Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death ar-7

by M C Beaton

  "Ever so pleased," murmured Sharon.

  "It's his day off," grumbled Mr Wong. "Don't see why people should bother us on Bill's day off."

  "Do you enjoy working at police headquarters?" Agatha asked Sharon.

  "Oh, ever so much. The other girls are really nice."

  "Don't hold with girls working once they're married," said Mr Wong.

  There was an awkward silence and then Mrs Wong said, "It's just as well we've got the spare bedroom."

  Another silence.

  "Why?" asked Agatha desperately.

  "So that when Bill gets married, they can live here."

  "I didn't think any young married couples lived with the parents of one or the other these days," said James.

  "No reason not to," said Mrs Wong. "If Bill marries Sharon here, well, she'll need to stop working because of babies and that, and he doesn't make enough."

  Sharon looked like some frightened animal cowering in the undergrowth.

  "I feel awkward breaking into your lunch party." Agatha stood up. "If we could just have that word, Bill?"

  "Sure. Let's go into the garden."

  "Don't be long," called Mrs Wong. "It's shepherd's pie."

  The garden was Bill's domain and its beauty contrasted with the cold stuffiness of his family home.

  "So what do you want to know?" he asked.

  "Those notes Robina Toynbee left," said James. "They were typewritten?"

  "Yes."

  "But she didn't have a typewriter," said Agatha.

  "No, we couldn't find one. We're asking around the village to see if she got someone to type them for her."

  "What did the notes say?"

  "Not much. Just instructions for the speech. Things like, begin with welcome. Outline benefits to village from water company. That sort of thing. Only two small pages."

  "Don't you find that odd?" asked Agatha. "I mean, no typewriter?"

  "That's what we're looking into."

  "Fred Shaw was up at Robina's cottage the night before," said James.

  "We know." Bill dead-headed a rose. "He came forward and told us about it. He said she was being frightened by anonymous letters but she must have burnt them all. We didn't find any."

  "Wait a bit." Agatha frowned. "I've just remembered something. Fred Shaw. He was determined to make a speech at the fete himself. I didn't know how to put him off. He said he would call on me and discuss it but he never did."

  "He could have changed his mind when he heard The Pretty Girls were supposed to be opening it."

  "True. But he's very vain and bullying. And there's something else. I can't remember if I told you. There was bad feeling between Andy Stiggs and Robert Struthers. Andy wanted to marry the late Mrs Struthers and claimed Robert had stolen her away."

  "But why kill Robina Toynbee?" asked Bill.

  "Because Andy Stiggs was against the water company."

  "Bill!" Mrs Wong, shrill and bad-tempered, appeared in the doorway. "Are you coming in or not? I was just saying to Sharon that when you're married, she'll need to see you get your meals on time."

  "Coming, Mum."

  "You're not engaged, are you?" asked Agatha.

  "Not yet," said Bill with a grin. "But that's Mum for you. Always hoping."

  "Yes, that's Mum for you," said Agatha bitterly as they drove off. "Can't Bill see how she frightens them all away? But no. He adores his parents and doesn't see anything wrong with them."

  "I suppose, in that, he's luckier than most. Did you adore your parents, Agatha?"

  "They were drunk most of the time. I couldn't wait to get away from them. What about you?"

  "Mine were great. My father died ten years ago and my mother only survived him by a year. She was devoted to him."

  "What did they die of?"

  "My father died of a stroke and my mother of cancer."

  "So much cancer about," mourned Agatha. "I must give up smoking."

  "There's a hypnotist in Mircester who's supposed to have a good success rate. There was an article about him in the Cotswold Journal. I've still got it."

  "Give it to me when we get back. I'll give it a try."

  "Now can you remember where Mrs Darcy lives?"

  "If you go back to the centre I can guide you from there."

  Soon they were cruising along the quiet street where Mary Owen's sister lived. "Stop here," said Agatha, "and we'll get out and walk. I'm not quite sure where it was. It was dark."

