Agatha Raisin 07 (1998) - The Wellspring of Death

by M C Beaton

  She parked the car. Number 5 was a trim little house, like a mews house.

  The lights were on behind the windows.

  Agatha knocked on the pretentious brass knocker in the shape of a grinning demon.

  There was a clack of high heels from the other side of the door and then Portia opened it, the light from the hall shining on her blonde hair.

  “Come in, Mrs Raisin.”

  She led the way into a small living-room done in shades of green: green carpet, green-and-gold curtains, green linen-fabric upholstery on the sofa and two armchairs. On the walls were various photographs of Portia.

  “Sit down,” said Portia abruptly. “I want to get this over with.”

  “Okay. Let’s have it.”

  “I am having an affair with Guy Freemont,” said Portia.

  “Really?” Agatha wondered why she didn’t feel more surprised.

  “Yes, really. He is only amusing himself with you. I think he’s got a mother complex. I want you to back off.”

  “Are you engaged, married?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s it got to do with you, sweetheart?”

  “You are making a laughing-stock of yourself. Everyone is laughing at you. Someone at the office said the other day, ‘Who’s that old woman I saw with Guy the other night? His mother?’”

  Agatha stood up. Her legs felt like lead. She felt unutterably weary. She looked down at Portia.

  “Get stuffed, you dreary bag,” said Agatha. “Get double stuffed. And you think you could do my job in public relations? Well, you can’t sleep your way into column inches. It’s been tried by sluts like you and it doesn’t work. Don’t ever phone me or speak to me again.”

  She marched to the door. Portia followed her and caught her arm. “He’s seeing you for dinner tomorrow. Don’t go!”

  “Get off!” Agatha rammed her elbow into Portia’s ribs, jerked open the door and unlocked her car.

  “I’m warning you!” screamed Portia.

  “Join the queue, darling.” Agatha got into the car and drove off, her hands damp on the steering-wheel. This case had been too much for her. But she was going on that date with Guy. That blonde bitch was not going to tell such as Agatha Raisin what she could or could not do!

  Nine

  The following morning, Bill Wong called on Agatha. He looked depressed and weary.

  “How did you get on with Mary Owen?” asked Agatha.

  “She denied everything. She said your accusation was fantastic and she thought you deranged. I won’t repeat the rest of the insults.”

  “This case is getting you down.”

  “It’s not just the case, Agatha. It’s Sharon.”

  “Oh.”

  “At first she said she couldn’t go out with me because her mother was visiting or her hair needed washing or things like that, so I asked her straight out if we were finished and she said yes. I don’t know what happened. We were getting on so well together.”

  Agatha took a deep breath. “Bill, do you think your mother frightened her off?”

  “Mum? How?”

  “Well, by talking about marriage and about Sharon and you living with them.”

  “Why would that frighten her off?”

  “Bill, no woman wants to live with the in-laws, no matter how nice they are.”

  “But Sharon would have said something.”

  “Not necessarily. You hadn’t even proposed to her. She might think she was being hustled towards marriage.”

  He buried his hands in his thick dark hair. “I never thought of that.”

  Agatha shook her head. Bill was highly intelligent when it came to police work but when it came to dealing with women, he was as thick as two planks.

  “Anyway, enough of my love life. What about yours?”

  “A mess. James has taken off again and I think it’s because he anticipated trouble from Mary Owen and her sister, so he cleared off, leaving me to deal with any trouble on my own.”

  “That doesn’t sound like James.”

  “That’s very like James. He did the same thing to me in Cyprus. So I’m seeing Guy Freemont this evening and now I don’t really want to see him. It was Portia warning me off…”

  “Portia? Portia Salmond, the secretary?”

  “The same. She said she was having an affair with Guy.”

  “Messy. Do you really fancy Guy?”

  Agatha sighed. “Only when my ego is battered, as it is now. I’m flattered that a younger man, a handsome man, should want my company. But I don’t think I want to be seen out with him, I feel so battered. I think I’ll run over to Marks and Spencer in Cheltenham and get something and have a meal here.”

