Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death ar-7

by M C Beaton

  They walked together up the High, a yard apart, and people turned to stare at them.

  "I am taking you straight to the station," said Agatha when they got in the car. "You've got your luggage. You can change in the station loo."

  "I'm really, really sorry," said Roy meekly. "It was something I'd always wanted to do."

  Agatha drove in grim silence.

  "Look, Aggie. I left school at fifteen, never went to university. We all have dreams. Punting at Oxford was one of mine."

  Agatha slowed down.

  "I tell you what we'll do," she said. "Dry yourself and change at the station. Then take a cab up to Marks and Spencer and buy me some dry clothes and then I'll change. I'll take you for tea at the Randolph."

  Three hours later, Agatha made her way back to Carsely wearing a new outfit of blouse and skirt, along with the new underwear underneath and a pair of new flat shoes which were extremely comfortable. Roy had enjoyed his tea and they had begun to laugh helplessly over their exploits on the river. Agatha smiled reminiscently. She could not remember laughing so hard in such a long time.

  As she drove down the winding country lane which led to the village of Carsely under the arching tunnel of green, green trees, she felt like some sort of animal heading homeward to a comfortable burrow.

  And since her fall in the river, she hadn't thought of James, not once.

  That evening she went to a meeting of the Carsely Ladies' Society at the vicarage. Mrs Bloxby served tea and sandwiches in the vicarage garden. Mrs Darry was not present and Agatha entertained the rest of them with a highly embroidered tale of her punting adventure.

  The meeting then got down to business. The society had decided to put on a concert. Agatha groaned. The concerts were a nightmare of boredom. Not one of them had a bit of talent and yet so many were delighted to get up on the stage and sing in cracked voices.

  And yet they attended other concerts in other villages and the performances were just as awful. Mrs Bloxby had explained to her gently that everyone secretly wanted to perform on the stage and this was a chance for them all to get their moment in the sun. Agatha noticed, however, that the vicar's wife, like herself, never performed.

  Conversation after the official meeting turned to the murders in Ancombe. "I've got all the members of the parish council coming to a garden party at my place," said Agatha. "I haven't invited any of you because the water company is paying for it and it's public relations business."

  "They're a funny lot," said Miss Simms, the secretary. She was wearing white stiletto-heeled sandals, the heels digging into the smooth vicarage lawn like tent pegs. "I never complain," Mrs Bloxby had said. "It aerates the lawn."

  "I mean," went on Miss Simms, "they've been at each other's throats for years. I think the reason none of them resign is that they don't want to give the others the satisfaction. I'm sorry for you, Mrs Raisin. Sounds like the garden party from hell."

  But James was back in Agatha's mind along with worries about what to wear to dazzle him.

  The day of the garden party was perfect. Clear blue skies and hot sun.

  Agatha, in a fine gown of delicately flowered silk and with a wide shady straw hat bedecked with large silk roses, supervised the caterers and took a last look around the garden. Then she went upstairs to check her make-up.

  The sound of cars in the lane below her window made her look down. They all seemed to have arrived at once. Mary Owen was wearing a shirtwaister of striped cotton and flat-heeled shoes, and Angela Buckley white cotton trousers and a blue cotton top. Jane Cutler had on a simple Liberty print dress.

  Feeling suddenly ridiculously overdressed, Agatha whipped off her hat and gown and put on a cotton skirt and a plain white blouse, and then ran downstairs to meet them.

  James was now out in the garden with the caterers. He was wearing faded blue jeans and an open-necked shirt. Agatha realized with a pang that he must have let himself in with the key to her cottage that she had given him in happier times. She braced herself for her visitors.

  The men, Bill Allen, Andy Stiggs and Fred Shaw, as if to make up for the informal dress of the women and James, were all wearing blazers, collars and ties. Bill Allen's blazer had a large gold-embroidered crest on the pocket.

  Champagne was poured all round. Agatha raised her glass. "Here's to goodwill," she said. "We've all had our differences, but I think we should all be friends."

