Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death

One

Agatha Raisin was bored and unhappy. Her neighbour, James Lacey, had returned at last to the cottage next door to her own in the Cotswold village of Carsely. She tried to tell herself that she was no longer in love with him and that his coldness towards her did not matter.

She had almost married him, but her husband, still then very much alive, had surfaced at the wedding ceremony, and James had never really forgiven her for her deception.

One spring evening when the village was ablaze with daffodils, forsythia, magnolia and crocuses, Agatha trudged along to the vicarage to a meeting of the Carsely Ladies' Society, hoping to find some gossip to enliven the tedium of her days.

But such that there was did not interest her because it concerned a spring of water in the neighbouring village of Ancombe.

Agatha knew the spring. In the eighteenth century, a Miss Jakes had channelled the spring through the bottom of her garden, through a pipe in the garden wall, and into a fountain for the use of the public. The water gushed out through the mouth of a skull--a folly which had caused no end of criticism even in the grim days of the eighteenth century--then to a shallow basin sunk into the ground, over the lip of the basin and down through a grating and under the road. On the other side, it became a little stream which meandered through other gardens until it joined the river Ancombe.

Some lines of doggerel, penned by Miss Jakes, had been engraved above the skull. They read: Weary traveller, stop and stare At the water gushing here. We live our days in this Vale of Strife. Bend and drink deep of the Waters of Life.

Two hundred years ago, the water was held to have magical, restorative properties, but now only walkers paused to fill their flasks, and occasionally locals like Agatha brought along a bottle to fill up and take home to make tea, the water being softer than the stuff which came out of the tap.

Recently, the newly formed Ancombe Water Company had attempted to secure permission from the Ancombe Parish Council to drain water from the spring each day, paying a penny a gallon.

"Many are saying it is sacrilege," said Mrs Bloxby, the vicar's wife. "But there was never anything religious about the spring."

"It is bringing a sour note of commercialism into our gentle rural life," protested a newcomer to the ladies' society, a Mrs Dairy, who had recently moved to the Cotswolds from London and had all the incomer's zeal for preserving village life.

"I say it won't bother anyone," said the secretary, Miss Simms crossing her black-stockinged legs and showing with a flash of thigh that they were the hold-up variety. "I mean ter say, the truck for the water's going to come each day at dawn. After that, anyone can help themselves as usual."

Agatha stifled a yawn. As a retired businesswoman who had run her own successful public relations company, she thought it was a sound commercial idea.

She did not like Mrs Darry, who had a face like a startled ferret, so she said, "The Cotswolds are highly commercialized already, bursting with bus tours and tea-shops and craft-shops."

The room then split up into three factions, those for the business plan, those against, and those like Agatha who were heartily bored with the whole thing.

Mrs Bloxby took Agatha aside as she was leaving, her gentle face concerned.

"You are looking a bit down in the dumps, Agatha," she said. "Is it James?"

"No," lied Agatha defensively. "It's the time of year. It always gets me down."

"'April is the cruellest month.'"

Agatha blinked rapidly. She suspected a literary quotation and she hated quotations, damning them as belonging to some arty-farty world.

"Just so," she grumped and made her way out into the sweet evening air.

A magnolia tree glistened waxily in the silence of the vicarage garden. Over in the churchyard daffodils, bleached white by moonlight, nestled up to old leaning tombstones.

I must buy a plot in the churchyard, thought Agatha. How comforting to rest one's last under that blanket of shaggy grass and flowers. She sighed. Life at that moment was just a bowl of withered fruit, with a stone in every one.

She had almost forgotten about the water company. But a week later Roy Silver phoned her. Roy had been her employee when she had run her own business and now worked for the company which had bought her out. He was in a high state of excitement.

"Listen to this, Aggie," he chirped. "That Ancombe Water Company--heard of it?"

"Yes."

"They're our new clients and as their office is in Mircester, the boss wondered if you would like to handle the account on a freelance basis."

Agatha looked steelily at the phone. Roy Silver was the one who had found her husband so that he had turned up just as she was about to get married to James.

"No," she said curtly and replaced the phone.

She sat looking at it for a few minutes and then, plucking up courage, picked up the receiver and dialled James's number.

