Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death ar-7

by M C Beaton

"You haven't got a job, have you? What do you live on?"

  "Missus goes out cleaning and the mother-in-law takes care of the kids."

  So much for women's liberation, thought James bleakly.

  Billy went into a long rambling monologue about the unfairness of life.

  At last James asked, "How did you get into this Save Our Foxes business?"

  "Get a bit o' drink money."

  "Do you care about saving foxes?"

  Billy gave him a sly grin. "O' course. Got to save the little bleeders."

  "What I can't understand," said James, "is why you're all so interested in this spring? Who's paying you?"

  "You know, Jim. We go along. Have a bit of a punch-up. Get forty quid. Not bad."

  "But, I mean, where does the money come from to pay us?"

  "We're not supposed to know, Jim. But I heard..."

  Billy looked thoughtfully down at his empty glass.

  "I'll get us another," said James quickly.

  He returned with two vodkas. Billy was never quite drunk, never quite sober. He seemed to be able to sink an enormous capacity without falling over. James was beginning to feel pretty drunk himself, and he was anxious to get some facts out of Billy while he was still able to.

  "You were saying about who was paying us?" asked James.

  "Was I?" Billy looked suddenly truculent and suspicious. "What's a posh fellow like you doing with us lot?" James had given up trying to hide his accent.

  "Because a bit of a punch-up is fun," he said.

  "That's what I thought." Billy raised his glass. "Here's to you."

  "So I mean, who's paying? Not to mention paying fines for disturbance of the peace?"

  Billy leaned forward. "Sybil and Trevor like to keep us in the dark about that. Playing at spies, like. But I heard Sybil say something like, I got the money from that Owen woman."

  Mary Owen. I'll be damned, thought James, masking his excitement.

  To his relief he heard the barman call, "Time, gennelmun, pullease." Got the information just in the nick of time.

  He said goodbye to Billy outside the pub and hurried back to his temporary room. He would hang around a few days to allay suspicion and then he would head back to Carsely and call Bill Wong to tell him he had solved the murder. For if Mary Owen felt so passionately about the spring, then it followed that she must have committed the murder. And James wanted Agatha to be there when he told Bill.

  He thought briefly of Zak. Perhaps he should tell Zak--but then James wanted all the glory for himself.

  James returned to Carsely early in the morning on the day before the attack on the spring was due to take place.

  He phoned Bill Wong and asked him to call at ten in the morning. No, he couldn't tell him over the phone. It was only fair that Agatha should hear his news at the same time.

  He decided to walk next door to Agatha's cottage and give her the invitation. He felt quite like Poirot and only wished he had a library so that he could stand on the hearthrug in front of the marble fireplace and tell them how it had all been done.

  But as soon as he stepped outside his own front door he saw a car parked behind Agatha's, outside her front door.

  That chap from the water company. And James was willing to bet he hadn't been making an early-morning call but had stayed the night.

  Muzzy with sex and sleep, Agatha awoke to the shrill sound of the telephone ringing.

  She grabbed the receiver.

  "Agatha!" It was James.

  "Yes?"

  "I have something to tell you and Bill Wong about the murder. Can you be at my cottage at ten this morning?"

  "Yes."

  "Goodbye."

  "Who was that?" demanded Guy, stretching and yawning.

  "Just a neighbour," said Agatha. "Got to get dressed."

  She went through to the bathroom and leaned on the wash-hand basin and stared at her puffy face and tousled hair in the mirror. When she was young, a night of love-making would leave her looking radiant. Now that she was old, it seemed to do nothing but accentuate the bags under the eyes and the lines down either side of the mouth.

  What did James want? And why, oh why, had he chosen this morning of all mornings to phone?

  She washed and dressed, made up with care, and went down to the kitchen, where Guy was sitting at the table in one of her frilly dressing-gowns drinking coffee.

  He gave her a warm smile. Agatha blinked at him. She wished she had never gone to bed with him again. But James seemed to have been gone so long and they had both drunk rather a lot at dinner the night before.