  "Why?" demanded Mary Owen.

  "Because it's more pleasant that way."

  Angela Buckley looked at Agatha suspiciously. "You don't belong to one of those mad religious sects, do you?"

  "I should think it's therapy," said Mary Owen. "People who indulge in therapy groups are always wanting chummy get-togethers. Any moment now we'll all have to sit in a circle and talk about the nasty thing that happened to us in the wood-shed all those years ago."

  "That's a good one," said Bill Allen and gave a great horse-laugh.

  "I'm not surprised you go around murdering each other," said James in a cold, carrying voice.

  "Here now. None of that," said Andy Stiggs, red in the face above a tie which seemed to be strangling him. "We're all respectable citizens, and if you ask me, that water company's behind these murders."

  "That's what I think," said Bill Allen.

  Muscular Fred Shaw was sweating. "You lot don't know how to think, that's my opinion. You hated Robina like poison, Mary, and so did you, Angela."

  "I didn't hate her," said Mary. "She was one of those dreary little fluffy women of small brain."

  Between the acrimonious exchanges, all were drinking champagne, an efficient waiter making sure all the glasses were kept topped up.

  "You and Angela could have learned something about femininity from Robina," said Fred. "She was all woman, not a leathery trout like you two."

  "A common little man like you wouldn't know a feminine woman even if she leaped out of your soup and bit you on the bum," said Angela.

  "How do you lot ever get anything done for the parish if you snipe at each other like this?" demanded James. "Aren't any of you curious to know why Robert Struthers and Robina Toynbee were murdered, and by whom? It could have been one of you."

  There was a shocked silence.

  "What's this?" demanded Fred Shaw. "One of us? Why?"

  "Why not?" said Mary Owen. "You were up at Robina's cottage the evening before she was murdered, Fred. She would have told you about how she planned to make that speech from her garden wall."

  "I'm the only one of you that liked Robina." Fred wrenched off his tie. Then he took off his blazer and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "I often went round there, and so did Bill and Andy. It was you and Angela that always had it in for her."

  "Nonsense." Angela looked at the buffet table. "Are we going to eat that stuff or not? I'm starving."

  There was a temporary lull while they collected plates of food. Although Agatha had put out chairs in the garden, Angela and Mary sat down on the grass, a sensible move, since it meant they did not have to balance plates of food on their knees. The others joined them.

  James began to ask them what they felt about the proposed bypass around Ancombe. Soon Fred Shaw was dedaiming it was a disgrace because it would ruin shopkeepers like himself if the through traffic was taken away, and Bill Allen, who ran the garden centre, agreed with him.

  "I think it's a good idea," put in Mary. "I mean, who wants droves of Americans?"

  "What's up with Americans?" demanded Andy Stiggs. "Damn this tie. You've had the right idea, Fred." He took his off and then his blazer.

  How different the dream always is from the reality, marvelled Agatha. In her dream about the garden party, she stood there gracious in her pretty gown with the lightest of breezes fluttering through the flowers in her hat. James, in white shirt, blazer and cravat, would be bending over her, smiling in admiration. But James was sitting on the grass with the others, eating cold salmon and drinking champagne and apparently concentrating solely on getting to know
these councillors better.

  "Oh, these Americans. Everything always so quaint and pretty. Pah."

  "I thought American-bashing was desperately unfashionable these days," said Agatha. "I mean, the ones that get this far are usually pretty sophisticated and seem to know more about the Cotswolds than the locals."

  "So brash and vulgar." Mary glanced at Agatha. "Like to like, I suppose."

  "Oh, shut your face and eat your food," said James, and to Agatha's surprise, Mary laughed and threw him an almost flirtatious look.

  "What have you got to do with this water business?" Andy Suggs asked James.

  "It's Agatha's business. I am here to lend her moral support."

  Angela looked narrowly from Agatha to James. Then she said, "Well, it can't be romantic support. Agatha's affair with Guy Freemont is the talk of both villages."

