Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death

Three

Agatha decided to start off with one of the councillors friendly to the water company. That way, it might be easier to get gossip. She looked up Mrs Jane Cutler in the phone book and noted down her address. She hesitated, wondering whether to phone first, but then decided it would be a better ploy just to land on the doorstep.

Mrs Cutler Jived in Wisteria Cottage in Ancombe, near the church. Wisteria Cottage turned out not to have any wisteria in evidence, nor was it a cottage. It was a modern bungalow with double glazing and niched curtains. The lawn was a severe square of green grass surrounded by regimented flowers which looked as if they had been measured to stand exactly four inches apart from each other, no more, no less.

Agatha knew that Mrs Cutler was aged sixty-five and did not look it, but she was startled again at the appearance of the woman who opened the door to her and confirmed that she was, indeed, Mrs Cutler.

Mrs Jane Cutler had expensively blonded hair, her skin was smooth and her figure excellent. Only the eyes were old and watchful and the wrists and ankles had that fragile, brittle appearance of old age. No plastic surgeon had yet found the way to make eyes look youthful. She must be very rich indeed, thought Agatha, as she followed her indoors. It took a mint to look like that.

She was wearing a clinging wool jersey dress of goldy-brown with a colourful Hermes scarf at her neck.

"I am so glad to see you, Mrs Raisin," she said. "Such a silly fuss about some water! I'll just go and get us some coffee. Shan't be a tick."

Agatha looked round the sitting-room, which was furnished in Bastard Country House. Hunting prints on the wall, chintz on the sofa, expensive fake fire where gas flames flickered among fake logs, Country Life and The Lady on the coffee-table, very new oriental rugs spread over the hair-cord fitted carpet.

In a short time Jane Cutler reappeared with coffee and biscuits on a tray. Agatha reflected bitchily that wim the money that had gone into maintaining her appearance, Jane Cutler could have bought a real country mansion. After the coffee had been served, Agatha said, "I do not understand why any of the councillors should be against the water company. Such a fuss about nothing."

"Oh, you know what village people can be like," said Mrs Cutler. "So narrow-minded. Now I have always had broad vision. And my vision tells me that this water-company business is a good idea. I can understand why you work for them. I suppose people like you have to go on earning money, no matter what their age."

"I--" began Agatha furiously.

"Have a biscuit. You obviously are a sensible woman and can't be bothered with all this silly dieting."

Now I know why people don't like you, thought Agatha, feeling her skirt-band tightening against her waist and wondering again if people could suffer from instant psychosomatic fat.

"I can't help thinking," ventured Agatha, deciding not to rise to insults, "that this awful murder might have something to do with the row about the water. I mean, why would anyone want to bump off a nice man like Mr Struthers?"

A merry laugh. "Dear Mrs Raisin, who gave you the odd idea that Mr Struthers was a nice man?"

"I mean," floundered Agatha, "there was surely nothing about him that bad to make anyone want to murder him."

"We-ell, I probably shouldn't be saying this..."

Agatha waited patiently, convinced that nothing in this world could make Mrs Cutler refrain from saying anything nasty about anyone else.

"You see, Mr Struthers owned the paddock which borders on Angela Buckley's father's land. Do you know our Angela? Great strapping monster. Big powerful hands. Well, the Buckleys wanted to buy that paddock. Take it from me, dear, land greed is a worse addiction than drink or drugs or"--her glance flicked up and down Agatha's figure--"chocolate. There was quite a stormy scene at the last council meeting and it wasn't about the water. Angela said that Mr Struthers never used that paddock, that it was a waste of land and that the only reason he wasn't selling it was out of spite. Mr Struthers said it was no wonder she had never married, she was such a frump, and it was no wonder Percy Cutler had jilted her almost at the altar, and Angela slapped his face! My dear, we had to pull her off! "

"Cutler," said Agatha slowly. "Percy Cutler? Your son?"

"No, my late husband."

"But--"

"Oh, there was an age difference, I admit, but what does that matter when there is real love? When poor Percy died of cancer, that bitch Angela said I had known that he had cancer and had only married him to get my hands on his money."

