Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death

Five

Agatha and Roy sloped around the house the next morning, both reluctant to walk even the few miles to Ancombe to tackle Mary Owen and to pick up the car.

"Let's see if there's anything on the news," said Agatha, switching to Sky Television.

"It's not on the hour," complained Roy. "It's eleven-twenty and it's all that dreary sports."

"Only last for ten minutes," said Agatha, sitting down in front of the set clutching a cup of coffee.

"There won't be anything about the murder," said Roy.

"Let's see."

The sports finished, then the ads. Then both sat up straight as the news came on again and a voice said, "The barbecue of a Mr Mike Pratt of Coventry was the subject of attack yesterday by members of Save Our Foxes."

"It's them," said Agatha eagerly.

The voice went on to explain about the barbecuing of the hedgehogs. "Look at that blazing sunshine," complained Roy. "You'd think Coventry was at the other end of the earth instead of being in the Midlands like us. Why did we have to get soaked?"

"Shh!" hissed Agatha.

A blond man with an ugly sneer on his face was pushing the barbecue over. Agatha stiffened. "Doesn't that chap look like James?"

"You poor thing." Roy shook his head. "You're beginning to see Lacey everywhere. Let's go. At least the Coventry sunshine has reached us."

"Isn't this beautiful?" said Roy as he trotted along by Agatha's side on the road to Ancombe.

Agatha grunted by way of reply, but wondering again why the sheer beauty of the spring countryside did not seem to get inside her. She remembered passing some Saturdays of her underprivileged childhood at the art gallery in Birmingham studying English landscapes, enjoying the painted scenery which had become part of that early dream of living in the countryside one day. And so she saw the present passing landscape like a painting. That bright green of the new leaves, she'd had that colour in her art class at school. And the curved furrows of a ploughed field, with the trees at the edge raising their branches to the blue sky, looked like one of those paintings. Perhaps one had to be brought up in the country to really appreciate it.

"Do you believe in God?" asked Roy suddenly.

"Don't know," said Agatha, wondering if the person in the sky with whom she frequently made bargains--get me out of this one and I'll give up smoking--really did exist.

"I believe in Nature," said Roy, spreading his arms wide. "That's what it's all about."

"You're not going to start hugging trees?" said Agatha suspiciously. "I've got to live here."

"I'm trying to explain I'm a pagan," said Roy. "I am as one with all this."

Agatha was about to say something waspish, but Roy's thin, weak face was turned up to the sun and he looked supremely happy. "Glad you're enjoying yourself," she said gruffly.

"Funny," said Roy, taking her arm, "I always thought anyone who moved out of the city was mad, but maybe if I lowered my sights, it would be better. You and me, Aggie, we could team up and start a new agency in Mircester. Do local accounts. Maybe get married."

"And spend my declining years with people mistaking you for my son?"

"Think about it. We get on all right."

Agatha privately thought that a very little of Roy went a long way, but she gently detached her arm and said, "Okay, I'll think about it." Then she said, "Do we really have to go on with this? It's funny how people in villages so close by can be so different. Apart from the dreadful Mrs Dairy and a few others, the people in Carsely are wonderful. But the ones we've met in Ancombe seem to be really nasty, and Mary Owen is surely going to be the nastiest of all."

"You've dealt with nasty people all your life, Aggie."

True, thought Agatha, and it used to be all the same to me, nice or nasty, just a job, but now I've learned to like people.

"Where does Mary Owen live?" she realized Roy was asking.

"I looked her up. She lives in Ancombe Manor, far end of the village. We'll pick up the car and drive."

Soon they were turning in at the entrance to the manor. Thick yew hedges lined either side of the narrow drive, giving Agatha the impression of driving through a maze. Suddenly they were in front of the house. It was old, very old, made of Cotswold stone, rambling and covered in ivy. It looked as if it had been there so long that it had become part of the surrounding countryside.

Agatha's sharp eyes noticed that there were weeds sprouting in the gravel-covered circle outside the manor-house. She began to think the report that Mary Owen had fallen on hard times might be true. Such a house would have housed an army of indoor and outdoor servants in the old days.

"Well, here goes for another barrage of insults," said Agatha, pushing an anachronistic bell-push by the side of the iron-studded door.

At first they thought there was no one at home, but then they heard footsteps approaching.

The door opened. Mary Owen stood there. She was wearing a shabby sweater and stained riding-breeches and boots. Her head was tied up in a scarf and she held a duster in one hand.