  She wondered if Guy felt any affection for her at all. Charles, that wretched baronet, had seemed to treat her as an easy lay, but he had teased her and laughed at her and had seemed genuinely fond of her in his way. But Guy seemed to be acting a part.

  Agatha glanced at the kitchen clock. Five minutes to ten. "I've got to go," she said hurriedly. "Could you let yourself out? And won't you be in trouble turning up late at the office?"

  He laughed. "One of the benefits of being a director is one can turn up late at the office."

  She bent over him and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Phone you later," said Agatha and made her escape.

  It had been raining during the night and the air was fresh and clean, making Agatha feel soiled and depraved. She hoped to have a few words with James, but when she arrived outside his door she was joined by Bill Wong, who had just driven up.

  Bill and Agatha stared in amazement at the blond and ear-ringed James who answered the door.

  "What's happened to you?" asked Agatha.

  "Part of my disguise," said James. "I've been undercover. Come in and sit down and I'll tell you who murdered Robert Struthers."

  "So you've been investigating on your own." Colour flamed in Agatha's face.

  "You've got a love-bite on your neck," said James coldly.

  "Here, now," admonished Bill. "This is important."

  They all sat down, Agatha and Bill on a sofa facing James, who sat in his favourite armchair.

  "I joined Save Our Foxes," said James.

  "So it was you I saw on television," cried Agatha.

  "The barbecue? Yes, that was me," said James proudly. "Well, here's what I found out. They are going to the spring tomorrow afternoon and they are going to block it off with cement. And that's not all. I've found out who's paying them to demonstrate. Mary Owen."

  "But according to gossip, she's fallen on hard times," said Agatha. "So she couldn't afford to pay them."

  "The gossip, like most village gossip, is probably wrong," said James loftily. "Anyone who can pay this bunch of thugs to behave badly must have felt passionately enough about the whole affair to have murdered Struthers."

  Agatha was suddenly glad of James's horribly bleached hair and ear-rings. It was easy to think of him as a stranger. She suddenly felt very tired. All she hoped was that Guy had taken himself off so that she could creep back under the duvet and go to sleep.

  "Did you report this to Zak?" asked Bill sharply.

  "Who's Zak?" asked Agatha.

  "An undercover policeman who made himself known to James."

  Both looked at James. "I hadn't time to get to him."

  "We know from him about the protest tomorrow," said Bill.

  "So you knew where James was all along," said Agatha furiously, glaring at Bill.

  "But Zak didn't know about Mary Owen," said James quickly. "I found that out by getting one of the members drunk."

  "We'll pull her in for questioning. She has an alibi," said Bill. "On the night of the murder she was staying with her sister in Mircester."

  "Her sister could be covering for her."

  "You haven't met the sister, a Mrs Darcy, straight-talking, honest. But we'll check out the alibi again."

  "You should have told me about this, James," said Agatha. "We've always investigated tilings together in the past."

  "I would have done if you hadn't been preoccupied in screwing around
with a toy boy."

  "That's enough." Bill got to his feet. "Come along, Agatha."

  When they had gone, James phoned a hairdresser in Evesham and made an appointment to get his hair dyed back to its normal colour. Agatha and Bill had made him feel small and petty. Bill was right. He should have told Zak.

  When Agatha went into her cottage, her phone was ringing. She answered it and found it was Roy Silver.

  "Just calling to see how things are going," he said cheerfully.

  "Murder or water?"

  "Murder."

  Agatha told him about James. Roy listened and then said, "That was a bit mean of him."

  She warmed to him. "Why not come down for the weekend and we'll go and watch the demonstration?"

  "Great. I'll get the early-morning train."

  Agatha put down the phone feeling better. However outrageously Roy had behaved in the past, he always popped up again and she felt like company. She remembered Guy and swore under her breath. She had been so stunned after leaving James that she had not even checked to see if his car was still outside.

  "Guy!" she called up the stairs.

