Agatha Raisin 07 (1998) - The Wellspring of Death

by M C Beaton

  “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 very 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?”

  “No, there’s nothing illegal about donating money to these groups. Unless we can get one of them to confess that Mary Owen actually told them to take action, we haven’t anything on her. And she says all that about her being broke is a fiction and says we can check with her bank.”

  “What about that chap who told James she was paying them?”

  “Billy Guide? With any luck he’ll be with the rest. Here’s James.”

  James and Agatha exchanged frosty little nods.

  “Here come the protesters,” said Roy.

  The bus canying them stopped a little way along the road. Agatha could see several of them glaring out at the unexpected sight of the large police presence. They argued for a few minutes, then the door of the bus slid open. Four of the men appeared, carrying between them a bag of cement.

  Followed by the others, they headed for the spring. James, his hair dyed back to its normal colour and minus the ear-rings, said to Bill Wong, “Billy Guide is not among them, and where’s Zak?”

  “He was pulled out. After seeing us all here today, they’d start searching around for an informer. They’ll probably think it was you, but they might have picked on Zak, and he was fed up with the job anyway. Billy Guide was taken to hospital the day after your hospitality suffering from pancreatitis.”

  A policeman stood in front of the four carrying the bag of cement. “Where are you going with that?”

  “Keep going!” shouted Sybil from behind them. “Don’t let the pigs stop you.”

  To the protesters’ surprise, the policeman stood aside. They marched to the spring and one slit open the neck of the bag of cement.

  That, of course, Agatha realized, was the moment the police had been waiting for. They had to be caught in the act of trying to block the spring. The men were seized, the bag wrenched away. The other protesters, about twenty of them, began attacking the police, kicking and punching and gouging.

  Sybil was dragged past James by two policemen. She looked at him as she passed with dawning recognition and then spat full in his face.

  “I quite warm to that girl,” said Agatha.

  Six

  Agatha went back to London with Roy after the weekend. She knew journalists, ever fickle creatures, were quite capable of forgetting to turn up for the fete, and needed to be reminded of it and bullied all over again into coming. She also needed an excuse to get away from Carsely, James and Guy.

  At first she found the journalists had become lukewarm about the prospect of a visit down to the country to a fête to celebrate the launch of water, of all things. So Agatha told them all about the attempt to block up the spring, which the television stations and national newspapers had heard about too late to film or photograph. Agatha hinted darkly at fears of an almighty punch-up on the day of the fgte, painting an alarming pictu
re of sweet little children sent flying by protesters, and village ladies screaming in fright. Interest in the fete was reanimated to such an extent that Agatha thought at times it might be a good idea to pay the protesters herself to turn up.

  By the end of her week, she felt she had done very well, only to receive a set-back just as she was preparing to leave. Jane Harris, the film star who was to open the fete, would not attend. Her agent phoned to say that Ms Harris had read the reports of the murder at Ancombe and the demonstrations and she sympathized with the demonstrators, as she considered English rural life should be protected.

  “The silly bitch lives between Chelsea and L.A.,” howled Agatha.

  The agent hung up on her.

  I’m losing my touch, thought Agatha miserably. Now who do I get? It had better be someone good or the Freemonts will be cancelling my contract.

  The phone rang. It was Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife. “How did you get my number?” asked Agatha.

  “You left it with me, don’t you remember? How are things?”

  “Not very well. I have to stay on. Jane Harris has cancelled. I haven’t told the water company yet. I need to get a replacement.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Are you still there?” Agatha demanded.

  “I’m thinking.”

  Agatha sighed. She was very fond of the vicar’s wife, but how on earth could she help?

  “I have it,” said Mrs Bloxby.

  “What?” asked Agatha.

  “The Pretty Girls.”

  “Who are they when they’re at home?”

  Mrs Bloxby laughed. “I never expected to be more up in the world than you. They are a pop group. Number one on the hit parade. They are a new type of pop singer. Very pretty, and wear old–fashioned clothes. They do a lot for charity. Who gets the money from the rete?”

  “The water company, I suppose.”

  “If you say the money is going to help AIDS—The Pretty Girls support that—I think if they are free, they would do it. They would be a big crowd-puller. They also support animal liberation, so their presence at the fête will give it respectability with environmental groups.”

  “You’re a genius,” said Agatha. “I’ll get on to it right away.”

  Some hard phoning later and Agatha to her delight had secured the presence of The Pretty Girls. She then phoned the water company in Mir-cester and was put through to Peter Freemont.

  “I don’t think Jane Harris is the right person,” said Agatha, proceeding to lie. She felt that Jane Harris turning down the fete reflected badly on her business abilities. “So I secured The Pretty Girls.”

  “You’re brilliant, Agatha. How on earth did you get them to come?”

  “We’ll contribute the money from the fete to AIDS.”

  “After deductions for the costs?”

  “Of course.”

  “I just don’t know how you do it. They’re number one on the hit parade.”

  “I know.” Agatha felt uncomfortable at not giving Mrs Bloxby any credit for the idea, but it was a hard world and she did not want to admit she had never heard of the pop group, Agatha’s interest in pop groups having stopped when she retired and gave up representing some of them.

  She found out afterwards that The Pretty Girls had risen to fame in one meteoric month and felt better about being so behind the times. She then stayed on in London anyway to make the rounds with this new information, this time choosing journalists from the entertainment pages.

  Agatha had also secured the attendance of old Lord Pendlebury, a local peer, to give away the prizes at a children’s talent competition.

  By the time she travelled back to Carsely, she felt she was on the brink of pulling off the biggest public relations coup of her career.