  To her fury, Agatha felt herself turning dark red. "I am not having an affair with Guy Free-mont," she said.

  "It's all right, Agatha," said Mary. "Angela's just being catty. Guy Freemont's much too young for you."

  "Listen, the lot of you!" Agatha put her plate and glass carefully on the grass. "The idea of this garden party was to mend fences, to get you to be friendly towards each other again. It was a great mistake. You're always like this, murder or no murder--nasty, carping, vicious and bitchy. How so many like people should end up on one parish council beats me."

  She stood up and marched into the house and up to her bedroom, where she sat on the edge of her bed and stared bleakly into space. The words about herself and Guy burnt and hurt. Had they not been said in front of James, they would not have mattered much.

  Her bedroom door opened and James came quietly in. "You're a miracle, Agatha."

  "What?" Agatha looked up at him in a dazed way.

  "Your outburst has drawn them all together. Come down and sit quietly with me in a corner of the garden and let them get on with it. And listen. They're starting to talk about the murders."

  "James..."

  But he was already clattering down the stairs. Feeling bruised in spirit, Agatha joined him in the garden. They sat together on the grass, a little way away from the others.

  "How much champagne did you order?" asked Agatha. James had said he would take care of the drinks.

  "I ordered a bottle a head, but the catering company brought along a lot of extra bottles, which is just as well. They seem to be demolishing rather a lot."

  "It's that waiter. He's never stopped pouring the stuff."

  "I think champagne is rather like your fish and chips, Agatha. Everyone likes the idea but few actually enjoy the taste. Listen!"

  "So Robina says to me, just that evening before she was killed." Fred Shaw was flushed and slightly tipsy. "She says, 'Fred,' she says, 'I wish to God I had never let them go ahead taking the water'. 'Why?' asks I. 'You was all for it'. 'Well,' she says, says she, 'I've been getting these here threatening letters and all I want now is a quiet life.'"

  "Did she plan to say something like that in her speech?"

  "Maybe. I asked the police what was in them typewritten notes but they won't tell me."

  "Better ask Bill Wong," whispered James.

  "Did any of us actually know which way Robert was going to vote?" asked Bill Allen.

  A shaking of heads. "You were close to him, Mary," said Angela. "He must have said something."

  Mary shook her head. "Not to me. Jane?"

  All eyes turned to Jane Cutler. She had been relatively quiet since the start of the party. The sun shone on her immaculately groomed hair and on the strange smoothness of her face from which old, suddenly tired eyes looked out.

  "He said he liked to keep people guessing. I got quite irritated with him. Said there was no reason for him to go on like the secret service." She turned to Fred Shaw. "You said Robina's notes were typewritten. Who told you that?"

  "The police."

  "That's odd," said Jane.

  "What's odd? Yes, I will have some more." Angela held up her glass.

  "I never remember Robina having a typewriter. I mean, she was the sort of woman who prided herself on not being able to do anything manual at all. Does anyone remember her having a typewriter?"

  There was a shaking of heads.

  "She could have got someone to type out her notes for her," suggested Jane.

  "I got the impression from the police they were just notes, not a full typed speech," said Fred Shaw.

  "I don't know why you're all going on about whether her notes were typed or not," said Angela Buckley. "I mean, was she murdered because she typed? Ridiculous."

  Fred Shaw's eyes gleamed. "But don't you see, if she had something in her original hand-written notes to say she had changed her mind about the water, someone could have typed out different notes to throw us off the scent."

  "And who else would want to do that but the water company?" said Mary Owen. "I've been against this water business from the start."

  "Oh, we all know that," sneered Angela. "So much so that you paid a bunch of hoodlums to make trouble. So much for your bloody so-called concern for the environment, Mary dear. Bringing louts into the village. They were going to cement the spring. Our spring, Mary, not just yours!"

  "I didn't know what they were really like," said Mary.

  "Oh, yes, you did!" Angela's eyes were blazing. "You saw damn well what they were like at the first protest, but you kept on paying them."