  There was no reply. With a little sigh of relief, she went up and stripped the bed and put on a clean sheet, pillow cases and duvet cover. Then she undressed and climbed into bed and plunged down immediately into a dreamless sleep. An hour later, she could faintly hear the phone downstairs ringing. She had switched off the one in the bedroom. She lay until it had finished ringing and then went back to sleep.

  In the cottage next door, James replaced the receiver. He had planned to ask Agatha to come into Evesham with him, but he rang off the minute her answering service came on the line.

  Rain was thudding down on to the platform at Moreton-in-Marsh Station next morning as Agatha waited for the arrival of Roy Silver.

  A large bouquet of flowers from Guy had arrived just before she left. She had slung them into a bucket of water, planning to arrange them later. She wondered why the idea of having a handsome man send her flowers was so infinitely depressing.

  The Great Western train slid smoothly alongside the platform. Roy appeared looking quite ordinary for once in a Burberry worn over cords and a sports shirt and V-necked sweater.

  "Hello, Aggie," he said, planting a wet kiss on her cheek. "I hope we don't get this weather for the fete. What will we do?"

  "I've already contacted one of those firms that rent out marquees. They'll have to be decorated and some heat supplied. There's nothing more dampening than people crowded into damp tents with the rain pouring down. The Freemonts were all for having an orchestra, but I persuaded them that the Carsely village band would be more traditional. They're actually jolly good. Don't want to make it too ritzy. When it's good weather here, I always envisage the fete being held on a cloudless day, but when it's like this, I picture it as being damp and horrible and full of crying children."

  "We'll see," said Roy. "How could we find out if Mary Owen has money or not?"

  "We could ask Angela Buckley. She's pretty direct, although, come to think of it, she did warn me off."

  "Now why did she warn you off? She must have something to hide. Let's go and see her."

  "All right. We'll leave your bags first and have a coffee."

  After Roy had taken his bag up to the spare room, he joined Agatha in the kitchen.

  He looked at the flowers in the bucket, and then picked up the florist's card which Agatha had left on the table. "Oho," said Roy. "'Love from Guy.' That wouldn't be the delicious Guy Freemont, would it?"

  "We have a close working arrangement," said Agatha frostily.

  "If you say so, dear." He accepted a mug of coffee. "So after we see this Angela, I Suppose we go to the spring for a punch-up. I wonder if Mary Owen really has money. What about asking James?"

  "No."

  "Have it your way. Is that sunlight outside?"

  Agatha walked to the window and looked out. Raindrops glistened on the bushes and flowers in the garden. "I'll be able to let the cats out," she said, opening the door. Hodge and Boswell slid through and disappeared into the shrubbery.

  "I could fix up a cat flap for you," said Roy. "I'm pretty good at DIY."

  "I never got around to getting one. I keep imagining some small, slim burglar crawling through it at night."

  "Have it your way."

  Half an hour later, they set out for Ancombe, driving through the glittering rain-washed countryside. Agatha opened the car windows. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers.

  She drove through puddles, sending up sheets of water on either side of the car. Roy began to sing happily in a flat, reedy voice. "I'm not very good at leisure," said Agatha.

  Roy stopped singing. "How come?"

  "I was just thinking that on a day like this, I should be sitting in the garden with my cats, reading or just looking. I always seem to be doing something. If I'm idle, I feel guilty."

  "Take up a sport, then, tennis or something. Good for the waistline. Is that a bite on your neck, Aggie?"

  "Insect bite."

  "Oh, yes? I know those sort of insects. We have them in London as well."

  "Here's Ancombe," said Agatha, anxious to change the subject. "The Buckley farm is off this way."

  Soon they were bumping up the farm drive. "Looks prosperous," said Roy.

  "Never can tell with farmers, I gather," said Agatha. "They can't all have that rich or idyllic a life, or so many of them wouldn't commit suicide."

  "It's all those things they do with animals. I don't think so many people are eating meat. I don't. And I read that nobody wants to eat pork. They eat bacon, but no pork chops."

  "I'll tell you why that is. When did you last have a pork chop that tasted like anything? You're not thinking of joining an animal-rights group, are you?"