He answered after the first ring. "James," said Agatha with an awful false brightness. "What about dinner tonight?"

"I am very sorry," he said crisply. "I am busy. And," he went on quickly, as if to forestall any further invitation, "I shall be busy for the next few weeks."

Agatha very gently replaced the receiver. Her stomach hurt. People always talked about hearts breaking but the pain was always right in the gut.

A blackbird sang happily somewhere in the garden, the sweetness of the song intensifying the pain inside Agatha.

She picked up the phone again and dialled the number of Mircester police headquarters and asked to speak to her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, and, having been told it was his day off, phoned him at home.

"Agatha," said Bill, pleased. "I'm not doing anything today. Why don't you come over?"

Agatha hesitated. She found Bill's parents rather grim. "I'm afraid it will just be me," went on Bill. "Ma and Pa have gone to Southend to see some relatives."

"I'll be over," said Agatha.

She drove off, eyes averted from James's cottage.

Bill was delighted to see her. He was in his twenties, with a round face and a figure newly trimmed down.

"You're looking fit, Bill," said Agatha. "New girlfriend?" Bill's love life could be assessed from his figure, which quickly became plump the minute there was no romance in the offing.

"Yes. Her name is Sharon. She's a typist at the station. Very pretty."

"Introduced her yet to your mother and father?"

"Not yet."

So he would be all right for a while, thought Agatha cynically. Bill adored his parents and could never understand why the minute he introduced one of his lady-loves to them, the romance was immediately over.

"I was just about to have lunch," said Bill.

"I'll take you somewhere. My treat," said Agatha quickly. Bill's cooking was as awful as that of his mother.

"All right. There's quite a good pub at the end of the road."

The pub, called the Jolly Red Cow, was a dismal place, dominated by a pool table where the unemployed, white-faced youth of Mircester passed their daylight hours.

Agatha ordered chicken salad. The lettuce was limp and the chicken stringy. Bill tucked into a greasy egg, sausage and chips with every appearance of enjoyment.

"So what's new, Bill? Anything exciting?"

"Nothing much. Things have been quite quiet, thank goodness. What about you? Seen much of James?"

Agatha's face went stiff. "No, I haven't seen much of him. That's over. I don't want to talk about it."

Bill said hurriedly, as if anxious to change the subject, "What's all this fuss about the new water company?"

"Oh, that. They were talking about it at the ladies' society last week. I can't get excited about it. I mean, I don't see what the fuss is about. They're coming at dawn each day to take off the water and for the rest of the day everything will be as normal."

"I've got a nasty feeling in my bones about this," said Bill, dousing his chips with ketchup. "Anything to do with the environment, and sooner or later some protest group is going to turn up, and sooner or later there's going to be violence."

"I shouldn't think so." Agatha poked disconsolately at a piece of chicken. "Ancombe's a pretty dead sort of place."

"You might be surprised. Even in dead-alive sort of places there can be a rumpus. There are militant groups who don't care about the environment at all. All they want is an excuse for a punch-up. I sometimes think they're in the majority. The people who really care about some feature of the environment are usually a small, dedicated group who set out on a peaceful protest, and before they know where they are, they find themselves joined by the militants, and often some of them can end up getting badly hurt."

"It doesn't interest me," said Agatha. "In fact, to be honest, nothing much interests me these days."

He looked at her in affectionate concern. "What you want is for me to produce a murder for you to investigate. Well, I'm not going to do it. You can't go around expecting people to be murdered just to provide you with a hobby."

"It's a bit rude calling it a hobby. What is this crap?" She pushed her plate angrily away.

"I think the food here is very good," said Bill defensively. "You're just being picky because you're unhappy."

"I'm slimming anyway. The wretched Roy Silver phoned me up wanting me to do public relations for this water company."

"There's a thing. Their office is right here in Mircester."

"I'm retired."

"And unhappy and miserable. Why don't you take it on?"

But Agatha was not going to tell him the real reason for her refusal. Days away at the office meant days away from James Lacey, who might miraculously soften towards her.

After they had parted, Bill went thoughtfully home. On impulse, he phoned James.

"How are things going?" asked James cheerfully. "I haven't seen you in ages."