"How dreadful," said Agatha faintly.

"I pointed out to her that the husband before Percy, my Charles, had been very rich and I had no need to marry again for money."

"How many husbands have you had?" blurted out Agatha.

"Just the three."

"And what did the first two die of?"

"Cancer. So sad. I nursed them all devotedly."

It might be considered a brand-new way of gold digging, thought Agatha. Marry a man who knows he's got cancer and not long to live.

"So you think," she said aloud, "that perhaps Angela or her father might have murdered Mr Struthers. But why? How would that give them the land?"

"Because the son and the father never got on. The son, Jeffrey, was always nagging his father to sell them the land. They'll get it now."

There was a silence while Agatha digested this news. "Anyone else have it in for old Struthers?"

"Well, everyone knows about Andy Stiggs."

"Not me," said Agatha fervently.

"Of course, you're one of those incomers from...where? Birmingham, maybe?"

Agatha coloured angrily. She had been brought up in a Birmingham slum and had done her best with clothes and accent to bury her past forever.

"London," she snapped.

"Really? I could have sworn there was a trace of Brummie there. Anyway, the late Mrs Struthers, away back before God was born, was the belle of Ancombe. I never saw it. One of those rather common blowsy creatures with a loud laugh, you know--the kind you see on a bar-stool in a road-house, skirt hitched up, laughing insanely when not taking sips out of one of those drinks that come with an umbrella sticking out of the glass. Andy Stiggs was passionately in love with her and swore Robert Struthers had lured her away."

"So does anyone know which way Mr Struthers meant to vote?"

"Oh, who cares? We all got tired of him nodding his stupid head and saying, "I'll make up my mind when the time comes." Now if you'll excuse me, I have to change. I am expecting a gentleman caller."

Feeling quite stunned by all this gossip, Agatha made her way out. She got into her car and was about to drive off when she was suddenly overcome with curiosity to see who this gentleman caller might be. She drove as far as the end of the road and parked under a lilac tree where she could still command a good view of Jane Cutler's front door.

She waited and waited and after three quarters of an hour was just beginning to decide that Jane had used a fiction of a gentleman caller to get rid of her when she saw a familiar car drawing up outside her house and a familiar figure got out. James Lacey!

Agatha's hand tightened angrily on the steering wheel. So he, too, had begun investigations!

She drove along the village street, stopped at the newspaper shop and asked for directions to the Buckley farm, and headed off.

Agatha was wary of farms, considering them full of livestock of which she knew nothing and snapping dogs. The farmhouse was more of a country mansion, being a Georgian building four storeys high, well maintained.

The door was standing open. There came the sound of voices from within.

"Hello!" shouted Agatha.

The voices stopped, then there was the sound of a chair being scraped back, then booted feet.

Angela Buckley appeared. "It's our heroine," she cried. "Come along in."

Agatha followed her into a stone-flagged kitchen. Three men sat at the table with cups of tea. "That's my father," said Angela, jerking her head at a grey-haired man, "and that's Joe and Ben, they work for us. Sit down and have a coffee. This lot were just going back to work."

The farmer picked up a cap from the back of his chair and put it on. "Saw you the other night, Mrs Raisin," he said. "You told 'em."

He went out, followed by the two men. Angela and Agatha sat down at the table.

"I've just been to see Jane Cutler," said Agatha.

"Oh, the slurry with the fringe on top. Why did you go to see her?"

Agatha decided to plunge right in. "I wanted to see if I could find out anything about the murder."

"What's that got to do with you? That's police business."

"But as I am working for the water company, it is in their interest to get this murder cleared up as quickly as possible."

"So what did the raddled old bitch have to say for herself?"

"She more or less said you did it."

"There's no end to that woman's venom. She's had so many face-lifts and been so stretched that every time she opens her mouth her arsehole gapes. What reason should I have for murdering old Struthers?"

"The paddock."

"Oh, mat. It had become a bit of a joke between us. He would say, "You'll need to wait until I'm dead." Oh, lor'. Doesn't that sound awful?"

"But there was no real feeling about it?"

"There was from time to time. He didn't need that paddock, and he was a stubborn old codger. But actually he'd call round here quite a lot. We were friends."