  "As I told the police, I simply contributed money to what I thought was a worthy cause. I did not know they would demonstrate."

  "Save Our Foxes, Mary? Save Our Foxes! Come on. Do the police know you're a member of the Cotswold Hunt?"

  "I handed in my resignation a year ago."

  "And told us all it was because you were too old!"

  "I told you no such thing. I did not think it necessary to explain my reasons to a trollop like you. I saw the error of my ways and contributing to Save Our Foxes was a way of making amends."

  Jane Cutler tittered. "How odd. I simply cannot imagine you as having one sensitive bone in your body, Mary. You would make a good murderess."

  "Ah, but I have an alibi," Mary flashed back. "Which is more than you can say for yourself."

  "The guilty ones always have a cast-iron alibi."

  "Ladies, ladies." Bill Allen held up his hands, red and powerful in the sunlight. "Peace. We've all had our differences over the years but we've all stuck together through thick and thin. It's a lovely day and there seems to be a lot more champagne. So let's just bury the hatchet and enjoy ourselves."

  "I'll kill that waiter," muttered Agatha to James. "This is going to cost a fortune."

  "Worth every penny. I'll pay for the champers."

  The councillors began to gossip together about safe village topics. Agatha and James seemed to be forgotten.

  When they finally all reeled off to their cars, drunkenly oblivious to the fact that each was now well over the limit, James and Agatha waved them goodbye and went in to survey the debris of the party.

  "Well, if the purpose of the party had been to really get that nasty lot together again," said Agatha, "we succeeded."

  "We got a lot of what we wanted. Let's see if we can get hold of Bill Wong tomorrow and find out more about those notes. And then let's call on Mary's sister. If she's been covering for her, we might be able to guess something from her manner. We need an excuse."

  "I know." Agatha held up a silver lighter. "This is Mary's. We can say we happened to be in Mircester and thought she might be visiting."

  Eight

  They drove out under a large, windy Cotswolds sky. The wind had turned cold, a harbinger of autumn. Agatha reflected that the older she got, the shorter got the summers and the longer and darker the winters. Of course, living in the country made a difference. One did not notice winter in the city quite so much.

  When they got to police headquarters, it was to find that Bill had a day off and was at home.

  "I hate going there," gru
mbled Agatha. "His parents are such downers."

  "Phone first and make sure it's all right," said James.

  Agatha went to a phone-box and dialled Bill's number. Mrs Wong answered.

  "Oh, it's you," she said. "What do you want?"

  "I would like to speak to Bill," said Agatha patiently.

  "Well, you can't--" began Mrs Wong when the phone was taken from her and Bill's voice came on the line.

  "We hate to bother you on your day off," said Agatha.

  "We?"

  "Me and James. But we wanted to ask you something."

  "Come round. My young lady's here."

  "Oh, in that case, maybe we'd better leave it."

  "No, no. I would really like you to meet her."

  Agatha said they'd be about ten minutes and then rejoined James.

  "He says to come round but he's got his young lady there."

  "And is that a problem?" asked James.

  "It is, in a way. I'm very fond of Bill and I don't want to be a spectator when his parents ruin his love life one more time."

  "If she really cares for him, then nothing will put her off."

  "Oh, Mrs Wong will think of something."

  They drove to Bill's parents' modern brick house set among others of the same design in a neat private housing estate.

  "We're just having a drink before lunch," said Bill, when he answered the door. "I'd like to invite you as well, but Mum says she doesn't have enough."

  "It's all right," said Agatha quickly. "We'll only be a few minutes."

  "Come into the lounge and meet Sharon and then we'll go out into the back garden for a private chat."

  When they entered the small chilly lounge, the air was heavy with silence. Sharon, a pretty young girl, looked up, her face breaking into a smile of relief.

  "Sherry?" offered Bill. He poured two little glassfuls of sweet sherry and handed them to Agatha and James. "Now this is Sharon Beck. Sharon, Mrs Agatha Raisin and Mr James Lacey."