  "Not me, sweetie. I just don't enjoy meat so much. Feels unhealthy."

  "Here we are." Agatha drew up outside the farm door. "And there is Angela."

  Angela Buckley stood watching them, strong arms folded across a checked shirt-covered bosom, strong legs in cord and cowboy boots.

  "Wouldn't want to meet her on a dark night," muttered Roy.

  They got out of the car. Agatha introduced Roy.

  "What d'you want?" demanded Angela harshly. "Not still poking your nose into things that are none of your business, are you?"

  "Did you know Mary Owen was paying those Save Our Foxes people to demonstrate, and that they're going to be at the spring this afternoon to fill it in with cement?"

  "What? You'd better come indoors. I've got the kettle on."

  "I like this," said Roy, looking around the farm kitchen. "So truly rural."

  Angela flashed him a look of contempt.

  "So what's this about Mary?" She took the kettle off the Aga and proceeded to make a pot of coffee.

  Roy watched anxiously. Angela's way of making coffee consisted of spooning coffee into the pot and pouring boiling water on top of it. He hoped she would allow the grounds to settle, but she stirred the mixture up with a long spoon. Agatha said black and Roy, white, and then Roy bleakly looked down at the gritty coffee swirling around in his cup.

  Agatha explained again about Mary. "The old bitch," said Angela furiously. "I hope the police have arrested her."

  "They've taken her in," said Agatha. "But what puzzles me is that Fred Shaw said Mary was broke and that's why she wanted to marry Robert Struthers. But if she's broke, how come she could pay these people--wages, transport, not to mention bags of cement, and fines in court?"

  "I think Fred Shaw invented the whole thing. He's always sneering because Mary lives in the manor and doesn't seem to put much money into it. She does all the cleaning herself, things like that. Did he say Mary wanted to marry old Robert?"

  "Yes, and he said Jane Cutler was after him as well."

  Angela's face darkened. "That I could believe. The mercenary old bag."

  "Don't you think Mary could have murdered Struthers? She must have felt ve
ry strongly about the spring to pay Save Our Foxes." Agatha took out a tissue and dabbed at the moustache of coffee grounds above her mouth.

  "She felt very strongly about having her will crossed. I noticed she always seemed to be wining and dining Robert, but I thought that was because she didn't like not getting her own way and Robert used to drive her mad with exasperation because he wouldn't tell her of his decision."

  "Why did you warn me off?"

  "Because," said Angela patiently, "once you start digging around people's personal lives, a lot of people get hurt, and unnecessarily so." She glared at Roy. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Friend of Aggie's down for the weekend. Me and Aggie go back a long way."

  "You're too young to go back a long way. You don't have to try to make a liaison look respectable to me."

  "Oh, for Pete's sake," howled Agatha. "Can't I have a conversation with anyone in this damn village without being insulted?"

  "If you poke around people's private lives to find out the worst about them, they're bound to think the worst of you," said Angela. "Now, I'm busy. Why don't you push off?"

  "Well!" said Roy when they drove off. "Is it something in the soil here that makes everyone bitter and twisted? Feel like seeing anyone else?"

  Agatha looked at the clock on the dashboard.

  "No, let's have lunch, and then go to the spring for the fun and games."

  As they sat over lunch, Roy asked if anything had been found out about the cat with white hair. "Not that I know of," said Agatha. "You remember, we looked and looked."

  They heard the wail of police sirens in the distance. "The troops have arrived," said Roy. "Cheer up, Aggie. All this will keep Ancombe in the news."

  They left the car outside the pub and walked along to the spring. Alerted by the sirens, villagers were starting to make their way along as well.

  Agatha saw Bill Wong talking to some policemen and went across to him. He led her a little to one side. "Mary Owen does have a cast-iron alibi."

  "But her sister could be covering for her, surely?"

  "She was seen by the neighbours. The curtains in the evening weren't drawn and the two sisters could be seen sitting over dinner, and talking."

  "Rats. Back to square one. Have you arrested Mary Owen?"