Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death ar-7

by M C Beaton

  "Please," muttered Roy sotto-voce from the back seat.

  "They often come across as a bunch of publicity seekers who never actually do anything constructive, and yet it was their complaints about the filth of British beaches that started the clean-up."

  "Interesting discussion." Agatha sighed. "It's not getting us any nearer finding out who murdered Robina or Struthers."

  "Could you not," said James, "get them all together in one room? I mean, Agatha, as a rep of the water company, you could send out invitations to a get-together. A sort of bury-the-hatchet meeting? Offer them champagne and a buffet. Something that'll draw them."

  "It might work." Agatha thought quickly. "They'll all feel under suspicion and that might draw them together. 1% mink about it. I know, my garden's looking pretty nice. I could hold a garden party."

  "I'll pay half," said James. "I shouldn't think the water company would stump up."

  "They might." Agatha sounded cautious. "I mean, they still want me to work for them, so I might put it to them that it would be a goodwill gesture. In fact, after we're finished at the police station, we could drive over to the company and I'll suggest it."

  So much for competing with James, thought Roy. But he knew if Agatha worked a little longer for the company, then his firm would get a substantial cut and he would be the golden boy.

  To Agatha it seemed strange that she and James, who had only recently been at loggerheads, should be conversing so amiably. But then James had always been like that.

  As she made her statement at the police station, she could not help remembering the other times she had made statements to the police along with James. Did he think of that? Did he think ever of the times they had made love?

  It was always hard to tell with James.

  After they had made their statements, they drove out to the water company. It was a hive of activity, not the semi-deserted place it had been when Agatha had first arrived.

  While James parked, Agatha whipped out her powder compact and peered anxiously at her face in the little mirror, all her fear of wrinkles returning now that she was to see Guy.

  In reception they waited until Portia came to fetch them. She smiled at James and Roy but not at Agatha. She was wearing a tailored jacket over tailored shorts which exposed her long, long legs in sheer black tights.

  She led them into the boardroom. Guy and Peter were waiting for them.

  "What's this delegation?" asked Guy.

  Agatha explained that they had all gone together to police headquarters to make statements and since Roy was her house guest and from head office, and James Lacey, her neighbour, had kindly driven them, she had just brought them along.

  "So are you going to work for us for a bit longer?" asked Peter.

  "That's what I want to discuss with you. These murders have caused a lot of bad feeling in Ancombe. I thought it might be good public relations to throw a garden party for the members of Ancombe Parish Council."

  Guy looked amused. "I can't see the press turning up for anything like that."

  "It's more of a goodwill mission than a press party," said Agatha.

  "I appreciate your motives," said Peter, "but we've already done enough for that village and we have to work to our budget. I cannot see the point of funding anything that doesn't get us in the newspapers."

  "Then I'll do it myself," said Agatha. With James beside her, she wanted more than ever to distance herself from Guy. "And as a matter of fact, I'm going to stop representing you. The launch is over. The water's on the market. There is really no need any longer to engage me."

  Portia, who had been sitting at the end of the table, said suddenly, "I've been telling you and telling you, I am perfectly capable of doing the public relations job. The launch was a fiasco."

  "I didn't plan the rain, the murder or The Pretty Girls scandal," said Agatha.

  "I said, didn't I, Guy, that The Pretty Girls were a bad idea?" said Portia. "I mean, one heard murmurs."

  "Murmurs that you didn't bother telling me about." Agatha glared.

  Portia shrugged her elegant shoulders.

  "We don't want to lose you," said Guy.

  "That's very flattering." Agatha got to her feet. "But I'm going to be too busy. Give the job to Miss Sunshine over there."

  Guy rushed to hold the door open for her. "Dinner tonight?" he asked.

  "Can't," said Agatha. "Got Roy staying. I'll phone you."

  Portia led them out to reception. Agatha nodded to her curtly and walked away. To her horror, she heard James ask Portia, "Are you free for dinner one evening?"

  Agatha stopped in her tracks, her shoulders rigid.

