Chinese took over. What do you think, Agatha? That they murdered someone to get the publicity?'
'Hardly. I'm sure it's a village matter and it may have nothing to do with the water. People always think of villages as innocent places, not like the towns, but you know what it's like, Bill. An awful lot of nasty passions and jealousies can lie just beneath the surface. I've a feeling in my bones that it's got nothing to do with that spring at all.'
James Lacey was driving past when he saw Agatha and Bill emerge from the George. He longed to be able to call to them, to discuss the murder, but he had to admit to himself that after the way he had been treating Agatha, he could hardly expect a warm reception.
Give Agatha an inch, he thought sourly, and she'll take over your whole life. He drove on, but feeling lonely and excluded and knowing he had only himself to blame.
Two weeks later, with the police no farther on in their murder investigations, Mary Owen's protest meeting was scheduled to take place in the village hall. Agatha arranged that she and Guy Freemont should have places on the platform to present the firm's viewpoint.
Agatha had visited the company's offices in Mircester, presenting outlines for publicizing the water, but each time it was Peter Freemont who saw her. Agatha began to wonder if she would ever see Guy again, but on her last visit Peter had assured her that Guy would call for her before the village meeting so that they could arrive there together.
'Calm down,' Agatha told herself fiercely.
'He's at least twenty years younger than you.' She was torn between trying to look sexy and trying to look businesslike. Common sense at last prevailed on the evening of the meeting, and businesslike won. She put on a smart tailored suit but with high-heeled black patent-leather shoes and a striped blouse, her hair brushed to a high shine, and painted her generous mouth with a Dior lipstick guaranteed not to come off when kissed.
She was ready a good half-hour before Guy was due to arrive. Perfume! She had forgotten to, put on any. She rushed upstairs and surveyed the array of bottles on her dressing-table. Rive Gauche. Everyone wore that, particularly now that cut-price shop had opened in Evesham. Champagne? A bit frivolous. Chanel Ndeg5. Yes, that would do. Safe.
She returned downstairs and checked her sitting-room. Log fire burning brightly, magazines arranged on the coffee-table, drinks on the trolley over at the wall. Ice? Damn, she'd forgotten ice. He wouldn't have time for a drink before they left but perhaps, just perhaps, he might come back with her for one. She went to the kitchen, filled the ice-trays and put them in the freezer.
Then she felt a spot sprouting on her forehead. She tried to tell herself it was all her imagination and rushed upstairs. Her forehead looked unblemished, but she put a little witch hazel on it, just in case. The witch hazel left a round white mark in her mask of foundation cream and powder. She swore and repaired the damage.
By the time the doorbell went, she was feeling hot and frazzled. Guy Freemont stood on the doorstep, black hair gleaming, impeccably tailored, dazzling smile. Agatha felt miserable, like a teenager on her first date.
The village hall was crowded. The press were there in force, not only the locals, but Midlands TV, and some of the nationals. The murder had put Ancombe on the map.
Miss Mary Owen got to her feet to address the crowd. She had a high, autocratic voice and a commanding manner. She was dressed in an old print frock with a droopy hem but wore a fine rope of pearls around her neck.
She began. 'I have been against selling the water all along. It is a disgrace. It is desecration of one of the famous features of the Cotswolds, something that by right belongs to the villagers of Ancombe. You have heard complaints, have you not, about how the life is being drained out of our villages by incomers?' Agatha shifted uneasily. 'I do not think the water should be sold off without the villagers' permission. I suggest we put it here and now to a vote.'
Oh, no, thought Agatha, not before they've heard me. She was about to get to her feet when a woman stood up in the audience. 'It's
'Come up and let's hear you,' called Agatha, glad of the distraction.
The woman was helped up on to the platform. Miss Owen gave her a filthy look but surrendered the microphone to her. 'Who are you?' asked Agatha, lowering the microphone to suit the height of the newcomer.
'I am Mrs Toynbee and the spring is in
Mrs Toynbee was a small, 'soft' woman, rather like marshmallow, though not plump. She had silver hair which formed a curly aureole about her head. She had the kind of face which romantic novelists call heart-shaped. She had large light blue eyes and fair lashes. Her soft bosom was covered by a glittery evening sweater, white with silver sequins, worn over a long floral skirt. Agatha judged her to be in her forties but when she started to speak, she had a clear, lisping, girlish voice.
'As you all know,' she began, 'I am Mrs Robina Toynbee and I have had a hard time of it since my Arthur passed away...' She paused and carefully dabbed each eye with a small lace-edged handkerchief. Agatha, strictly a man-sized Kleenex woman, marvelled that there were obviously still lace-edged handkerchiefs on the market. 'The water rights are mine to sell,' went on Robina Toynbee.
'But the actual fountain is
Robina Toynbee cast her a look of pain and shook her head gently. 'If that is what troubles you, then I have the right to block the spring and they can take the water from my garden.'
'Too difficult,' murmured Guy in Agatha's ear, 'we need that skull for the labels.'
Agatha marched forward. 'If I might have a word, dear.' She edged Robina Toynbee away from the microphone.
'Perhaps I can explain things,' said Agatha. Her eyes flew to where James was standing at the back of the hall, his arms folded. She gave her head a little shake, as if to free it from thoughts of James Lacey. She mentally marshalled her facts and figures and proceeded to bulldoze her audience.
'The company are paying Mrs Toynbee for the water, yes, but they are also paying a generous yearly sum to the parish council which, I gather, if accepted, will go towards the building of a new community hall. Yes, the publicity will bring tourists to the village but tourists will bring trade to the village shops. From nine in the morning each day until the following dawn, the spring will belong to the villagers as it always has.'
Bill Wong leaned back in his seat and smiled appreciatively. It was nice to see Agatha Raisin back on form. He had been worried about her since her break-up with James.
'Wait a bit,' shouted Andy Stiggs. 'I know you, Mrs Raisin. You're one of those incomers, one of those people who are ruining the village character.'
'If it weren't for incomers, you wouldn't have any village character,' said Agatha. 'Those cottages down the lower end of the village, what about them? They were derelict and abandoned for years. Then some enterprising builder did them up, lovingly restored them. Who bought them? Incomers. Who made the gardens pretty again? Incomers.'
'That's because the local people couldn't afford the prices,' panted Andy.
'You mean they're all broke like you, Miss Owen and Mr Bill Allen?'
Agatha winked at the audience and there was an appreciative roar of laughter.
'I must and will have my say.' Bill Allen, the owner of the garden centre, got up and stood in front of the microphone. He was dressed in a hacking jacket, knee-breeches, lovat socks and brogues. A pseud, if ever there was one, thought Agatha, listening to the genteel strangulation of his vowels.
He began to read from a sheaf of papers. It soon became apparent to all in the hall that he had written a speech. A cloud of boredom settled down. Agatha despaired. She wanted the meeting to end on a high note. But how to stop him?
She scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Bill Allen. He glanced at it, turned brick-red and abruptly left the platform.
Gleefully Agatha took his place. 'The other thing I meant to tell you is that to launch the new bottled water, we are going to have a splendid fete right here in Ancombe, a good old-fashioned village fete. Yes, we'll have film stars and people like that present, but I want you to have all your usual stalls, home-made jam, cakes, things like that, and games for the children. It will be the village fete to end all village fetes. Television will be there, of course, and we will show the world what Ancombe is made of. Won't we?'
