'I like that,' said Miss Simms. 'More genteel, like. Are you going to investigate? Will Mr Lacey be helping you?'
'I don't know what James is doing these days and I don't care,' said Agatha. 'But I will probably find out more about the whole set-up because I will be doing public relations for the new water company on a freelance basis.'
'Pity it's water,' said Miss Simms. 'Now if it was gin or whisky, you could get us all some free samples. My current boyfriend is in bathroom equipment. I can get you a toilet seat.'
'That's kind of you, but my toilet seats are all right. Do you know any of the members of the parish council?'
'Ancombe, you mean. The ladies' society did a concert over in Ancombe when you was away abroad. Old fuddy-duddies. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Probably it'll turn out the old geezer just fell over.'
The conversation moved to village gossip and Agatha finally left, feeling better. There was a message on her answering machine from Roy. She was to meet the two directors of the Ancombe Water Company the following day at three in the afternoon.
Comforted by the thought of work, and by a long walk in the afternoon, Agatha managed at last to get a good night's sleep.
Two
Misery had its compensations. Agatha found she could get into a tailored skirt which had been too tight at the waist when she had last tried it on a few months ago. She also put on a shirt blouse and tailored jacket, packed a writing-pad and pens into a Gucci briefcase, and decided she was ready for her new job.
One of the pleasures of being independently wealthy, she thought, was she did not care very much whether she got the job or not.
She stopped on her way out of the village at the general store and bought the newspapers. Nothing much yet. Only small paragraphs in each to say the police were continuing their investigations into the death of Mr Struthers.
She drove to Mircester and then through the main town and out to an industrial estate on the fringe where the new water company was situated.
Her practised eye took in the sparse furnishings of the entrance hall. Low sofa, table, glossy magazines, green plants in pots. Good appearance but not that much money spent.
The receptionist with a smooth brown skin and large doe-like eyes had a Jamaican accent and shoulder-pads like an American football player. She took Agatha's name, rang someone and then said, 'The secretary will be with you presently.'
Now let's see how long they keep me waiting, thought Agatha. Successful company directors did not play at being important.
After two minutes a tall, willowy Princess Di look-alike swanned in. 'Mrs Raisin? Follow me, if you please.' Following a waft of Givenchy's Amarige, Agatha trailed behind the vision along a corridor of offices. There didn't seem to be much sound coming from behind those office doors. Agatha wondered if they were empty.
The secretary opened a door at the end of the corridor marked 'Boardroom' and stood aside to let Agatha enter.
Agatha cast a quick eye around the boardroom. Long oak table, six chairs, Venetian blinds at the two windows, table in the corner with coffee machine, cups, milk, sugar and biscuits.
'If you will sit here, Mrs Raisin.' The secretary drew out a chair at the end of the table. 'Coffee?'
'Black, please, and an ashtray.'
'I don't think we have an ashtray.'
'If I am going to work for you, you'd better find one,' said Agatha, made tetchy with all the guilt the smoker feels these days.
The secretary had wide blue eyes fringed with black lashes. A little flicker of dislike flashed in the blue shallows of her eyes and then was immediately gone.
'What's your name?' asked Agatha.
'Portia Salmond.'
'Well, Portia, are we going to get down to business this day?'
'Mr Peter and Mr Guy will be with you directly.' Portia went to the coffee machine and poured a cup of coffee for Agatha. She returned and put it down in front of her, along with an extra saucer. 'You can use that until I manage to find an ashtray.'
The door at the far end of the room opened and a man entered, hand outstretched.
'I am Peter Freemont,' he said. 'Guy will be along in a minute.'
Peter Freemont was about forty years old, powerful and swarthy with black hair already greying at the temples. He had a large fleshy nose and a small mouth, thick bushy eyebrows and a very large head. His broad figure was encased in a pin-striped suit and his feet, which were tiny, in black lace-up shoes, like children's shoes. He looked like the figure of a man painted on the side of a balloon. Agatha wondered madly whether, if she tied string around his ankles and held him out of the window, he would float up to the sky.
But then brother Guy walked in and Agatha promptly forgot about Peter. Guy Freemont was beautiful. He was tall and slim, with jet-black hair and very blue eyes, a tanned skin and an athlete's body. Agatha judged him to be in his middle thirties. He gave Agatha such a blinding smile that she searched in her briefcase for her notebook to cover her confusion.
They both sat down at the table. 'Now, to business. You come highly recommended,' said Peter.
'I would like to know first,' said Agatha, 'if this meeting to be held by Mary Owen in the village hall is going to pose problems. What if the villagers all decide they don't want the water company?'
'There's nothing they can do,' said Peter, clasping his plump hands covered in black hairs on the table in front of him. 'The spring rises in Mrs Toynbee's garden. Mrs Toynbee is a direct descendant of Miss Jakes, who first channelled the spring out to the road, and Mrs Toynbee has given us her permission.'
Guy opened a folder and slid a piece of artwork in front of Agatha. 'This is what the bottle will look like.' Agatha was surprised to see that the label showed a photograph of the skull with the water gushing out of it. 'Isn't that a bit grim,' she asked, 'particularly in view of the murder?'
'They're not sure it is murder yet,' said Guy. 'Anyway, death's heads and skulls always promote a product. There was a cigarette company that always had something like the shape of a skull in their ads and a brand of gin used to have an ad with the ice cubes in a glass in the shape of a skull.'
'It could be argued,' said Agatha, lighting a cigarette, 'that people who drink and smoke have a death wish. But people who go around drinking gnat's piss like mineral water are usually the healthy type.'
'Not any more,' said Peter. 'They can be reformed alcoholics who still have the death wish. They can be business people at the new fashionable 'dry' lunches, or they can be people who just can't stand the taste of the drinking water from the tap, which often smells like swimming pools. But everyone is fascinated by death. Now there needs to be some big event to launch the water. What about taking over some stately home like Blenheim Palace...?'
'They'd hardly agree to that, seeing as how they are producing their own water,' Agatha pointed out.
'Perhaps hire a boat and go down the Thames, lots of celebs, lots of booze for the press?' suggested Guy.
'Old hat,' said Agatha. 'I have it, and it'd be a way to get the goodwill of the village. A village fete.'
'Oh, come on,' protested Peter. 'Tacky cakes and home-made jam and women in 1970s Laura Ashley dresses.'
'No, no, listen to me,' said Agatha eagerly.
'Why do you think tourists come to the Cots-wolds?'
'Beauty spot?' suggested Peter.