"You've been abroad. I've just been having lunch with Agatha and realized I hadn't spoken to you for some time."

"Oh." And James's 'oh' was so frigid that Bill thought if he were holding some cartoon phone receiver there would be icicles forming down the wire. So he chatted idly about this and that while all the while he wanted to ask James why he did not give poor Agatha a break and take her out for dinner.

A week later Agatha had just finished her usual breakfast of four cigarettes and three strong cups of black coffee when the phone rang. "Let it be James," she pleaded to that anthropomorphic God with the long beard and shaggy hair with whom she often, in moments of stress, did deals. "Let it be James and I'll never smoke again."

But the God of Agatha's understanding owed more to mythology than anything else and so she was hardly surprised to find out it was Roy Silver on the other end of the line.

"Don't hang up," said Roy quickly. "Look, you've still got a grudge against me because I found your husband."

"And ruined my life," said Agatha bitterly.

"Well, he's dead now, isn't he? And if James doesn't want to marry you, that's hardly my fault."

Agatha hung up.

The doorbell went. Perhaps He had heard her prayer. She stubbed out her cigarette.

"Last one," she said loudly to the ceiling.

She opened the door.

Mrs Darry stood there.

"I wondered if you would do me a favour, Mrs Raisin."

"Come in," said Agatha bleakly. She led the way into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and gloomily lit a cigarette.

Mrs Dairy sat down. "I would be grateful if you refrained from smoking."

"Tough," said Agatha. "This is my house and my cigarette. What do you want?"

"Don't you know you are killing yourself?"

Agatha looked at her cigarette and then at Mrs Darry. "As long as I am killing myself, I am not killing you. Out with it. What do you want?"

"Water."

"There's water in the tap. Has yours been cut off?"

"No, you do not understand. My mother is coming to stay."

Agatha blinked. Mrs Darry she judged to be in her late sixties.

"Mother is ninety-two," went on Mrs Darry. "She is very partial to good tea. I do not have a car and I wondered whether you would get me a flask of water from the spring at Ancombe?"

"I did not intend to go to Ancombe," said Agatha, thinking how much she disliked this newcomer to the village. She was such an ugly woman. How odd that people could be so ugly, not particularly because of appearance, but because of the atmosphere of judgemental bad temper and discontent they carried around with them.

She was wearing one of those sleeveless quilted jackets, tightly buttoned up over a high-necked blouse. Her pointed nose, her pursed mouth and her sandy hair and her pale green hunting eyes made her look more than ever to Agatha like some vicious feral animal, always looking for the kill.

"Is there no one else you could ask?" Agatha considered offering Mrs Dairy coffee, and then decided against it.

"Everyone else is so busy," mourned Mrs Dairy. "I mean, it's not as if you have much to do."

"As a matter of fact I do," retorted Agatha, stung to the quick. "I am going to be handling the public relations for the new water company."

Mrs Dairy gathered up her handbag and gloves and got to her feet. "I am surprised at you, Mrs Raisin. That you who live in this village should be aiding and abetting a company that is out to destroy our environment is beyond belief."

"Push off," said Agatha.

Left alone, she lit another cigarette. On and off during that day, she turned over in her mind the idea of representing the water company. Of course, the offer might not still be open. If she was employed in the launch, then she would need to work very hard, and if she was working very hard, she would not be impelled to make any more silly phone calls to James and suffer the inevitable rejection.

A poor evening on television did little to lighten her mood. She ate a whole bar of chocolate and felt the waistline of her skirt tighten alarmingly. In vain did she tell herself that the constricting feeling at her middle was probably psychosomatic. She decided on impulse to take a flask and walk over to Ancombe and get some water for tea, and to take another look at the spring.

It was another beautiful evening. Bird cherry starred the hedgerows, orchards on either side of the road glimmered with apple blossom. She trudged along, a stocky figure, feeling diminished by the glory of the night.

The walk to Ancombe was several miles and by the time she approached the spring, she was weary and already regretting her decision not to take the car.

The spring was at the far end of the village, the unlit end, where the houses stopped and the countryside began again.

As she approached she could hear the tinkling sound of the water.