  They got out and walked along. "I think about here." Agatha stopped. "There was a street lamp, and yes, a lilac tree."

  "There are several lilac trees along here."

  "Let's try anyway."

  But the woman who answered the door to them was not Mrs Darcy. Mrs Darcy, she volunteered, lived at number 22.

  So along to number 22.

  Mrs Darcy opened the door and stood looking at them contemptuously. "Oh, it's you," she said to Agatha, "and who's this?"

  "Mr James Lacey."

  Mrs Darcy was wearing tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a crisp cotton dress and the great likeness to her sister was considerably diminished in the clear light of day. She was slightly shorter in height than her sister.

  "What do you want?" she asked.

  "We're trying to help clear up these terrible murders," said James with a charming smile. "And Mary left her silver lighter at Mrs Raisin's cottage. As we happened to be in Mircester, we thought we would leave it with you." He handed it over.

  "So what have the murders got to do with you? I can understand this woman poking her nose in, but you are obviously a gentleman."

  "I would have thought that you, of all people, would be anxious to see these murders cleared up."

  "Why me?"

  "Because Miss Owen is your sister."

  "What's that got to do with it?"

  A woman walking her dog paused by the garden gate, listening avidly.

  "You'd better come inside," said Mrs Darcy curtly.

  She led the way into a sitting-room, a rather bleak room with green walls and a few dingy oil paintings.

  Agatha and James sat side by side on a sofa.

  Mrs Darcy stood in front of the fireplace.

  "So? What's this about Mary?"

  "Your sister," said James patiently, "paid the Save Our Foxes people to demonstrate."

  "There is no proof of that! Mary's kind-hearted. She was merely contributing to a good cause."

  "I find it hard to believe that Mary cared a damn about foxes, one way or the other," said Agatha.

  "I doubt if you know anything about the countryside at all." Mrs Darcy turned back to James.

  "There's no need to be so rude to Mrs Raisin," said James sharply. "In fact, I think the only reason you are being so rude is because you are worried about your sister."

  "I have no reason to worry. You are mistaken. There is nothing I can tell you to help you. On the night Robert Struthers was killed, Mary was here. She had no reason to kill Robina Toynbee. In fact, the suggestion that my sister might have killed anyone is highly insulting. We had dinner together. I did not draw the curtains and several of the neighbours saw us."

  "What time was that?" asked James.

  "About sevenish. I do not like eating late."

  "And what time did you both go to bed?"

  "About ten. Mary went out to buy milk and newspapers at the corner shop in the morning, and after breakfast she left for Carsely. I would suggest you both leave this matter to the police. Now I would really like to get on..."

  Outside, Agatha clutched James's arm and said, "Mary had plenty of time to nip over to Carsely and murder Robert Struthers."

  "I find it hard to believe." James shook his head. "Someone could have seen her car in Ancombe."

  "She didn't need to take her own car. She could have taken her sister's. She could have arranged to stay with her sister to establish an alibi."

  James grinned. "I know you want it to be Mary. But I think we're wasting our time. Let's try Fred
Shaw."

  "We could just check at the corner shop and make sure she did buy milk and newspapers."

  "The police will have done that."

  "Still..."

  "Oh, all right. We'll walk along."

  The corner shop turned out to be one of the last survivors of its kind. Not only did it stock groceries and newspapers, but postcards, gifts, and bags of garden fertilizer.

  There was a small wizened man behind the counter. "We are helping the police with their inquiries," said James, quickly flashing a credit card in the gloom of the shop.

  "I've told the police all I know. Mrs Darcy's sister was in here the morning after that murder. She bought the Express and The Daily Telegraph and a pint of milk."

  "Are you sure it was Miss Owen?" asked Agatha.

  "Yes, she's been in here before. Besides she said something like, 'I'm back visiting my sister. I wish she'd do her own shopping.'"

  "But Miss Owen and Mrs Darcy are very much alike."

  "Mrs Darcy wears glasses. Her sister don't."