  “Hasn’t he booked a table at some restaurant?”

  “If he has, he can cancel it. I want peace and privacy to tell him that the affair is over.”

  “So you were having an affair!”

  “Does that shock you?”

  “No. No I suppose not. I suppose it’s because we’re friends, I never think of you in that way.” Bill laughed. “Rather like finding out one’s mother is having an affair.”

  A picture of Bill’s sour mother rose before Agatha’s eyes. She wondered whether it would not be better to forget about love and romance, to forget about dieting and the beautician and get fat and frumpy and wear large tentlike dresses and eat everything smothered in double cream.

  She suddenly wished that Roy would change his mind and come down. She would cancel her date and they would both go out on an eating binge.

  “Ever find that cat?”

  “No, no white Persians anywhere.”

  Agatha rested her chin on her hands. “I’ve been thinking about all of them, the parish councillors. At first it seemed incredible that any one of such a bunch of worthy citizens should commit murder, but once you start scraping below the surface, there’s all these resentments and jealousies and passions. Find out anything about where Robina got her notes typed?”

  “No, we’ve hit a dead end on that one as well.”

  “I’m really beginning to think it was Andy Stiggs.”

  “The vice-chairman. Why him?”

  “He seems a violent man. He had a life-long resentment against Robert Struthers because Strufhers married the love of his life and Andy married a shrew on the rebound and blamed Robert for that. Then he really hated the idea of the water company, and furthermore he thought he ought to have been chairman.”

  “We’ve got nothing on him. That’s the trouble with this lot. There’s nothing in any of their backgrounds that points to the character of a murderer.”

  “There is Mary Owen, however, paying that group to make trouble.”

  “She’s certainly a nasty piece of work.”

  “They’re all nasty,” said Agatha. “In fact, I have endured so many threats and insults that you’ll be glad to learn that I am not going to do any more investigating.”

  “Now, that’s sensible, Agatha. The police may seem to be moving very slowly, but we’re thorough and we’ll get there in the end. Although I must admit I’m tired and I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

  Agatha drove into Cheltenham and bought food for dinner: salmon mousse for a starter, duckling in orange sauce—check the packet to make sure it could go in the microwave—and sticky toffee pudding. She also bought some microwavable vegetables and a packet of potatoes in a cheese sauce. She wasn’t quite sure whether potatoes au gratin went with duckling in orange sauce, but she did not feel like buying real ones.

  She then loaded the groceries in her car and walked back along the Promenade, looking in the expensive boutiques, hoping to spy some dress which would miraculously take years off her, but without success.

  When she returned home, she put the packets of food in the fridge and went upstairs to lie down for an hour and read. But she fell fast asleep, not waking until six in the evening.

  She awoke with a start and let out a faint scream when she saw the time on her bedside
clock. She went downstairs to lay the table in the dining-room and to vacuum the sitting-room and set the fire ready to be lit.

  Then she went upstairs again and had a bath and began to search through her stock of clothes for something elegant but comfortable to wear. She finally found a long purple caftan with gold embroidery which she hadn’t worn in years. It would do. It was loose and comfortable and yet looked like a dinner gown.

  She then made up her face carefully and brushed her hair till it shone.

  Agatha was about to rise from the dressing-table when she gave an exclamation of irritation.

  The clothes she had been wearing the day before were thrown in a heap in the corner of the room. It was not as if she expected Guy to see the inside of her bedroom again, but still, they ought to be in the laundry basket.

  She picked up her underwear and a navy blouse. She tossed the lot into the laundry basket. Then in the bright light of the bathroom—one-hundred-watt bulb, all the better to see you with—she stared down into the laundry.

  She gingerly picked up the navy blouse. There, on the back of it, were several white hairs. Surely they were cat hairs!

  She ran into the bedroom and found the skirt she had been wearing. Two white hairs clung to the skirt.

  She sat down suddenly on the bed. Mary Owen. It must have been Mary Owen.

