Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death

'So it was you I saw on television,' cried Agatha.

'The barbecue? Yes, that was me,' said James proudly. 'Well, here's what I found out. They are going to the spring tomorrow afternoon and they are going to block it off with cement. And that's not all. I've found out who's paying them to demonstrate. Mary Owen.'

'But according to gossip, she's fallen on hard times,' said Agatha. 'So she couldn't afford to pay them.'

'The gossip, like most village gossip, is probably wrong,' said James loftily. 'Anyone who can pay this bunch of thugs to behave badly must have felt passionately enough about the whole affair to have murdered Struthers.'

Agatha was suddenly glad of James's horribly bleached hair and ear-rings. It was easy to think of him as a stranger. She suddenly felt very tired. All she hoped was that Guy had taken himself off so that she could creep back under the duvet and go to sleep.

'Did you report this to Zak?' asked Bill sharply.

'Who's Zak?' asked Agatha.

'An undercover policeman who made himself known to James.'

Both looked at James. 'I hadn't time to get to him.'

'We know from him about the protest tomorrow,' said Bill.

'So you knew where James was all along,' said Agatha furiously, glaring at Bill.

'But Zak didn't know about Mary Owen,' said James quickly. 'I found that out by getting one of the members drunk.'

'We'll pull her in for questioning. She has an alibi,' said Bill. 'On the night of the murder she was staying with her sister in Mircester.'

'Her sister could be covering for her.'

'You haven't met the sister, a Mrs Darcy, straight-talking, honest. But we'll check out the alibi again.'

'You should have told me about this, James,' said Agatha. 'We've always investigated tilings together in the past.'

'I would have done if you hadn't been preoccupied in screwing around with a toy boy.'

'That's enough.' Bill got to his feet. 'Come along, Agatha.'

When they had gone, James phoned a hairdresser in Evesham and made an appointment to get his hair dyed back to its normal colour. Agatha and Bill had made him feel small and petty. Bill was right. He should have told Zak.

When Agatha went into her cottage, her phone was ringing. She answered it and found it was Roy Silver.

'Just calling to see how things are going,' he said cheerfully.

'Murder or water?'

'Murder.'

Agatha told him about James. Roy listened and then said, 'That was a bit mean of him.'

She warmed to him. 'Why not come down for the weekend and we'll go and watch the demonstration?'

'Great. I'll get the early-morning train.'

Agatha put down the phone feeling better. However outrageously Roy had behaved in the past, he always popped up again and she felt like company. She remembered Guy and swore under her breath. She had been so stunned after leaving James that she had not even checked to see if his car was still outside.

'Guy!' she called up the stairs.

There was no reply. With a little sigh of relief, she went up and stripped the bed and put on a clean sheet, pillow cases and duvet cover. Then she undressed and climbed into bed and plunged down immediately into a dreamless sleep. An hour later, she could faintly hear the phone downstairs ringing. She had switched off the one in the bedroom. She lay until it had finished ringing and then went back to sleep.

In the cottage next door, James replaced the receiver. He had planned to ask Agatha to come into Evesham with him, but he rang off the minute her answering service came on the line.

Rain was thudding down on to the platform at Moreton-in-Marsh Station next morning as Agatha waited for the arrival of Roy Silver.

A large bouquet of flowers from Guy had arrived just before she left. She had slung them into a bucket of water, planning to arrange them later. She wondered why the idea of having a handsome man send her flowers was so infinitely depressing.

The Great Western train slid smoothly alongside the platform. Roy appeared looking quite ordinary for once in a Burberry worn over cords and a sports shirt and V-necked sweater.

'Hello, Aggie,' he said, planting a wet kiss on her cheek. 'I hope we don't get this weather for the fete. What will we do?'

'I've already contacted one of those firms that rent out marquees. They'll have to be decorated and some heat supplied. There's nothing more dampening than people crowded into damp tents with the rain pouring down. The Freemonts were all for having an orchestra, but I persuaded them that the Carsely village band would be more traditional. They're actually jolly good. Don't want to make it too ritzy. When it's good weather here, I always envisage the fete being held on a cloudless day, but when it's like this, I picture it as being damp and horrible and full of crying children.'

'We'll see,' said Roy. 'How could we find out if Mary Owen has money or not?'

'We could ask Angela Buckley. She's pretty direct, although, come to think of it, she did warn me off.'

'Now why did she warn you off? She must have something to hide. Let's go and see her.'

'All right. We'll leave your bags first and have a coffee.'

After Roy had taken his bag up to the spare room, he joined Agatha in the kitchen.

He looked at the flowers in the bucket, and then picked up the florist's card which Agatha had left on the table. 'Oho,' said Roy. ''Love from Guy.' That wouldn't be the delicious Guy Freemont, would it?'

'We have a close working arrangement,' said Agatha frostily.

'If you say so, dear.' He accepted a mug of coffee. 'So after we see this Angela, I Suppose we go to the spring for a punch-up. I wonder if Mary Owen really has money. What about asking James?'

'No.'

'Have it your way. Is that sunlight outside?'

Agatha walked to the window and looked out. Raindrops glistened on the bushes and flowers in the garden. 'I'll be able to let the cats out,' she said, opening the door. Hodge and Boswell slid through and disappeared into the shrubbery.

'I could fix up a cat flap for you,' said Roy. 'I'm pretty good at DIY.'

'I never got around to getting one. I keep imagining some small, slim burglar crawling through it at night.'

'Have it your way.'

Half an hour later, they set out for Ancombe, driving through the glittering rain-washed countryside. Agatha opened the car windows. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers.

She drove through puddles, sending up sheets of water on either side of the car. Roy began to sing happily in a flat, reedy voice. 'I'm not very good at leisure,' said Agatha.

Roy stopped singing. 'How come?'

'I was just thinking that on a day like this, I should be sitting in the garden with my cats, reading or just looking. I always seem to be doing something. If I'm idle, I feel guilty.'

'Take up a sport, then, tennis or something. Good for the waistline. Is that a bite on your neck, Aggie?'

'Insect bite.'

'Oh, yes? I know those sort of insects. We have them in London as well.'

'Here's Ancombe,' said Agatha, anxious to change the subject. 'The Buckley farm is off this way.'

Soon they were bumping up the farm drive. 'Looks prosperous,' said Roy.

'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