  "But what if Mrs Darcy had taken her spectacles off? Would you be able to tell the difference?"

  "I s'pose. Miss Owen, she wears trousers all the time and Mrs Darcy wears frocks."

  James tugged at Agatha's arm. "That will be all. We won't be troubling you further."

  "Don't you see?" said Agatha as they walked back to the car. "Mrs Darcy could have been covering for her sister. We'd better tell Bill."

  "You know what I think?" said James gloomily. "I think that shopkeeper will tell Mrs Darcy of our visit and that she will complain to the police and I will get a lecture for impersonating a detective or something."

  "Surely not."

  "Surely yes. That shopkeeper will tell his other customers that we practically accused Mrs Darcy of covering for her sister. I hope we don't end up in court. In fact, we'd better go and tell Bill."

  Bill Wong listened to them, his face darkening.

  "You've gone too far this time," he said. "If she makes a complaint, I can't protect you. Just leave it alone now. I should not have encouraged you."

  "But we did find out something for you," pleaded Agatha.

  "No, you have done a bad thing. I cannot do anything to limit the damage. Let's just hope we hear no more about it."

  "Now, where?" asked Agatha as they stood in the car park outside the police headquarters.

  "Fred Shaw?"

  "I feel small," said Agatha wearily. "I feel I've just been ticked off by the ieacher. I feel I'm a bad person. I'll tell you, James, I have never been so insulted by so many people as I have been since the first murder took place."

  "Oh, you're all right," said James absent-mindedly. "Let's see Fred."

  They drove out of Mircester. It was the end of August. A few leaves were already turning yellow and there was a faint chill in the air. Agatha began to feel that every winter in the country with its fogs and icy roads was another little death. She could take a holiday somewhere sunny and miss the bad weather and the frantic ho-ho-ho jollity of Christmas, but the fact was she was increasingly reluctant to leave her cats. When they die, she vowed, I'll never keep another animal. It was no fun going away any more when part of her heart was always worrying if they were all right.

  Her thoughts turned to Guy. He had at least given her a buzz when she was out with him, although the look-what-J'ue-got feeling was mitigated by the feeling that people might think her too old for him.

  And what of James? Driving so competently, seemingly unfazed by the fact that they might both soon be in deep trouble. He would probably take himself off, she thought bitterly, and leave her alone to face the music.

  She no longer knew what she felt for him. Relationships had to move forward, even an inch, or, like one of those videos she rented, the film came to an end and the tape began to run backwards--only, in her mind, showing not the happy scenes, but a long list of rejections.

  She would see this case to the end, if it ever ended, and then detach herself from him.

  They drove into Ancombe and stopped outside Fred Shaw's shop. He was serving a customer. He looked down the shop and saw them. "Be with you shortly," he called.

  He served his customer with four batteries, said goodbye, and then approached them.

  "What do you want?" he asked truculently.

  "Just a few questions," said James.

  "I'm shutting the place up for lunchtime," he said. "Come into the back shop."

  He locked the door and pulled down the blind. He jerked his head and they followed him into the back shop.

  "So what do you want?" There was no offer of whisky this time.

  "We feel that life in Ancombe will never really go back to normal until these murders have been solved," began James.

  "So what's that got to do with me? The police are working on it."

  "Yes, but you are a man of business, a shrewd man," said Agatha quickly.

  The truculence left Fred's face. "I do see a lot of things other people don't," he said in a mollified voice.

  "I heard something about Andy Stiggs being in love with Mrs Struthers. Mrs Struthers must have been younger than her husband."

  "Yes, she was. Andy also thought he should have been chairman of the council as well. He will be now."

  "Do you think he could have murdered Robina as well?" asked Agatha.

  "Here now. I never said he murdered Robert. But he was always around Robina's. Maybe he saw something."

  "As Andy Stiggs was against the water company, that must have soured his relations with Robina," said Agatha.

  "I think he thought he could persuade her to change her mind."