Her contemptuous eyes raked them.

"What do you want?"

"I am Agatha Raisin--"

"I know that. And who's your creature?"

"This is Mr Roy Silver," said Agatha firmly, thinking if one was prepared for insult, it certainly helped one not to lose one's temper.

"Out with it, then. Haven't you done enough damage, whoring for that damned water company?"

Roy timidly tugged at Agatha's arm, but Agatha smiled pleasantly. "I just wanted to talk to you."

"About what?"

"The murder."

Mary stood scowling at the duster in her hand. Then she jerked her head. "Come in."

They followed her into a small dark hall and then along a stone-flagged corridor to a kitchen. "Sit down," barked Mary. They sat down at the kitchen table. Mary jerked out a chair with the toe of one boot and sat down facing them.

"You have a bit of a reputation as a detective," said Mary.

"I have solved some cases," said Agatha.

"So you say. The only reason I'm bothering with you is that you might get the police to see some sense. You see, I know who murdered Robert Struthers,"

"Who?" demanded Agatha and Roy in unison.

"Jane Cutler, that's who!"

"Why?" asked Agatha. "I heard she hoped to marry him."

"Of course she did. That ghoul specializes in marrying men who are due to drop dead, only Robert didn't have terminal cancer or anything like that. He could have lived to a hundred. So she helped him on his way."

"But what good would that do her?" Agatha looked every bit as bewildered as she felt.

"Because I believe she talked poor Robert into making out his will in her favour."

"But you don't know for sure!"

"I know. Do me a favour and get it out of your police friends. Now if you don't mind, I have work to do."

"So what do you think of that?" asked Roy as they drove off.

"I think we should drive to Mircester and see what we can get out of Bill Wong."

"Why do you think she sneered at me like that?" demanded Roy moodily. "Creature, indeed."

"She was furious with me and you just happened to be there."

Roy's thin face lightened. "That's it. It can't be my clothes. I mean, this sweater's Italian and cost a mint, and my jeans are stone-washed."

Agatha privately thought that no matter how much money he spent on clothes, Roy would always look somehow as if he belonged in one of those London street gangs of white-faced undernourished youths.

"Oh, bugger," said Agatha as they drove into Mircester. "Market-day. No central parking, and I'm sick of walking."

"Park right there!" said Roy.

"It's a yellow line. No parking."

"Just park," said Roy, fumbling in his back pocket and taking out his wallet. He fished out a 'disabled' sticker and affixed it on Agatha's windscreen.

"Where did you get that?"

"From a friend," said Roy.

"But what if some copper comes along?"

"We can always drool at the mouth and say we're mentally disabled. Come along."

They went into the police headquarters and asked for Bill Wong. "We should have phoned," said Agatha, as they waited. "He's probably out."

But after a few minutes, Bill appeared.

"I hope you've got something for me," he said. "I'm busy." He led the way to an interviewing-room.

Agatha outlined everything she had learned since the last time she had seen him, ending up with Mary Owen's claim that Jane Cutler had murdered Robert Struthers to inherit after his death.

"Not the case," said Bill. "His son gets everything, not even a mention of either Jane Cutler or Mary Owen in the will."

"Oh," said Agatha, disappointed.

"This old boy, I mean Struthers," said Roy, "could have been playing both of them along. Old people sometimes do that to get attention. I mean, he liked playing cagey. He wouldn't tell any of the other councillors which way he meant to vote. Strikes me as being manipulative and liking his little bit of power. Just suppose Jane Cuder thought she was in the will."

"That's a good point," said Bill, "but why not get him to marry her and be absolutely sure? Common sense would tell her that he would leave it all to his son. Then Jane Cutler is rich, and if Mary Owen has fallen on hard times, and she believed he had changed his will in her favour, then she might have bumped him off and then accused Jane to deflect any suspicions from her, although it's all very far-fetched."

"James has disappeared," said Agatha. "Have you heard anything?"

Yes, Bill had through the grapevine learned that James was masquerading as a member of Save Our Foxes, but he didn't want to tell Agatha that. He felt the less Agatha saw of James, the better. Out of sight was out of mind.

"No," he lied. "Probably off on his travels."

Agatha pulled herself together. "You said they had decided that Struthers had been killed elsewhere and dumped at the spring. Any forensic evidence?"

