Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death

'No, don't do that. I don't like anyone watching me cooking.'

She gave him another drink and then went into the kitchen and shut the door. All that talk about death being good for publicity. Was it Guy after all who was the murderer? She had arranged the salmon mousse on plates. The duck would need to be heated in the microwave and then both portions, along with the already micro-waved potatoes and vegetables, kept warm in the oven.

What a fool she had been! James had kept insisting it was the Freemonts. How James would crow over her.

She looked back at the closed kitchen door. Maybe a call to police headquarters...

She cautiously picked up the receiver and got through to police headquarters. She asked for Bill but was told he was out. 'Tell him,' she said urgently, 'that Guy Freemont is at my home and I am convinced he committed those murders. This is Mrs Agatha Raisin. No, I haven't time to wait to be put through to anyone else...' She heard a movement outside the kitchen door and quickly replaced the receiver.

Her cats curled around her legs. She opened the kitchen door and shooed them out into the garden. 'You'll be safe there,' she whispered, and was later to wonder why she had not run out of the kitchen door and fled to safety herself.

She put the duckling in the microwave, picked up the two plates of salmon mousse and headed for the dining-room.

She put down the plates and lit the candles. Then she went through to the sitting-room.

'Were you on the phone?' asked Guy. He was standing by the fireplace.

'Were you listening?' asked Agatha lightly.

'No, when you pick up the receiver in the kitchen, the receiver in here gives a little ping.'

'Yes, I was on the phone. I was calling Mrs Bloxby, the vicar's wife.'

His face was hard and his eyes glittered oddly in the firelight. He took a step towards her.

The doorbell rang.

The police, thought Agatha.

'I'll just get that.'

He caught hold of her arm. 'Don't you want to be alone with me?'

He studied her face. Agatha tried to look as puzzled and offended as she would have been in normal circumstances.

'AH right,' he said, releasing her.

Agatha went to the door and opened it. Mrs Bloxby stood on the doorstep.

Agatha goggled at her and then raised her voice. 'I was just saying to Guy when I phoned you a moment ago that it was bound to be you.' She winked desperately.

'I brought you some of my trifle.' Mrs Bloxby held out a bowl.

'Come in and meet Guy,' said Agatha.

'If you're entertaining, I don't want to interrupt you.'

'Just a drink,' pleaded Agatha.

'Yes, how nice.' Guy loomed up behind Agatha.

'How good to see you, Mr Freemont,' said Mrs Bloxby. 'I won't stay long. As I was saying to Agatha a moment ago on the phone, I thought she might like some of my special trifle.'

Guy looked as relaxed now as he had been tense a moment before. 'You take the trifle, Agatha, and I'll get Mrs Bloxby a drink.' Mrs Bloxby handed over the bowl of trifle and then put her umbrella in the stand in the hall.

'Such a dreadful evening, Mr Freemont,' she said. 'Oh, this is comfortable. I always think a log fire is so pretty. Just a sherry, please.'

Agatha came in and sat down. The fact that Guy was more than likely a cold-blooded killer had finally sunk in and she felt sick and frightened.

Mrs Bloxby looked brightly at Agatha and then at Guy. 'Do you go to church, Mr Freemont?'

'What?'

'I asked, do you go to church?'

'Why?'

'Because I am the vicar's wife and I like to collect as many souls for the church as possible.'

Mrs Bloxby knows, thought Agatha. Somehow she knows. It was totally out of character for the vicar's wife to ask anyone if they went to church.

Guy gave an awkward laugh. 'Well, Christmas, Easter; I'm afraid I am a two-service-a-year Anglican.'

'But are you never afraid for your immortal soul?'

'Never think about it.'

'Oh, but you should. We will all be judged on Judgement Day.'

'I don't want to offend you, Mrs Bloxby, but it's all a lot of tosh. When someone dies, they just die--finish, the end.'

'That is where you are wrong.'

'How do you know that? God tell you so?'

Mrs Bloxby took a sip of sherry and looked meditatively at the leaping flames. 'No, but I have observed goodness in people as well as evil. There is a bit of the divine spirit in all of us. I have also observed an odd pattern of justice.'

'Justice?' demanded Guy sharply and Agatha groaned inwardly.

'Oh, yes, I have seen evil people thinking they have got away with things, but they always suffer in the end.'

'The fires of hell?'

'Yes, and they suffer from them in their lifetime. I think whoever killed poor Mr Struthers and Robina Toynbee will eventually suffer dreadfully.'

'Not if the police don't catch him, or her.' Guy stood up. 'Excuse me, I've left my cigarettes in my coat pocket.'

'Have one of mine,' said Agatha. 'I didn't know you smoked.'

'There's a lot about me you don't know.'

He went out. Agatha looked at the vicar's wife with agonized eyes. She mouthed, 'Don't go too far.'

Guy came in and stood in the doorway. He had his coat on and a small serviceable revolver was pointed straight at them.

'Fun's over,' he said coldly. 'We're going for a ride. Into the car and one squeak and I'll shoot both of you.'

'Why are you doing this?' demanded Agatha.

'Just shut up and get moving. Move!'

Outside, he snarled at Agatha. 'You drive and the Holy Roller can sit beside you. One false move and I'll kill you both.'

'Take the road through Ancombe,' he ordered as Agatha drove off.

Agatha felt all hope die. The police would come into the village the other way and so miss them. The cold muzzle of the revolver was pressed against her neck.

Mrs Bloxby sat quietly beside her, hands clasped in prayer. What good will that do? Agatha wanted to scream at her.

'Down to Moreton and take the Fosse towards Stratford,' ordered Guy.

Agatha obeyed. There was nothing else she could do. Jammed beside her on the seat was her handbag, which she had picked up through force of habit. Was there anything in it she could use as a weapon? Nail scissors? Forget it. There was a little can of spray lacquer. If only she could get that and spray it in his face. But how?

Start him talking, she thought. 'So you killed them?' she said.

'Just drive and keep your mouth shut.'

In books, thought Agatha wildly, the criminals always bragged about their crimes, allowing the hero to escape. The windscreen wipers moved rhythmically like metronomes.

They left Moreton-in-Marsh behind and out they went along the Fosse Way, the Roman road which, like all