  But she had a sudden vivid picture of Mary Owen barking, “Sit down,” and she had refused. Certainly Mary had come up close to her when she had shoved her in front of the mirror.

  Then another picture came into her mind. Portia. And she had sat on Portia’s sofa while Portia had sneered at her.

  She must phone Bill. He had said he was taking the rest of the day off. She got her personal phone book and dialled his number.

  “What is it?” demanded a cross voice on the other end of the line. Mrs Wong.

  “This is Agatha Raisin and I must speak to Bill immediately.”

  “He’s in the bath and I’m not getting him.”

  Agatha took a deep breath. “I’m phoning to tell him Sharon is pregnant.”

  There was a gasp and then the sound of retreating footsteps. Agatha hung on grimly.

  “Rubbish,” she heard Bill saying. “She’s joking.” Then his voice came on the phone.

  “What the hell are you up to, Agatha? You’ve nearly given Mum a heart attack.”

  “Bill, listen! I had to get you to the phone. The clothes I was wearing to Portia’s last night. They’ve got white cat hairs on them.”

  “We never even thought of her,” said Bill. “I’ll get on to it right away. Good work.”

  For once Bill ignored his mother’s questions and doggedly got dressed. He was just about to go out when the phone rang again. He seized the receiver before his mother could get to it. “James Lacey,” said the hurried voice at the other end. “Listen!”

  Bill listened. Then he said, “Christ. And he’s at Agatha’s tonight!”

  Earlier that day, James had taken an old friend to lunch in the City. They talked of old times and at last James felt he had had enough of the courtesies and asked abruptly, “Did you find out anything about the Freemont brothers?”

  His friend, Johnny Birrell, said, “I asked about and dug about. They borrowed very heavily from the banks to fund this water company.”

  “So they didn’t come out of Hong Kong very rich? I suppose I’m naive, I thought every businessman came out of Hong Kong very rich.”

  “Not all,” said Johnny. “I was over there for a couple of years myself. There was one rumour about Guy Freemont you might like to hear.”

  “Anything.”

  “Right. They were in the clothes business, ran sweatshops, got them into trouble here but not in Hong Kong. But their business was doing well. Then they hit a snag. It’s all whispers, of course.”

  “What? What did people say?”

  “The rumour was that Guy was crazy about mis Chinese girl and she did lead him on a bit, but then turned him down. It was said he raped her. Now this Guy Freemont thought no more about it. The girl was only Chinese. Chaps like Guy Freemont can think they’re in love with a girl without respecting her one bit. But the girl’s father was a very rich and powerful Chinese businessman. Evidently there was no proof other than the girl’s word that Guy had raped her, and she had been fooling about with several men. But whatever happened, or whatever threats were laid on Guy, I don’t exactly know, but the rumour is that he and his brother had to practically bankrupt themselves to buy Guy’s way out of trouble. This was right before the Chinese took over. Mind you, it could all be exaggerated. You know what ex-pat communities are like, James. One gets hold of a story and embroiders it and then the other adds to it and passes it on.”

  James rose to his feet, glancing at his watch. “I’ll pay for this and run, Johnny. I must get back to the country as soon as possible.”

  But on the road back, James began to wish he were one of those mobile-phone users he so despised. His car, which had served him so well, came to a stop and refused to move. A motorist stopped and allowed James to use his mobile phone. Then James had to wait for the breakdown truck. Because his car was causing a bottleneck in the traffic, the breakdown man suggested he tow it straight to the garage and examine it there.

  James went dark red with embarrassment in the garage when a laughing mechanic pointed out that all that was up with the car was that it had run out of petrol.

  By the time James was able to phone Bill, the sun was setting, and he considered he had been panicking. He had found out Guy Freemont was probably a shifty businessman and a rapist, but that didn’t make him a murderer. Anyway, he thought sourly, he didn’t have to rape Agatha to get what he wanted.