  She heard Portia laugh and say, "I don't think my boyfriend would approve, but why don't you give me your phone number anyway?"

  Agatha, with Roy behind her, walked out to James's car and stood fuming.

  "He's sure one of the Freemonts did it," said Roy in a soothing voice. "That's why he asked her out."

  But Agatha's mind was full of pictures of James dining by candle-light with the beautiful Portia, James taking Portia home, James staying the night.

  "So do we still go ahead with the garden party?" asked James when he joined them.

  "May as well. I'll try to get them here for next Sunday. Will you stay on for that, Roy?"

  "Think, if you don't mind, I'd better get back to London tonight," said Roy. He was considering that it was one thing to stay on with Agatha Raisin, prize PR for the water company, but quite another, in his boss's eyes, to stay on with plain unemployed Mrs Raisin.

  Agatha flashed him a cynical look. Roy's job would always come first.

  James dropped them at Agatha's car and they followed him home.

  When they arrived back in Carsely, James said, "When are we going to discuss the arrangements for this garden party, Agatha?"

  Roy had got out of the car first and was waiting on Agatha's doorstep.

  James and Agatha were standing outside their cars on the pavement.

  "If you want to work with me," said Agatha in a low voice.

  "Truce," said James. "Let's just forget all the hard things we've been saying to each other. We've worked well together in the past."

  "Okay," said Agatha, half-torn between elation and dread, dread that she was being sucked back down into all the miseries caused by proximity to James. "So maybe we should get on the phone and invite them all?"

  "All right. We'll use my phone."

  "Right, I'll tell Roy to pack. I'll see you in a few minutes."

  "I'm going to James's to make some phone calls," said Agatha. "I'll leave you to pack."

  To her surprise, there was no argument from Roy about being left out. But Roy was glad of an opportunity to phone his boss on his own without Agatha listening. If there was any credit to be got out of the launch, he would take it; if there was any blame, then Agatha could shoulder it.

  Agatha walked along to James's cottage. The door was standing open and she walked into the book-lined living-room. "Sit down and I'll bring the coffee," shouted James from the kitchen.

  Agatha took out her compact and dusted her nose with powder.

  She stuffed it back in her handbag as James came in carrying a tray with two mugs.

  "Now," said James, "let's see who we've got. Against the water company we have Mary Owen, Bill Allen and Andy Stiggs. For, we have Jane Cutler, Angela Buckley and Fred Shaw." He produced a notebook. "I've got their names and phone numbers here. Drink your coffee and we'll start phoning. Who's going to do the phoning?"

  "I think you'd better," said Agatha. "I seem to bring out the beast in them."

  "And what're we having? And how do we know the weather will be fine for a garden party?"

  "I'll tell you why the weather'll be fine," said Agatha bitterly. "Because it's done its worst to drown out the launch and the long-range forecast is good. Do you think they will come? Mary Owen's bound to refuse. I keep wondering who could have murdered Robina. Was it all really because of the
water? I wonder who gets her cottage and her money?"

  "I heard someone say she had a son. Anyway, here goes. I'll start with the worst. Mary Owen."

  "Good luck. But I don't think you'll get very far. Do you know her?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, I called on her before I went off to join Save Our Foxes. We got on all right."

  "You might have told me!"

  "We're having a truce--remember?"

  "Oh, all right, but I want a cigarette. I'll take it out into the garden. Are we just going to have the people from the parish council? It might be viewed as a bit of a snub by our friends in the village if they're not invited."

  "Don't let them know you've resigned from the water company, then. Let them think it's business."

  Agatha went out into James's small front garden, sat down on the doorstep and lit a cigarette.

  She listened to him talking on the phone. That easy laugh of his! There was a lot of the actor in James. When he had finished phoning, should she confront him, say something like "Where do we stand now, James?"

  But he might answer something to the effect that they stood nowhere, nowhere at all.

  "Mary," she heard him say in a cajoling voice, "it's just a get-together, champagne and eats, all paid for by the water company. Look at it this way: you've all got to put this behind you and work together for the better good of the parish. Yes, a good opportunity to mend fences. What time? Oh, twelve or twelve-thirty. Good, see you then."