"So who could have done it? Was it to stop him voting for or against? Did any of you know which way he meant to vote?"

"No, he enjoyed teasing us."

"What about Mary Owen? Tell me about her."

"She always wanted to head the parish council but we wouldn't let her. She's so bossy. I think in her way she kept us all together, despite our differences. We all hated her."

Agatha wondered whether to broach the subject of the late Percy Cutler, but decided against it. Her own heartache over James had made her unusually sensitive to another woman's feelings.

"We've always had fights over something or another," Angela was saying, "but they all die away after a while." She looked at Agatha and her round weather-beaten face suddenly turned hard. "Drop this amateur murder investigation. All you'll do is stir up a lot of muck...and you might get hurt."

"Is that a warning?" asked Agatha, gathering up her handbag.

"Yes, it is. A friendly warning."

Agatha said goodbye and went out to where her car was parked in the farmyard. As she drove off, she looked in the rear-view mirror. Angela was standing, her hands on her hips, watching her go. Her face was grim.

Agatha went home and phoned Bill Wong and told him of both conversations, the one with Jane Cutler and the one with Angela. Bill groaned. "This opens up a messy field of research. Let me know if you find out anything else."

"What, no warning to keep out of it?"

"I need all the help I can get on this one."

James Lacey phoned Bill Wong later. "I went to see that Cutler woman as a start," he said. "I'm afraid there's nothing there. According to her the members of the parish council all love one another. I must admit I found her very charming."

"That's not what our Agatha found out," said Bill gleefully.

There was a short silence and then James said, "What do you mean?"

Bill repeated what Agatha had told him.

"Mrs Cutler said nothing of that to me," complained James.

"Probably she reserves all her nice manners for us gentlemen. I found her charming as well. You should join forces with Agatha."

"I'll think about it," said James curtly.

But he took several days to think about it and by that time Guy Freemont had phoned up Agatha and invited her out for dinner.

"I'm afraid I'm busy tonight, James," said Agatha, noticing with irritation that her hand holding the telephone receiver was trembling. "Got a dinner date."

"Oh, well, what about if I pop round this afternoon?"

"Got an engagement for this afternoon," said Agatha. "Look, I'll call you. Bye."

She sat down on the stairs. Why, oh, why had James decided to contact her just when she was booked to have dinner with Guy and had made an appointment with a beautician in Evesham for that afternoon?

James was the same age as she, and if she had been going out with him, then she would not be rushing off to the beautician to have electrodes put on her face and neck to try to reduce the wrinkles.

This was what came of dating a much younger man and a handsome man at that. Somehow, with the work for the water company, and then the prospect of going out with Guy, she had not thought much about the murder, nor had she investigated it further.

But the gloss of that date with Guy had been definitely tarnished and it was a gloomy Agatha who drove into Evesham. She had picked out a beautician from the Yellow Pages.

Evesham was an odd town, reflected Agatha, as she made her way up a narrow staircase to the beautician's. All over the town, shops had closed down and the boarded-up fronts had been decorated with paintings of old Evesham shops by a local artist. If this goes on, thought Agatha, Evesham will soon be a town of paintings. No shops. And yet, here was this beautician who appeared to have the latest in beauty treatments, and along the road, a drugstore was doing a brisk trade in cut-price French perfume. It should have been a bustling, prosperous town. So much traffic, so many houses being built. But quite a lot of people were on the dole and didn't seem much interested in getting off it. A local fruit-packing company was bussing in workers from Wales because the locals wouldn't take up the jobs.

Agatha opened the door of the beautician's and went in.

The beautician, called Rosemary, was refreshingly maternal and non-threatening. Agatha, who had been expecting some anorectic creature who would make her feel frumpy, began to relax.

That was until the electrodes were attached to her face and neck and switched on. "It's a good thing I know this is a beauty treatment," muttered Agatha. "If I was in a police station in a totalitarian state, I would think it was torture and tell them everything." But she booked up a further nine appointments.

For good measure, she had her eyebrows shaped and her eyelashes dyed. She walked down the stairs and along the High Street, squinting sideways at her reflection in shop windows to see if she looked any younger.