  The weather in July was perfect, one sunny day following another. Agatha kept herself busy. She had resolved to end the affair with Guy, but each cold, hard look from James, when she crossed his path, sent her straight back into Guy’s ever-ready company. She hated the age difference. She had completed her delayed appointments with the beautician, and still felt all the strain of keeping up appearances. She found she kept studying women of her own age, anxious to avoid wearing the sort of clothes that middle-aged women wore, such as the aforementioned velvet trouser suits. In fact, decided Agatha, unless the middle-aged figure was slim and youthful-looking, all trouser suits were out. And those striped French sailor sweaters. Sign of a skittish, middle-aged woman. Noel Coward’s Mrs Wentworth-Brewster.

  But at least all the worries about ageing and all the arrangements for the fete kept her very busy and James was centred somewhere deep inside her, a little dark ache, but nothing more.

  The golden days moved into August. Murder and the non-existence of a white Persian cat were forgotten. There were no more anti-spring demonstrations.

  Finally it was the eve of the fete. Agatha returned with Roy from patrolling the site, checking the marquees, going over all the arrangements. The weather forecast was doubtful. Showers were expected but not due to arrive until the following evening, when the fete would be all over.

  Agatha and Roy sat out in the garden of her cottage with tall, cold drinks. “Anyone been trying to get hold of you?” asked Roy lazily.

  “I’d better go in and check the Call Minder,” said Agatha. “In a minute,”

  “So you and James are definitely finished?”

  “It was all over a long time ago. I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll go and check for messages.”

  Agatha went in and dialled her code. How many times had she dialled those digits, hoping to hear a message from James. “You have three messages,” said the prissy voice. “Do you want to hear them?”

  “Yes,” said Agatha. It was no use shouting, “Of course I want to hear them, you stupid bitch,” because the computer rejected insults.

  The first message was from Robina Toynbee. She sounded strained. “Please phone me, Mrs Raisin. It is very important.”

  The second message was from Portia, the Freemonts’s elegant secretary. She did not like Agatha and her voice was thin and cold. “Please liaise with Mr Peter at the management tent at nine a.m.”

  The third message was from The Pretty Girls’ agent. “Disaster, isn’t it? Of course they won’t be there. Can you believe it? How could they destroy success just like that?”

  Agatha looked up the agent’s office number, but got the ‘engaged’ signal. She called to Roy. “I can’t make head or tail of a message from Carol, The Pretty Girls’ agent, and her line’s engaged. She says they won’t be there and they’ve destroyed their success.”

  “Put on the television. It’s near the hour.”.

  Agatha put on Sky, and they sat down in front of it, both of them with their backs rigid and their eyes staring at the screen.

  It was the very first news item. Police had raided a house in Fulham where The Pretty Girls had been giving a party and had seized large quantities of Ecstasy, heroin, uppers and pot. Pretty Girl Sue, the leader of the group, had been found stuffed in a cupboard, unconscious from an overdose. Then followed a brief history of the pop group, whose fame had been built up on their clean family image.

  “What’ll we do?” said Agatha, her face white. “We can’t get anyone else at this late date.”

  “We’re stuck with Lord Pendlebury,” said Roy.

  “But don’t you see what this means?” howled Agatha. “The press will not turn up, not the nationals, only the locals. I didn’t bother a last–minute chase-up of the press because of The Pretty Girls. We’d better start now. What do I say?”

  “Christ knows,” said Roy. “Hint at another murder. Hint at a demonstration.”

  Agatha began to phone up every newspaper and television station. She said things like, “I hope those animal-rights people don’t wreck the place. Hundreds are threatening to demonstrate. We’ve had one murder at Ancombe. I hope we don’t have another.” When she got tired, Roy took over.

  Then
Agatha phoned Guy. “I saw it on the news,” he said. “Let’s just hope we get something out of it. It isn’t your fault, Agatha.”

  As if to complete the disaster, when Agatha and Roy awoke the next morning, a steady drenching rain was falling from lowering skies.

  Roy tried to console her. “You made arrangements for rain, Aggie. Remember? All the events can take place in the marquees.”

  “But we were to march to the spring behind the village band,” mourned Agatha, “and I pictured it all sunny. Now all we’ll get’s a straggling row of umbrella-covered people.”

  “We can only do our best,” sighed Roy.

  Agatha expected the Freemont brothers to blame her for the weather, but they both seemed quite calm and cheerful. “Everything looks quite jolly,” said Guy, “and loads of people are beginning to arrive.”

  “What about the press?”

  “They’re already getting liquored up in the press tent.”

  “I’d better go and join them. Come along, Roy.”

  Entering the press tent, Agatha’s expert eye ranged over the assembled journalists and her heart sank. There was the Birmingham Mercury—good paper, that—the Cotszvold Journal, the Gloucester Echo, Midlands Television and so on, all local. Where were the nationals?

  She moved among them, chatting brightly away. Lord Pendlebury Would open the fgte at eleven in the main tent, then everyone would have a chance to buy things at the stalls. At twelve the village band would lead a procession to the spring.

  When Agatha went to the main tent to hear Lord Pendlebury’s speech, she knew the whole thing was a ghastly failure. The rain dampened everything, despite the flowers and heaters inside the tents. The ground was muddy and spongy underfoot and the day was cold. A malicious wind had got up and flapped the sodden canvas.

  Lord Pendlebury made a long and boring speech about his military service during World War II. He did not mention the water company and Agatha was suddenly convinced he had totally forgotten why he was there. A baby began to cry. One little boy kicked his sister in the shins; she began to scream and other children screamed in competition.

  Teenagers who had travelled down from Birmingham in the hope of seeing The Pretty Girls were drinking beer from cans and looking surly.