  So Mary was coming.

  Agatha finished her cigarette and threw the stub over the hedge and out into the road, where it landed at the feet of Mrs Darry, who picked up the stub and threw it back. "Don't you have an ashtray?" she demanded angrily. "We're not in London now."

  "If you're so concerned about a clean environment, then stop that nasty little dog of yours pissing and defecating outside my home," yelled Agatha.

  "And show a bit of decorum," shouted Mrs Darry, her face puce. "You're showing your knickers."

  Agatha angrily pulled her skirt down, which had ridden up about her knees.

  If only it could turn out to be Mrs Darry. If only something could happen to remove her from Carsely.

  She moodily lit another cigarette. Some doctors in Britain were refusing to treat smokers for illness. Why? With all the taxes on tobacco that the smoker paid, they should be getting first-class free treatment. Why smokers? Why not drunks? Why not fat people? Bloody nanny state. Mrs Darry had put Agatha into a foul temper. People flapped their hands in your face and said, "I don't want to die from passive smoking," and then they got in their cars and drove off, blasting carcinogens into the night air. The cigarette tasted foul. Come to think of it, all cigarettes tasted foul after the first three of the day. But come to think of it, too, just when one thought of giving up, some puritan would pop up to lecture sanctimoniously on the evils of nicotine and drive the will to stop farther away. The only time the cigarettes tasted just fine all day long was during the annual No Smoking Day. Funny that, mused Agatha. If they changed it to Smoke-lill-You-Drop Day, probably a lot more addicts would give up.

  "You can come in now," called James. "That's the lot. They're all coming."

  Agatha rose and went back in.

  "What about food?" he asked.

  "Normally I'd get people like Mrs Bloxby to help me," said Agatha, "but as we are supposed to be running this on behalf of the water company, we'd better hire a catering firm. We'll have something like cold salmon and salad and strawberries and cream."

  "The strawberries are past their best."

  "People eat strawberries, no matter what. They like the idea. It's like fish and chips. What a good idea, particularly on a cold night, you think, all warm and hot and golden and smelling divine. In fact, all you get is a sodden packet of greasy food which lies like lead in your stomach."

  "What about tables and things?"

  "There's only six of them and two of us--that's eight. My kitchen table's quite large and I'll borrow a table from the school hall for the champagne. They can't all be hard drinkers. A bottle a head is generous enough."

  "Right. What I suggest is that you pay for the lot and let me know how much it comes to and I'll pay half."

  "I feel I might be able to get the water company to actually foot the bill. I didn't press hard enough."

  "Ah, but that would mean the Freemonts might attend as well, and the purpose of this party is to see how they act once they're all together."

  "I thought you suspected the Freemonts."

  "I'll get around to them."

  Agatha looked at him thoughtfully. "So we're back in business again, James."

  "Mmm?" He looked up from some notes he had been making. "Oh, yes, back in business."

  "Don't you feel any awkwardness?"

  "Don't let's get into that, Agatha."

  No, thought Agatha, don't let's ever talk about feelings, about the times we made love, about the rows, about pain. Let's just go on like a couple of bachelors interested in crime.

  "I'd better go and talk to Roy."

  "You do that," he said cheerfully.

  Why did I say anything? mourned Agatha as she let herself into her cottage. I promised myself I wouldn't. What else did I expect? A human response? From James? Rats!

  Roy came clattering down the stairs. "How did you get on with lover boy?"

  "If you mean James, cut it out. They're all coming."

  "What about little me?"

  Agatha suddenly didn't want Roy around. She was already planning what to wear.

  "Skip it this time, Roy," she said. "I'll be too busy to cope with a house guest."

  Roy looked hurt. "Be like that. But remember, I won't always be at your beck and call when you need me."

  "I thought your only interest in me was to further your career."

  "I think I'll get an earlier train if there is one." Roy looked offended.

  "We'll have lunch. You can get the afternoon one."