It seemed to take ages to get home, because she had forgotten about the building of the Broadway bypass and the traffic lights on Fish Hill. The bypass would surely benefit Broadway by taking away all the huge rumbling trucks that daily shook the old buildings of the village, and yet it was very sad to see the trees on Fish Hill cut down for the new road and the scarred earth on either side where sheep so lately had peacefully grazed.

Once home, she began the long preparation necessary to any middle-aged woman who is dating a younger man, although she kept reminding herself fiercely that it was only a business partnership.

By the time, she had applied the last of her make-up and stood before the mirror wondering if the low-cut fine wool red dress was too gaudy, she felt a wrench of real pain. Instead of going through all this, she could have been talking to James about the case, building bridges, getting back to the old warmth and closeness.

When Guy called to pick her up, she had lost all interest in him.

Guy drove her to Oxford, parked in the underground car park in Gloucester Green and then escorted her to a French restaurant. It turned out to be one of those ones with a delicious menu and lousy food. A good way of dieting, thought Agatha, would be just to enjoy the prose on the menu and then not order anything.

Agatha had ordered breast of duck stuffed with spinach on a bed of warm rocket which translated itself into a piece of rubber stuffed with decaying vegetable matter, and rocket must be surely the most overrated vegetable in the world. It always tasted to Agatha like weeds.

They talked about various journalists and which would be more inclined to give them a good show. Agatha had already arranged various lunches in London with journalists. Guy said the new colour brochures advertising the water would be ready in a couple of days' time and that he would save Agatha a trip to Mircester and run over with them.

They drank a bottle of highly priced indifferent wine, but there was enough alcohol in it to mellow Agatha. After coffees and two brandies, she felt happy to be in the company of this well-tailored and handsome man.

When the bill was presented, Guy began patting his pockets. Then he gave Agatha a rueful boyish smile. "Damn, I've left my wallet at home."

"It's all right, I'll pay," said Agatha, thinking not for the first time that the majority of Englishmen were as tight as the bark on the tree.

He drove her back home. James heard the car arrive and leaped for the side window of his cottage. Guy, his black hair gleaming in the light over Agatha's door, took her keys from her and unlocked the door for her. James held his breath. Then Guy followed Agatha in. James waited and waited. He drew a chair up to the window and waited. Lights from the downstairs window shone out into Agatha's small square of front garden. At last they went off and the hall light went on. Then the hall light was switched off and the light on the stairs switched on. Then the light from behind the drawn curtains of Agatha's bedroom lit up the garden.

"Silly woman," he muttered, but still he waited. When the light in Agatha's bedroom was switched off and no Guy could be seen leaving the house, James went to bed.

Agatha came awake suddenly the next morning. She couldn't believe she had actually had sex with Guy. What on earth was up with her? Was she trying to prove that at her age she could still do it without a map?

She lay and listened to the silence of the house. Please let him be gone! That was the hell about being middle-aged. There was all the fear of trying to get to the bathroom to slap on make-up before he caught a glimpse of her unadorned face. But there was no sound but the wind blowing through the heavy purple lilac blossoms outside the window.

She got out of bed, feeling stiff and sore. After a deep bath, she felt better. She made up carefully and dressed, and then ripped the sheets off the bed and carried them down to the washing machine in the kitchen. She fed her cats and let them out into the sunshine of the garden.

There was a knock at the door. Perhaps it was James! But it was only Mrs Bloxby, the vicar's wife.

"I've brought you some home-made marmalade," she said. "You are looking very well this morning."

"Thanks," said Agatha, leading the way into the kitchen and nervously eyeing the laundry basket of sheets she had left on the kitchen floor. "I'll just pop these in the machine and then we'll have coffee."

"So you've been out with that young man from the water company?" said Mrs Bloxby. One is never too old to blush. Agatha bent over the washing machine and loaded it. "How did you know?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Mrs Darry was round at the vicarage first thing this morning to tell me that he had gone in with you after driving you home and hadn't come out again. You know what villages are like."

"That cow lives at the other end of the village!"