She was about to bend over the spring when she started back with a gasp of alarm and dropped her flask. For lying at her feet, staring up at the faint light from the moon and stars above, was a dead man.

Very dead, thought Agatha, feeling for his pulse and finding none.

She ran back to the nearest house, roused the occupants and phoned the police.

Waving aside offers of brandy or tea, Agatha returned resolutely to the spring and waited. Word quickly spread around the village and by the time the police arrived, there was a silent circle of people around the body. The skull above the spring glared maliciously at them from over the dead man's body.

Agatha learned from the hushed whispers that the body was that of a Mr Robert Struthers, chairman of Ancombe Parish Council. Blood was seeping from the back of his head into the spring, blood, black in the night, swirling around the stone basin.

Sirens tore through the silence of the night. The police had arrived at last. Bill would not be among them. It was his day off.

But Agatha recognized Detective Inspector Wilkes.

She sat in one of the police cars and made a statement to a policewoman. She felt quite numb. She was told to wait and a police car would take her home.

At last she was dropped off at her own cottage. She hesitated on her doorstep, looking wistfully towards the cottage next door. Here was a splendid opportunity to talk to James. But the shock of finding the dead man had changed something in her. Fm worth better than that, thought Agatha, as she unlocked her door and went in.

She was just making herself a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. This time she did not expect to see James standing on the doorstep and it was with genuine gratitude and relief that she welcomed the vicar's wife, Mrs Bloxby.

"I heard the terrible news," said Mrs Bloxby, pushing a strand of grey hair behind her ear. "I came along to spend the night with you. You won't want to be alone."

Agatha looked at her with affection, remembering nights before when Mrs Bloxby had volunteered to keep her company. "I think I'll be all right," she said, "but I'd be grateful if you would stay for a bit."

Mrs Bloxby followed her into the kitchen and sat down. "Mrs Darry phoned me with the news. If you look out, you'll see lights all over the village. They'll be talking about it all night."

"Tell me about this water business," said Agatha, handing her a mug of coffee. "I assume they were asked to make a decision on the water."

"Yes, indeed, and some very noisy debates they had on the subject, too."

"Who owns the water?"

"Well, it comes from Mrs Toynbee's garden, but as the well is out on the road, that bit belongs to the parish. There are seven members of the parish council and they've all served for years."

"What about council elections?"

"Oh, those come and go but nobody else wanted the job and so nobody ever stands against them. The late Mr Struthers was chairman, Mr Andy Stiggs is vice chairman, and the rest--Miss Mary Owen, Mrs Jane Cutler, Mr Bill Allen, Mr Fred Shaw, and Miss Angela Buckley. Mr Struthers was a retired banker. Mr Stiggs is a retired shopkeeper, Miss Mary Owen, independently wealthy. Mrs Jane Cutler, also wealthy, is a widow, Mr Bill Allen runs the garden centre, Mr Fred Shaw is the local electrician and Miss Angela Buckley is a farmer's daughter."

"And who was for selling the water and who against?"

"As far as I remember, Mrs Cutler, Fred Shaw and Angela Buckley were for it, and Mary Owen, Bill Allen and Andy Stiggs, against. The chairman had the casting vote and as far as I know he had not yet made up his mind."

"It could be that one of the fors or one of the againsts could have known which way he was going to vote and didn't like it," said Agatha, her bearlike eyes gleaming under the heavy fringe of her brown hair.

"I shouldn't really think so. They are all quite elderly, except Miss Buckley, who is in her forties. They have all led unblemished lives."

"But this seems to have stirred them all up."

"Yes," said Mrs Bloxby reluctantly. "The debates have been hot and furious. And of course the villagers themselves are split into two camps. Mary Owen claims the villagers have not been consulted and she is holding a meeting in the village hall. I think it was due to take place next week but I am sure it will be put off in view of this murder."

"If it does turn out to be murder," said Agatha slowly. "I mean, he was old and he was lying face-up. He could have had a seizure, fallen backwards and struck his head on the basin."

"Let's hope that is the case. If not, the press will arrive and television crews will arrive and it is so beautiful here that we will have to suffer from more tourists than usual."