"Nothing much. Forensic believes that someone vacuumed the body before dumping it. There was just one thing. A white cat hair in one of his turn-ups. He wore those old-fashioned trousers."

Agatha's eyes gleamed. "So we are looking for someone with a white cat!"

"Do you know, there isn't one white cat in the village of Ancombe?" said Bill. "We went from house to house. Someone could be lying, of course."

"It needn't be an all-white cat," said Roy. "Could be one of those black-and-white things."

"Sorry. I should have explained that the hair was from a Persian cat."

"Definitely a Persian, and a cat?" asked Agatha. "It couldn't have been a dog?"

Agatha would have loved it to turn out to have been Mrs Darry.

"Definitely a Persian cat."

"Still, it's something to go on," said Agatha eagerly.

"I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm for amateur detection, but a great number of policemen have been searching for that cat and are still searching."

"Does Mary Owen have an alibi?"

"Yes, on the night of the murder she was staying with her sister in Mircester. She stayed all night."

"But he could have been killed earlier in the day!"

"It's always hard to estimate time of death, but he was killed earlier that evening. Mary Owen's sister said she arrived at four in the afternoon and did not leave until the following morning."

"A sister would say anything."

"True, but she seems a very direct, truthful sort of lady. Now, I've really got to get back to work."

As Agatha and Roy approached Agatha's car, a large policeman was standing staring at it.

"Limp!" hissed Roy.

The policeman swung round and watched their approach. "Thank you, dear boy," quavered Agatha. "I am getting so forgetful. I cannot remember where I left my stick."

Hoping desperately it was not some policeman who had seen her before, Agatha smiled at him weakly and allowed Roy to help her into the driving seat. As soon as Roy was in behind her, she drove off with a great grinding and clashing of gears.

"Okay, I'm nervous," said Agatha. "The minute we stop I'm going to get that sticker off the windscreen."

"Where now?"

"Let's go back to Ancombe and have a wander around. We might see that cat."

"We haven't eaten and I'm starving."

"We'll eat in the pub in Ancombe."

"What about all that food I was going to cook? I've got to get the London train this evening."

"Next time," said Agatha.

James and Zak had agreed not to be seen spending too much time together. There was a member of Save Our Foxes called Billy Guide who drank heavily. James targeted him, buying the grateful Billy as much as he could drink.

A week after Agatha's interview with Mary Owen, James attended another meeting and his heart beat faster when he learned that the group's next expedition was to the spring in Ancombe.

Sybil, her fine eyes flashing, said they would take bags of cement and put them into the basin of the spring.

James, who longed to point out that their plan would cause more destruction to the village environment than the water company, kept silent. Why should such a group switch their attention from animals to the matter of spring water? Someone must be paying them for this action. Sybil was saying that the bus would pick them up at the usual place.

He half-listened to her rant, wondering if she believed a word of it.

Various other members made rousing speeches. James stifled a yawn. He roused himself when he heard Trevor ask if the press had been informed.

"No," said Sybil. "When the spring is cemented up, we'll phone them."

"Wait a bit," slurred Billy Guide, "if the basin is filled with cement, that means the water from the spring will flood that woman's garden--what's her name?--Toynbee."

"And serve her right!" cried Sybil. "It's all her fault that capitalist commercialism has been allowed to pollute one of our English villages."

At last the meeting finished. James edged up to Billy. "Fancy a drink?"

"Okay, squire," said Billy, "but I'm a bit broke."

"On me."

"Great."

"Lefs find a pub a bit away from here," said James, knowing that Billy would go anywhere for a free drink.

On the road to the pub, Billy said, "My missus is always complaining I come home smelling of beer."

"Let's have vodka," said James. "That doesn't smell."

And may God forgive me, he thought. I didn't think any of this useless lot were married. Billy already smelt like a brewery, but James was only interested in getting him drunk enough to loosen up.

He didn't, however, want Billy to get so drunk that he couldn't think or speak.

"Have you been married long?" he asked.

"Ten years."

"Kids?"

"Four."

"You haven't got a job, have you? What do you live on?"

"Missus goes out cleaning and the mother-in-law takes care of the kids."

So much for women's liberation, thought James bleakly.

Billy went into a long rambling monologue about the unfairness of life.

At last James asked, "How did you get into this Save Our Foxes business?"

"Get a bit o' drink money."

"Do you care about saving foxes?"