"But she has a nasty little yapping dog and dogs are very useful for walking about the streets at night by someone who is more interested in other people's lives than they are in their own."

Agatha plugged in the coffee percolator. "So I went to bed with him. Does that shock you?"

"No dear, but it probably shocks you. Women of our generation never got used to casual sex. Now young people these days just seem to go and do it without feeling any loss of dignity at all. And yet it is a most undignified performance, unless one is in love, of course."

"I suppose that Darry woman will spread it all round the village and James will get to hear of it."

"Is that so very bad? He has been neglecting you. He cannot expect you to carry a torch for him forever."

Agatha poured two cups of coffee and sat down wearily at the kitchen table. "I feel a fool. I think Guy Freemont is a taker. He took me to a quite dreadful French restaurant in Oxford, very expensive, and then said he had forgotten his wallet."

"Perhaps he did."

"I doubt it. I have endured a long series of dinners and lunches with men who forget their wallets or go to the men's room the minute the bill comes up."

"Then I suggest you forget your own cards and money the next time you go out. He might find he has his wallet on him after all."

Agatha grinned. "I'll try that. No more trouble about the water, is there?"

"As a matter of fact, there is."

"What?"

"You've heard of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth?"

"Yes."

"There's a new lot nobody heard of before this year. Save Our Foxes."

"But they're hunt saboteurs!"

"Yes, but they are organizing a march on the spring for this Saturday."

"What's it got to do with them?"

"They say it is an example of how capitalism is ruining rural life."

"Bollocks,"

"Quite. They will not get a welcome because the water company has started hiring staff, and young people from Ancombe are getting first priority."

"I hope this won't mean bad publicity."

"I think it will mean some violence and I hope the police can control it. You see, most of these protesters come from the towns and they do not seem to understand country life. I am talking about the genuine protesters, usually serious and mild-mannered people. But they often find their protests are hijacked by thugs looking for a punch-up."

"I'd better be there," said Agatha.

"Do be careful."

"I will."

After the vicar's wife had left, Agatha sat down to bring her expenses for the water company up-to-date, knowing of old the horror of leaving expense accounts to the last minute. Then she opened her handbag and took out the bill from the French restaurant. She neatly typed into her computer, "To entertaining Mr Guy Freemont, ninety-two pounds, plus ten pounds gratuity," and grinned as she ran it off on the printer.

Guy Freemont and his brother were sitting discussing business two days later when their accountant, James Briggs, came in.

"Yes, Briggs, what is it?" asked Peter.

"There is an item on Mrs Raisin's expense account I thought you might like to consider?"

"What's up with the old bat?" demanded Peter. "Charging us for clothes or make-up, or what?"

"It's this." James Briggs placed a list of figures in front of the two brothers. "Everything seems in order except that I find it odd that she has put in an expensive restaurant bill for entertaining Mr Guy Freemont."

Peter tapped it. "What's this, Guy?"

"I did invite her out for dinner, but forgot my wallet."

"Again? Let it go this time, Briggs." When the accountant had left, Peter said wrafh-fully, "She's a good PR. Don't screw her around until we get this water safely launched."

"I forgot my wallet," said Guy. "That's all."

Agatha had learned that the protest was to take place at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning. She was there in good time. Other people were gathered around. Mary Owen came straight up to Agatha. "You're not going to get away with this," she snarled.

"Oh, sod off," said Agatha. "Is this protest your idea?"

"No, but it goes to show that people all over Britain are not going to sit back and see the life of the country ruined."

Agatha shrugged and moved away, only to bump into Bill Allen. "You'd better be careful," he said in his odd, strangled Savoyard voice. "You have stirred up deep feelings."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Just a warning, Mrs Raisin."

A silence fell on the crowd as eleven o'clock came and went. Agatha suddenly saw James's tall figure at the edge of the crowd. She longed to join him but was frightened of being snubbed. And yet he had phoned her. She was just edging her way towards him when someone shouted, "Here they come!"

A small procession was heading towards the spring. At the front were gentle-faced middle-aged people, but behind them came burly young men with tattoos, camouflage jackets, earrings, and trouble written all over them. Five policemen were standing in front of the spring.