"I'm a bit of a tourist myself," said Agatha huffily. "I don't really belong here. It drives me mad when people in the village complain about those terrible tourists when they've just come back from a holiday abroad where they've been tourists themselves."

"That's not quite true," said the vicar's wife gently. "Carsely people do not like leaving Carsely."

"I don't care. They go into Evesham and More-ton to do their shopping, so they are taking up someone else's bit of space. The world is one planet full of tourists."

"Or displaced people. Think of Bosnia."

"Bugger Bosnia," said Agatha with all the venom of one who has been made to feel guilty. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I must be a bit upset."

"I am sure you are. It must have been a shocking experience."

And it had been, thought Agatha. Some women such as herself were cursed with the same machismo as men. Her first thought had been to say, "Oh, it was all right. I'm used to dead bodies, you know." But Agatha had been afraid of so many things during her life that she had gone through the world with her fists swinging until the gentle life of Carsely and the kindness of the villagers had got under the carapace she had created for herself.

"If it should be murder and I concentrate on that," said Agatha slowly, "I might take this job of public relations officer for the Ancombe Water Company."

"Mrs Darry said you already had it."

"What a gossip that frump is! I only told her because she called round to ask me to get her some water from the spring and said, more or less, that I had nothing else to do. She made me feel as if I were already on the scrap-heap."

"It could be dangerous for you if you asked too many questions."

"If it's murder, it will probably be quickly solved. One of the fors didn't want Struthers to block it or one of the againsts thought he was going to break up village life and pollute the environment."

"I don't think that can be the case. You don't know the parish council; I do. Certainly this issue has made them very heated, but they are stable, ordinary members of the community. Shall you and James be investigating it? You have both had a lot of success in the past."

"He has been very rude to me and snubbed me," said Agatha. "No, I shall not go near him."

When Mrs Bloxby left, Agatha got ready for bed. The old cottage creaked as it usually did when it settled down for the night and various wildlife rustled in the thatch. But every little noise made her jump and she wished she had not pretended to be so brave and had asked the vicar's wife to stay the night. Then there was James, just next door, who must have heard of the murder by now. He should be here with her to protect and comfort her. A tear rolled down Agatha's nose and she fell into an uneasy sleep.

Another fine spring day did much to banish the horrors of the night before, and Bill Wong called, accompanied by a policewoman, to go over her statement.

James Lacey had seen the police car arrive, knew all about the murder and that it was Agatha who had found the body. He had assumed she would call him, for he was eager for details, but finally Bill Wong left and his phone did not ring.

Agatha phoned Roy Silver. "I've decided to take that freelance job with the water company," she said gruffly. Roy longed for the power to tell her to get lost, but the fact that his boss would look on the getting of Agatha as a great coup stopped him.

"Great," he said coldly. "I'll set up a meeting for you tomorrow with the directors."

"I suppose you've seen the papers?" said Agatha.

"What about?"

"The chairman of Ancombe Parish Council was found dead last night--by me."

"Never! You're quite a little vulture, Aggie. They'll need you more than ever to counteract the bad publicity. Is it murder?"

"Could be, but he was very old and maybe just fell over and struck his head on the stone basin."

"Anyway, I'll get back to you, sweetie, and give you the time you're to see them."

"Who will I be dealing with?"

"Co-directors, Guy and Peter Freemont, brothers."

"What's their pedigree?"

"City businessmen, wheeler-dealers, you know the kind."

"All right, let me know."

Agatha looked at the clock. Nearly lunchtime. She decided to go along to the Red Lion, the local pub, and see what gossip she could glean. Perhaps James might be there...forget it!

She made up with care, studying her face intently in her fright mirror, one of those magnifying ones. Her skin was still smooth on her cheeks but there were threads of wrinkles about her eyes and nasty ones on her upper lip. Her hair was thick and glossy and her legs were good. Her figure was a bit on the stocky side and her neck was a trifle short. She sighed as she spread foundation cream over the wrinkles and then applied powder and lipstick. She reached for a tube of mascara and then decided against it. Waterproof mascara simply meant it took longer to clean off and had a habit of sticking under her eyes for days. She should get her eyelashes dyed. Would a face-lift be worth it, or would it stop her from facing up to ageing gracefully? Did anyone ever age gracefully, or was it a choice between giving up or going down fighting?