Billy gave him a sly grin. "O' course. Got to save the little bleeders."

"What I can't understand," said James, "is why you're all so interested in this spring? Who's paying you?"

"You know, Jim. We go along. Have a bit of a punch-up. Get forty quid. Not bad."

"But, I mean, where does the money come from to pay us?"

"We're not supposed to know, Jim. But I heard..."

Billy looked thoughtfully down at his empty glass.

"I'll get us another," said James quickly.

He returned with two vodkas. Billy was never quite drunk, never quite sober. He seemed to be able to sink an enormous capacity without falling over. James was beginning to feel pretty drunk himself, and he was anxious to get some facts out of Billy while he was still able to.

"You were saying about who was paying us?" asked James.

"Was I?" Billy looked suddenly truculent and suspicious. "What's a posh fellow like you doing with us lot?" James had given up trying to hide his accent.

"Because a bit of a punch-up is fun," he said.

"That's what I thought." Billy raised his glass. "Here's to you."

"So I mean, who's paying? Not to mention paying fines for disturbance of the peace?"

Billy leaned forward. "Sybil and Trevor like to keep us in the dark about that. Playing at spies, like. But I heard Sybil say something like, I got the money from that Owen woman."

Mary Owen. I'll be damned, thought James, masking his excitement.

To his relief he heard the barman call, "Time, gennelmun, pullease." Got the information just in the nick of time.

He said goodbye to Billy outside the pub and hurried back to his temporary room. He would hang around a few days to allay suspicion and then he would head back to Carsely and call Bill Wong to tell him he had solved the murder. For if Mary Owen felt so passionately about the spring, then it followed that she must have committed the murder. And James wanted Agatha to be there when he told Bill.

He thought briefly of Zak. Perhaps he should tell Zak--but then James wanted all the glory for himself.

James returned to Carsely early in the morning on the day before the attack on the spring was due to take place.

He phoned Bill Wong and asked him to call at ten in the morning. No, he couldn't tell him over the phone. It was only fair that Agatha should hear his news at the same time.

He decided to walk next door to Agatha's cottage and give her the invitation. He felt quite like Poirot and only wished he had a library so that he could stand on the hearthrug in front of the marble fireplace and tell them how it had all been done.

But as soon as he stepped outside his own front door he saw a car parked behind Agatha's, outside her front door.

That chap from the water company. And James was willing to bet he hadn't been making an early-morning call but had stayed the night.

Muzzy with sex and sleep, Agatha awoke to the shrill sound of the telephone ringing.

She grabbed the receiver.

"Agatha!" It was James.

"Yes?"

"I have something to tell you and Bill Wong about the murder. Can you be at my cottage at ten this morning?"

"Yes."

"Goodbye."

"Who was that?" demanded Guy, stretching and yawning.

"Just a neighbour," said Agatha. "Got to get dressed."

She went through to the bathroom and leaned on the wash-hand basin and stared at her puffy face and tousled hair in the mirror. When she was young, a night of love-making would leave her looking radiant. Now that she was old, it seemed to do nothing but accentuate the bags under the eyes and the lines down either side of the mouth.

What did James want? And why, oh why, had he chosen this morning of all mornings to phone?

She washed and dressed, made up with care, and went down to the kitchen, where Guy was sitting at the table in one of her frilly dressing-gowns drinking coffee.

He gave her a warm smile. Agatha blinked at him. She wished she had never gone to bed with him again. But James seemed to have been gone so long and they had both drunk rather a lot at dinner the night before.

She wondered if Guy felt any affection for her at all. Charles, that wretched baronet, had seemed to treat her as an easy lay, but he had teased her and laughed at her and had seemed genuinely fond of her in his way. But Guy seemed to be acting a part.

Agatha glanced at the kitchen clock. Five minutes to ten. "I've got to go," she said hurriedly. "Could you let yourself out? And won't you be in trouble turning up late at the office?"

He laughed. "One of the benefits of being a director is one can turn up late at the office."

She bent over him and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Phone you later," said Agatha and made her escape.

It had been raining during the night and the air was fresh and clean, making Agatha feel soiled and depraved. She hoped to have a few words with James, but when she arrived outside his door she was joined by Bill Wong, who had just driven up.

Bill and Agatha stared in amazement at the blond and ear-ringed James who answered the door.

"What's happened to you?" asked Agatha.

"Part of my disguise," said James. "I've been undercover. Come in and sit down and I'll tell you who murdered Robert Struthers."