  It was a silent lunch.

  "Look," said Agatha, relenting over the coffee. "I haven't been straight with you. I really do want James all to myself,"

  "Waste of space, sweetie."

  "Perhaps." Agatha sighed. "Let's not quarrel. I'll drive you to Oxford. We'll have a better choice of trains."

  "You can do something to make up."

  "What?"

  "I've always wanted to punt."

  "What? At Oxford? On the river?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. Finish your coffee and we'll go now."

  Agatha managed to find a parking place in the High and they walked down to Magdalen Bridge and down the Steps at the side to the landing-stage.

  "I haven't been here before," said Agatha. "I didn't know the river would be so narrow here. And there are so many punts out. Are you sure you want to try this?"

  "Yes, yes." Roy gave an excited little skip. "I read about it in a Sunday supplement."

  When they asked for a punt, the boatman told them the charge was eight pounds for an hour, twenty-five pounds deposit and to leave identification.

  "I'm a bit short," said Roy. "Could you...?"

  "Oh, all right." Agatha paid the money and left her driving licence.

  "I feel this is a mistake." Agatha scrambled on to the seat of the punt. Roy seized the long pole. "There are paddles," said Agatha. "Wouldn't it be a good idea to paddle to a quiet bit?" There were not only punts but rowing boats.

  The boatman pushed them out. Roy dug the pole in and pushed. The punt swung in a wide circle and bumped into a puntload of students.

  "Steady on," called one.

  Roy was pink with embarrassment. "I'll use the paddle." He shipped the pole and crouched down in the bow and paddled. After a few false starts and a few more bumps, they headed up the river.

  Then he stood up and took up the pole again. Agatha lay back in the punt and decided to ignore Roy's amateurish efforts. The sun was filtering down through the trees. Conservatories were glittering on one side, a c
ricket pavilion on the other, willow trees trailing in the water, dappled light and peace. But not a typically English scene, thought Agatha, looking at the students. I always imagined everyone in white and ladies with parasols. The students all looked terribly young and undernourished and seemed to favour black shirts, tatty jeans and pony-tails--the men, that is. They came from a mixture of nationalities. She was roused from her reverie as a branch banged against her head.

  "Look where you're going!"

  "Sorry, just getting the hang of this."

  James. Would she and James ever get together again? Would she ever stop thinking about him? Why was it Guy meant so little? Perhaps because sex did not mean intimacy. Talk was intimacy. Friendship was intimacy. Perhaps if she had practised friendship a bit more in earlier life, she would know better how to handle him. Or just leave him alone, said a cynical voice in her brain. It's sick. You need an exorcist.

  "I'm really getting good at this."

  "Can't you steer a straight course?" asked Agatha. "You nearly banged into that rowing-boat."

  "We're doing fine," said Roy. "You just dig the pole in, Aggie, and thrust--"

  To Agatha's horror, he pole-vaulted and landed face-down on the grassy bank while Agatha and the punt went shooting off in the other direction.

  The punt hit the opposite bank with force as she instinctively rose to her feet, and Agatha was catapulted into the river.

  Roy jumped in to save her, swam towards her and made ineffectual grabs at her hair.

  "Leave me alone!" shouted Agatha. "My handbag's in the punt. Get it. I mean, get the punt."

  Under the delighted gaze of a boatload of Japanese, Roy seized the rope at the front of the punt and towed it to the bank on which he had first landed. Agatha swam after him.

  He helped her out.

  "All right?" called a Japanese student. "Very funny. You in a film?"

  "No," said Agatha curtly. She rounded on Roy. "Let's just get back in that damned instrument of torture and get back."

  As the amused Japanese looked on, they got back on board. "We'll pull you back," shouted one.

  "No, we'll manage," said Roy.

  "No, we won't. That would be great," said Agatha.

  They sat in the punt dripping wet, faces red with mortification as the Japanese towed them back to the landing-stage. A group of English students were waiting to greet these Japanese friends and they laughed and clapped as Roy and Agatha, bedraggled and miserable, were helped from the punt.