  Agatha looked at him thoughtfully, wondering when she could slip in a question about his speech. Instead she said, "Was there ever a Mrs Stiggs?"

  "Yes, he married Ethel Fairweather on the rebound right after Robert got married and lived unhappily right up until her death. She was a shrew. In some way, he blamed Robert for his rotten marriage, know what I mean?"

  "Where does he live?" asked James. "I have his address but I'm not sure exactly where his cottage is."

  "Second on the left past the church."

  "You never called to see me with your speech," said Agatha.

  "What speech?"

  "The one you were going to make at the fete."

  "When I heard that pop group was coming, I knew you wouldn't want me."

  And yet the pop group was a relatively late booking, thought Agatha. And when Fred had thought that Jane Harris was to open the fete, it had not stopped him.

  "You don't think Mary Owen could have had anything to do with it?" asked Agatha. "I mean, it turns out as far as I can gather that she's not broke after all. She paid those protesters."

  "She's big enough, strong enough and nasty enough," said Fred. "But Andy Stiggs is my choice."

  "You thought it was Mary Owen at one time."

  "Did I? I can't remember that."

  "So let's try Andy Stiggs," said James when they left the shop.

  "What's our approach?"

  "Same as with Fred. Just want to get it cleared up."

  Andy Stiggs's cottage was a mellow building of Cotswold stone with a newly thatched roof. There was a pleasing jumble of old-fashioned flowers: stocks, impatiens, delphiniums, lupins, and roses, roses all the way.

  Andy Stiggs was weeding a flowerbed. He straightened up as they came through the garden gate.

  "What?" he demanded.

  Oh, to be from the police and be able to say, "Just a few questions," with an air of authority, thought Agatha.

  "We were in the village," said James, "and we thought we would drop in and see you."

  "Why?" He brushed earth from his large hands.

  "As vice-chairman of the council, soon to be chairman, you must know a lot about what goes on in the village."

  "And what's that got to do with you? You don't live here."

  "You surely want these murders cleared up."

  "Of course I do,
and the answer is staring you in the face. It's that water company. It's my belief that poor Robina changed her mind and so they bumped her off."

  "I think it's only on TV that companies go around bumping people off," said Agatha.

  "You can't see what's under your nose because that Guy Freemont has been romancing you," said Andy.

  "That's got nothing to do with it!" Agatha's face flamed.

  "To my mind it has. What else would a young man like that be doing with a woman of your age?"

  "That's enough of that," said James coldly. "You are just as suspect. I gather that Robert Struthers pinched the love of your life from under your nose."

  "That was years and years ago."

  "Sometimes resentments grow with the passing of time."

  Andy picked up a hoe and brandished it at them. "Get out of here. Just get out and don't come round again or I'll..."

  "Or I'll what?" asked James. "Murder us? Come along, Agatha."

  "I think I've got a headache coming on," said Agatha as they walked back to the car. "If you don't mind, I would like to go home and lie down for a little."

  "I think we've done enough for one day anyway," said James.

  Half an hour later, Agatha crawled under the duvet on her bed and drew her knees up to her chin. She felt she could not go on investigating the murders. The council members with their insults had finally been able to intimidate her.

  Despite the warmth of the duvet and the warmth of the day, she shivered. All the Carsely security, all the safety, all the comfort seemed to have been ripped away and she was alone once more in a hostile world.

  The phone rang, loudly and imperatively. She heaved herself up on one elbow and looked at it. What if it was James? No, probably Roy trying to get her back into PR, or something like that. Let it ring and she would check the answering service in a few minutes and find out who had called.

  She waited and then dialled 1571. "There is one message," said the prissy voice. "Would you like to hear it?"

  "Yes," muttered Agatha.

  "I am afraid I didn't quite get that. Would you like to hear your message?"

  "Yes!" shouted Agatha, exasperated.

  She waited. Then a harsh voice said, "This is Mary Owen. Come and see me as soon as possible."

  Oh, dear, thought Agatha bleakly. She's heard about us questioning the corner shop. I'd better get James.