lie just beneath the surface. I've a feeling in my bones that it's got nothing to do with that spring at all."

James Lacey was driving past when he saw Agatha and Bill emerge from the George. He longed to be able to call to them, to discuss the murder, but he had to admit to himself that after the way he had been treating Agatha, he could hardly expect a warm reception.

Give Agatha an inch, he thought sourly, and she'll take over your whole life. He drove on, but feeling lonely and excluded and knowing he had only himself to blame.

Two weeks later, with the police no farther on in their murder investigations, Mary Owen's protest meeting was scheduled to take place in the village hall. Agatha arranged that she and Guy Freemont should have places on the platform to present the firm's viewpoint.

Agatha had visited the company's offices in Mircester, presenting outlines for publicizing the water, but each time it was Peter Freemont who saw her. Agatha began to wonder if she would ever see Guy again, but on her last visit Peter had a.s.sured her that Guy would call for her before the village meeting so that they could arrive there together.

"Calm down," Agatha told herself fiercely.

"He's at least twenty years younger than you." She was torn between trying to look s.e.xy and trying to look businesslike. Common sense at last prevailed on the evening of the meeting, and businesslike won. She put on a smart tailored suit but with high-heeled black patent-leather shoes and a striped blouse, her hair brushed to a high shine, and painted her generous mouth with a Dior lipstick guaranteed not to come off when kissed.

She was ready a good half-hour before Guy was due to arrive. Perfume! She had forgotten to, put on any. She rushed upstairs and surveyed the array of bottles on her dressing-table. Rive Gauche. Everyone wore that, particularly now that cut-price shop had opened in Evesham. Champagne? A bit frivolous. Chanel N5. Yes, that would do. Safe.

She returned downstairs and checked her sitting-room. Log fire burning brightly, magazines arranged on the coffee-table, drinks on the trolley over at the wall. Ice? d.a.m.n, she'd forgotten ice. He wouldn't have time for a drink before they left but perhaps, just perhaps, he might come back with her for one. She went to the kitchen, filled the ice-trays and put them in the freezer.

Then she felt a spot sprouting on her forehead. She tried to tell herself it was all her imagination and rushed upstairs. Her forehead looked unblemished, but she put a little witch hazel on it, just in case. The witch hazel left a round white mark in her mask of foundation cream and powder. She swore and repaired the damage.

By the time the doorbell went, she was feeling hot and frazzled. Guy Freemont stood on the doorstep, black hair gleaming, impeccably tailored, dazzling smile. Agatha felt miserable, like a teenager on her first date.

The village hall was crowded. The press were there in force, not only the locals, but Midlands TV, and some of the nationals. The murder had put Ancombe on the map.

Miss Mary Owen got to her feet to address the crowd. She had a high, autocratic voice and a commanding manner. She was dressed in an old print frock with a droopy hem but wore a fine rope of pearls around her neck.

She began. "I have been against selling the water all along. It is a disgrace. It is desecration of one of the famous features of the Cotswolds, something that by right belongs to the villagers of Ancombe. You have heard complaints, have you not, about how the life is being drained out of our villages by incomers?" Agatha shifted uneasily. "I do not think the water should be sold off without the villagers' permission. I suggest we put it here and now to a vote."

Oh, no, thought Agatha, not before they've heard me. She was about to get to her feet when a woman stood up in the audience. "It's my water," she said.

"Come up and let's hear you," called Agatha, glad of the distraction.

The woman was helped up on to the platform. Miss Owen gave her a filthy look but surrendered the microphone to her. "Who are you?" asked Agatha, lowering the microphone to suit the height of the newcomer.

"I am Mrs Toynbee and the spring is in my garden."

Mrs Toynbee was a small, 'soft' woman, rather like marshmallow, though not plump. She had silver hair which formed a curly aureole about her head. She had the kind of face which romantic novelists call heart-shaped. She had large light blue eyes and fair lashes. Her soft bosom was covered by a glittery evening sweater, white with silver sequins, worn over a long floral skirt. Agatha judged her to be in her forties but when she started to speak, she had a clear, lisping, girlish voice.

"As you all know," she began, "I am Mrs Robina Toynbee and I have had a hard time of it since my Arthur pa.s.sed away..." She paused and carefully dabbed each eye with a small lace-edged handkerchief. Agatha, strictly a man-sized Kleenex woman, marvelled that there were obviously still lace-edged handkerchiefs on the market. "The water rights are mine to sell," went on Robina Toynbee.

"But the actual fountain is outside your garden!" cried Mary Owen, leaping to her feet.

Robina Toynbee cast her a look of pain and shook her head gently. "If that is what troubles you, then I have the right to block the spring and they can take the water from my garden."

"Too difficult," murmured Guy in Agatha's ear, "we need that skull for the labels."

Agatha marched forward. "If I might have a word, dear." She edged Robina Toynbee away from the microphone.

"Perhaps I can explain things," said Agatha. Her eyes flew to where James was standing at the back of the hall, his arms folded. She gave her head a little shake, as if to free it from thoughts of James Lacey. She mentally marshalled her facts and figures and proceeded to bulldoze her audience.

"The company are paying Mrs Toynbee for the water, yes, but they are also paying a generous yearly sum to the parish council which, I gather, if accepted, will go towards the building of a new community hall. Yes, the publicity will bring tourists to the village but tourists will bring trade to the village shops. From nine in the morning each day until the following dawn, the spring will belong to the villagers as it always has."

Bill Wong leaned back in his seat and smiled appreciatively. It was nice to see Agatha Raisin back on form. He had been worried about her since her break-up with James.

"Wait a bit," shouted Andy Stiggs. "I know you, Mrs Raisin. You're one of those incomers, one of those people who are ruining the village character."

"If it weren't for incomers, you wouldn't have any village character," said Agatha. "Those cottages down the lower end of the village, what about them? They were derelict and abandoned for years. Then some enterprising builder did them up, lovingly restored them. Who bought them? Incomers. Who made the gardens pretty again? Incomers."

"That's because the local people couldn't afford the prices," panted Andy.

"You mean they're all broke like you, Miss Owen and Mr Bill Allen?"

Agatha winked at the audience and there was an appreciative roar of laughter.

"I must and will have my say." Bill Allen, the owner of the garden centre, got up and stood in front of the microphone. He was dressed in a hacking jacket, knee-breeches, lovat socks and brogues. A pseud, if ever there was one, thought Agatha, listening to the genteel strangulation of his vowels.

He began to read from a sheaf of papers. It soon became apparent to all in the hall that he had written a speech. A cloud of boredom settled down. Agatha despaired. She wanted the meeting to end on a high note. But how to stop him?

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 oldfashioned 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 n.o.body 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 a.s.sume 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 b.u.mp someone off who might have stopped their plans?"

"It's hardly a good advertis.e.m.e.nt."

"It got the name Ancombe Water in all the papers."

"So it did. But, like I said, hardly a good advertis.e.m.e.nt. 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."