The onlookers cleared a way for them. A woman with a face like that of a worried sheep turned to face the crowd and took out a sheaf of papers.

"We are here," she said in a wavering voice, "to protest against the commercialization of this spring. Our village life must be protected."

"Where do you live?" shouted Agatha.

The woman blinked, opened and shut her mouth, then held on to her notes more firmly and went on. "As I was saying, we must protect--"

"Where do you live?" demanded Agatha again.

"Shut your face!" shouted one of the tattooed young men.

"No, I will not shut up," yelled Agatha. "Does this woman know anything about village life? Or did you all come from Birmingham or London to make trouble?"

The tattooed man began to work his way towards Agatha. He had thick lips and a beetling brow. Agatha wondered whether to flee. But the police were there. And James--James, who had miraculously appeared at her side.

"I think she should answer the question," came Jane Cutler's voice. "These protesters look as if they come from the slums of Birmingham. They are strangers to the country, and to the bath, from the smell of them."

"That's torn it," muttered James.

The truculent young man had reached Agatha. "You shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you."

James moved in front of Agatha. "You'll get nowhere with your protest uttering threats."

In time, James saw the bulletlike head moving forward to head-butt him and jumped to one side. Several women screamed. The police moved forward.

A scrawny woman wearing, of all things, a flak jacket, grabbed hold of Jane Cutler and pulled her hair. Jane screamed like a banshee. The police wrestled the woman to the ground. Sirens sounded in the distance as police reinforcements began to arrive.

Agatha's would-be assailant was trying to land a punch on James. James was dodging and weaving, knowing that these days if he landed a punch on the man himself, he could well end up in court for assault.

The spokeswoman for the demonstrators was now crying helplessly. Agatha saw Mrs Bloxby go up to her, say a few words and then begin to lead the weeping woman away.

Police swept into the crowd. They grabbed the young man who had been trying to hit James and carried him off. "Pigs!" he was screaming.

And as he was dragged backwards, his burning eyes looked straight at Agatha and he shouted, "I'll fix you."

"Come along," said James, taking Agatha's arm. "We need a drink."

"Where? Here? In the village?"

"No, let's go back to Carsely."

The Red Lion was quiet and they found a table in a corner next to the log fire which had been lit, for the day was cold.

"Bill Wong told me you had better success with Jane Cutler than I had."

"So he told you?"

"Why not? I hope we are not going to work against each other."

"I don't think I'm going to be working on this at all," said Agatha. "I've got to go up to London next week. Got a lot of journalists to see."

"Oh, so I'm on my own?"

"For the moment. It certainly looks that way." Agatha wondered what on earth had prompted her to say such a thing. Had she kept her mouth shut, they could have gone on discussing the case.

"I'll see what I can do," said James. He looked at her thoughtfully. "Just a friendly word of advice, Agatha. Don't take this the wrong way."

Now, Agatha knew as well as anybody that when someone says, "Don't take this the wrong way," the best thing to do is to stop them saying anything, but something inside her seemed to have pressed the 'destruct' button that morning, so she said, "Go on."

"I think you are making a spectacle of yourself with that young man from the water company. This new taste in young men is a bit sad. There was Charles in Cyprus and now this one. It doesn't matter if the man is wealthy; toy boy is the label stuck on him if he consorts with a woman as old as you."

Agatha's face had turned a muddy colour with hurt.

She stood up, knocking her chair backwards as she did so. "Damn you," she said in a choked voice.

James got up as well. "Look here, Agatha. I only--"

"Shut up!" screamed Agatha. "Just shut up!"

As she raced out of the door, she saw Mrs Darry standing at the bar, her face avid with curiosity.

James slowly finished his drink, aware all the time of curious eyes turned in his direction, of the fact that Mrs Darry was eagerly grabbing hold of every newcomer and whispering fiercely.

He rose and went out and walked slowly home. He could not admit to himself he had been at fault, or that his remarks had been prompted by jealousy. He was overwhelmed instead by a burning desire to find out something about this murder. Then perhaps, just perhaps, he would tell Agatha what he had found out. Her scene in the pub had been unforgivable.