  But when he heard the anxiety in Bill’s voice and that she was actually entertaining Guy Freemont, all his worries came flooding back. “Don’t phone Agatha,” Bill warned. “If he’s guilty, we don’t want him alerted. I haven’t time to tell you the rest; I’m on my way there.”

  Agatha went to answer the door and let Guy in. “Is it raining?” she asked, noticing wet drops glittering on his coat.

  “Just started. Are you ready?”

  “I thought we would eat here,” said Agatha. “Let me take your coat.”

  She helped him out of it and went to hang it in the hall closet. Her mind had been numb since she phoned Bill. All she could keep wondering was why, if it had been Portia all along, had she done it? She must be some sort of maniac. Should she tell Guy?

  But as she slowly put the coat away, Agatha at last was struck by a blinding flash of the obvious. Guy was having an affair with Portia. Guy would have been at Portia’s house. Guy could have got cat hairs on his clothes and transferred one to Robert Struthers’s clothes. How many people had shouted at her that the Freemonts were guilty and she, the great PR, had refused to believe them? You don’t murder for publicity, or do you?

  She had better phone Bill. But Bill would be checking Portia, and if she had a Persian cat and was innocent, then they would focus their attention on Guy and, thank God, she had told Bill that Guy Freemont was coming to her house.

  Agatha went slowly into the sitting-room and put a match to the fire and then stood looking down at the flames.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” Guy’s voice came from behind her.

  She gave a little start. “Sorry, I was daydreaming. Whisky?”

  “Yes, please. Just a splash of soda.”

  Agatha gave him a generous whisky and soda and poured herself a gin and tonic.

  “I’m glad you decided to see me, Agatha,” said Guy. “I thought you had dropped me.”

  “Oh, we were never really an item,” said Agatha. She must play for time. If Bill found that cat and if it were all connected to Guy, then the police would arrive in force.

  “I thought we were.”

  “That’s odd. Portia Salmond summoned me last night and told me you had been having an affair with her.”

  “Agatha, Agatha. Th
at was all a long time ago.”

  “Can’t have been. The water company’s pretty new. You only hired Portia this year.”

  “I knew her before.”

  “In Hong Kong?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Been checking up on me, Agatha?”

  “Of course. When I was approached to represent your company, I asked a few questions about your background.”

  “And what did my busy little angel find out?”

  “I found out you’d been in the rag trade and had moved back here when Hong Kong went over to the Chinese. Dreadful for those poor people in Hong Kong. They should all have been given British passports.”

  “Come on, Agatha. They’re Chinese, too.”

  “So? They’re people and they were British subjects.”

  He shook his handsome head. “I never took you for a liberal.”

  “You mean the wogs begin at Calais?”

  “Let’s drop this. So boring. So you are a retired lady of leisure?”

  “Yes, and I plan to enjoy it. How’s the water business?”

  “We are doing so well. Exporting to Europe and soon to America. And all thanks to the publicity.”

  “I’ll never understand that. When I see a bottle of Ancombe Water with the skull grinning on the label, all I can think of is poor Mr Struthers lying at the well and the water stained with his blood swirling around the basin.”

  “Don’t you see, Agatha? That’s the secret.”

  “The secret of what?”

  “Advertising, promoting a product. There’s a new health drink on sale which has a cannabis leaf on the label. Now it doesn’t contain the drug-type hash because the cannabis in it is from the male leaf and it’s only the female leaf which causes a high. Do you think people buy it because they think if 11 be healthy? No, they think, Maybe I’ll get a high.”

  “I’m still not with you. There’s nothing in Ancombe Water but water, surely.”

  “I discussed this with you before. All human beings are self-destructive. A lot of people go into health shops to buy stuff that will pep them up or slow them down but persuade themselves that as they are buying whatever in a health shop, it makes it all right. People will sozzle their brains in pubs with alcohol and sneer about junkies. Vegetarians stuff their faces with sugar. And in my opinion the health warning on a packet of cigarettes is one of the best advertisements going. People are drawn to death, Agatha, because of their fear of it, Eke people are drawn to the edge of a cliff. And never have people been more afraid of death than in this age.”