As she walked along to the pub, she was assailed with a feeling of loneliness, of isolation, and wondered, not for the first time, if the city was so deep in her bones that she could never put down roots in country soil. And yet it was all so beautiful and calm as she walked under arches of blossom. Far above her, the Cotswold sky was pale blue and cloudless. Going to be another hose-pipe ban soon, thought the practical side of Agatha.

She was nearly at the pub when she realized she had forgotten to feed her two cats, Hodge and Boswell. She groaned. They would be all right until she got back. She was not going to turn into one of those drivelling women who were sentimental about animals.

Nevertheless, she walked back to her cottage, fed her cats, let them out in the garden, and feeling she had endured enough exercise and fresh air for one day, got into her car and drove the short distance to the pub, plunging happily into its beer-smelling, smoky gloom.

The barman, John Fletcher, gave her a gin and tonic and then the locals clustered around, anxious for news. Always happy to be the centre of attention, Agatha described in gruesome detail the finding of the body. "It may not be murder," she finished. "He could just have fallen."

"Bound to be murder," said Miss Simms, secretary of the Carsely Ladies' Society and the village's best-known unmarried mother. "And I know who done it!"

"Who?" asked Agatha.

Miss Simms cradled her half-pint of beer against her chest. "It was that Mary Owen."

"Go on with you," said Fred Griggs, the local policeman, lumbering up to join the group. "Mary Owen is a nice old lady who wouldn't hurt a fly."

"How old?" asked Agatha.

"Sixty-five."

Agatha winced. She was in her middle fifties and did not like to think of anyone in their sixties being considered old.

"She may have been nice one time," said Miss Simms defiantly, "but ever since this water company's come on the scene, she's been hollering and yelling about it. People can go batty when they get as old as that."

"We don't know yet it was murder," said Fred. "Is anyone going to buy me a drink?"

"I will," said Agatha. "Drinking on duty?"

"Day off. I'll have a pint of Hook Norton."

"I didn't think you could get a day off with there being this death."

"The detectives are handling it."

Mrs Darry came up and joined them. Agatha turned her back on her, trying to exclude her from the group, but Mrs Darry pushed past her.

"Are you talking about the murder?" she asked eagerly.

"We have other things to talk about," said Agatha huffily as she paid for the policeman's drink.

"I was saying as how Mary Owen did it," said Miss Simms.

"I'm surprised to find you here, Mrs Raisin," said Mrs Darry. "I'll have a Dubonnet, John." She looked at Agatha. "I mean, I thought they would have been grilling you at police headquarters."

"Why?" Agatha stared at her belligerently.

Mrs Darry gave a malicious little titter. "Surely the person who is found with the body is always chief suspect?"

"That's rubbish," said Fred. "Mrs Raisin just happened to come across the body."

"It's amazing how many bodies Mrs Raisin seems to have come across." Mrs Darry took a birdlike sip of her drink. "And gained a certain notoriety for it, too. Life has been quite quiet for you recently, has it not?"

Agatha's face flamed red with anger. "Are you saying I go around murdering people so as to get in the newspapers?"

Mrs Darry gave a shrill laugh. "Just my little joke."

"Then you can take your joke and shove it up your scrawny arse," raged Agatha, as the whole full force of the shock of finding the body hit her. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Come on, now," said Miss Simms, unhitching herself from the bar-stool. "We'll find a quiet corner away from this bitch."

Agatha sat down with her, her knees trembling.

"Sorry about the scene," she mumbled. "I did get a bit of a fright."

"Have the press been bothering you?"

"No," said Agatha, surprised. "I wonder why."

"All it said in the Gloucester Echo was that the body had been found by a local woman."

Despite her distress, Agatha felt peeved. The police could have said something like, "The body was found by Mrs Agatha Raisin, who has been of great help to us in solving murders in the past."

"That Mrs Darry is an awful cat," said Miss Simms.

"There's one in every village," said Agatha gloomily. "I shouldn't have risen to her remarks."

"Look, Mrs Raisin..."

"Call me Agatha. Why is it we always seem to call each other by our second names?"

"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.