Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death

woman whose PR skills were so admired by his boss.

'Like a drink?' repeated Agatha.

'I've given up alcohol,' said Roy, who had only drunk mineral water in the pub.

'Why?'

Roy hesitated a moment. The real reason was that it seemed to be becoming awfully fashionable not to drink, and Roy did not want to be out of fashion.

'Rots the brain cells, sweetie.'

'I'm going to have a stiff brandy before I go out.'

'I'd hate to see you drink alone...'

'I don't mind.'

'Just a teensy one, then.'

One brandy led to three and it was an amiable couple who set out for Ancombe. Agatha parked on the main road a little way along from the spring, where a group of tourists were standing staring at it and pointing. The barrier of blue-and-white police tape which had guarded the spring had been taken away.

The entrance to Robina Toynbee's cottage was by a gate in a lane which ran up the side of the cottage from the main road. 'We should have phoned first,' said Roy.

'It's all right, she's at home. She's watching us from the window.'

As Agatha raised her hand to knock at the door, Robina opened it. 'I'm delighted to see you, Mrs Raisin,' she said. 'I was thinking of phoning you to thank you. Please come in.'

The cottage was old, might even be seventeenth century, thought Agatha. The living-room was pleasant: large fireplace, low beams on the ceiling, vases of flowers, pictures and books and a cat asleep on top of the television set.

Outside the small leaded windows, a long narrow garden led down to the road, an artistic jumble of pansies, begonias, wisteria, clematis, and lobelia. There was a green lawn with a sundial next to where the spring bubbled up and then was channelled between rocks and flowers to where it disappeared through the old garden wall.

Above the fireplace was a dark oil painting of a grim old lady in an enormous cap.

'Your ancestor?' asked Agatha.

'Yes, that is Miss Jakes,' said Robina. She was wearing a soft-green velvet trouser suit. Agatha herself possessed several velvet trouser suits. She realized, looking at Robina, that velvet trouser suits were something favoured particularly by middle-aged women and decided to pack hers up and give them away to some charity shop. Although it was only late afternoon, Robina's dress was more suitable for evening. With the trouser suit, she wore sparkling ear-rings and a paste diamond necklace, and on her feet, high-heeled black satin shoes.

In the same way that some lonely women will keep a Christmas tree still lit up long after Christmas, so will they favour evening clothes during the day, as if the very sparkle and glitter could keep youth alive a little longer.

'So,' said Robina with a gentle smile, 'what will we all drink?'

'I don't know...' began Roy.

'Come now. That is a brandy smell, is it not? I would like to join you in a brandy.'

Agatha blinked away a picture of herself, Roy and Robina standing chatting inside a large goblet of brandy and said, yes, that would be nice.

'Here's to success,' said Robina when the drinks were served. 'I hope that is an end of the matter. So silly of them to complain about a little bit of water. I think it was all fuelled by jealousy because I am being paid by the water company. Not much, you know, but it all helps. I mean, as you must be well aware, Mrs Raisin...'

'Agatha.'

'Agatha. You must be aware that we have to think of our old age. These nursing homes cost a fortune.'

'I haven't begun to worry about my old age yet,' said Agatha.

'Oh, but you should. We can all live so dreadfully long these days.'

'I believe if you think young, you stay young.'

'So right,' said Robina, casting a flirtatious glance at Roy. 'And I am not one of those women who think having a toy boy shocking.'

'Roy is not my toy boy,' said Agatha, wondering if this gentle woman could actually be bitching her. 'So have there been any repercussions about the water deal?'

'Some very nasty threatening letters. 'I'll kill you, bitch' was the last message. Anonymous, of course.'

'Did you give them to the police?'

'No, I think it is some of those environmental cranks. Do you remember when words were so simple and people talked about the countryside? There is something so threatening in the word 'environment'.'

'I do think you ought to tell the police about the letters,' said Agatha.

'I gather you have gained the reputation of being a bit of a sleuth,' said Robina. 'But there is really nothing to worry about. So much better to leave things to the experts.'

Agatha was beginning to dislike Robina.

The living-room, so pleasant when they arrived, seemed to have become claustrophobic. The day outside had suddenly darkened. Robina was wearing a very sweet, very powerful scent which mingled with the scent of some air freshener and the smell of brandy. Miss Jakes glared down at them as if to say she would not have given such people house-room in her day.

'If a murdered man had been found at the bottom of my garden and I was receiving threatening letters,' said Agatha, 'I would be very worried indeed.'

'Ah, that's because you are an incomer. Incomers never really belong. Us country people are so close to the soil and the violence of nature that we become tougher.'

'Us city people are so close to the violence of the streets that we have a healthy wariness,' said Agatha.

Robina waved her brandy glass and looked at Roy and raised her eyebrows. 'She doesn't understand.'

'What about the man who was murdered?' said Roy. 'Who do you think killed him?'

'That would be the Buckleys.'

'Because of the paddock?' asked Agatha.

'Oh, you've heard about that. Angela and her father are really quite coarse and brutal people.'

'So you don't think it had anything to do with the water?' asked Roy.

She gave a tinkling laugh. 'No, nothing at all. More brandy?'

'No, we must be on our way,' said Agatha, standing up. 'But please, let the police know about those letters.'

'Where to now?' asked Roy as they scampered to the car through a heavy shower of rain.

'We may as well call at the electrician's shop. We might catch Fred Shaw before he leaves.'

'Is he for or against?'

'For,' said Agatha. 'Although, after Robina, Jane Cutler and Angela, I'm beginning to think the ones against couldn't turn out to be any nastier.'

Fred Shaw was just closing up when they arrived. He hailed Agatha like an old friend and invited them into his back shop, where he opened a bottle of whisky and started to pour a strong measure in each glass.

'Here's to success,' said Fred, raising his glass. 'You sorted them out, Mrs Raisin.'

Agatha murmured, 'Success.' She covertly studied Fred Shaw. Although sixty years old, he was a powerful man with a thick neck and broad shoulders and hands.

'I only wish old Struthers was still alive,' Fred was saying.

'Why?'

'Because he was pissing about like a shy virgin over the decision. 'I will give you my considered opinion all in good time.' Old fart!'

'You didn't like him?'

'I should be chairman,' said Fred. 'I'd have put a bomb under this lot. Couldn't make a decision about anything to save themselves.'

'But at least Angela Buckley and Jane Cutler were on your side over the business of the water company.'

'Them! Let me tell you, Mrs Raisin, just between us, that precious pair didn't give a damn about the water