"So you've been investigating on your own." Colour flamed in Agatha's face.

"You've got a love-bite on your neck," said James coldly.

"Here, now," admonished Bill. "This is important."

They all sat down, Agatha and Bill on a sofa facing James, who sat in his favourite armchair.

"I joined Save Our Foxes," said James.

"So it was you I saw on television," cried Agatha.

"The barbecue? Yes, that was me," said James proudly. "Well, here's what I found out. They are going to the spring tomorrow afternoon and they are going to block it off with cement. And that's not all. I've found out who's paying them to demonstrate. Mary Owen."

"But according to gossip, she's fallen on hard times," said Agatha. "So she couldn't afford to pay them."

"The gossip, like most village gossip, is probably wrong," said James loftily. "Anyone who can pay this bunch of thugs to behave badly must have felt passionately enough about the whole affair to have murdered Struthers."

Agatha was suddenly glad of James's horribly bleached hair and ear-rings. It was easy to think of him as a stranger. She suddenly felt very tired. All she hoped was that Guy had taken himself off so that she could creep back under the duvet and go to sleep.

"Did you report this to Zak?" asked Bill sharply.

"Who's Zak?" asked Agatha.

"An undercover policeman who made himself known to James."

Both looked at James. "I hadn't time to get to him."

"We know from him about the protest tomorrow," said Bill.

"So you knew where James was all along," said Agatha furiously, glaring at Bill.

"But Zak didn't know about Mary Owen," said James quickly. "I found that out by getting one of the members drunk."

"We'll pull her in for questioning. She has an alibi," said Bill. "On the night of the murder she was staying with her sister in Mircester."

"Her sister could be covering for her."

"You haven't met the sister, a Mrs Darcy, straight-talking, honest. But we'll check out the alibi again."

"You should have told me about this, James," said Agatha. "We've always investigated tilings together in the past."

"I would have done if you hadn't been preoccupied in screwing around with a toy boy."

"That's enough." Bill got to his feet. "Come along, Agatha."

When they had gone, James phoned a hairdresser in Evesham and made an appointment to get his hair dyed back to its normal colour. Agatha and Bill had made him feel small and petty. Bill was right. He should have told Zak.

When Agatha went into her cottage, her phone was ringing. She answered it and found it was Roy Silver.

"Just calling to see how things are going," he said cheerfully.

"Murder or water?"

"Murder."

Agatha told him about James. Roy listened and then said, "That was a bit mean of him."

She warmed to him. "Why not come down for the weekend and we'll go and watch the demonstration?"

"Great. I'll get the early-morning train."

Agatha put down the phone feeling better. However outrageously Roy had behaved in the past, he always popped up again and she felt like company. She remembered Guy and swore under her breath. She had been so stunned after leaving James that she had not even checked to see if his car was still outside.

"Guy!" she called up the stairs.

There was no reply. With a little sigh of relief, she went up and stripped the bed and put on a clean sheet, pillow cases and duvet cover. Then she undressed and climbed into bed and plunged down immediately into a dreamless sleep. An hour later, she could faintly hear the phone downstairs ringing. She had switched off the one in the bedroom. She lay until it had finished ringing and then went back to sleep.

In the cottage next door, James replaced the receiver. He had planned to ask Agatha to come into Evesham with him, but he rang off the minute her answering service came on the line.

Rain was thudding down on to the platform at Moreton-in-Marsh Station next morning as Agatha waited for the arrival of Roy Silver.

A large bouquet of flowers from Guy had arrived just before she left. She had slung them into a bucket of water, planning to arrange them later. She wondered why the idea of having a handsome man send her flowers was so infinitely depressing.

The Great Western train slid smoothly alongside the platform. Roy appeared looking quite ordinary for once in a Burberry worn over cords and a sports shirt and V-necked sweater.

"Hello, Aggie," he said, planting a wet kiss on her cheek. "I hope we don't get this weather for the fete. What will we do?"

"I've already contacted one of those firms that rent out marquees. They'll have to be decorated and some heat supplied. There's nothing more dampening than people crowded into damp tents with the rain pouring down. The Freemonts were all for having an orchestra, but I persuaded them that the Carsely village band would be more traditional. They're actually jolly good. Don't want to make it too ritzy. When it's good weather here, I always envisage the fete being held on a cloudless day, but when it's like this, I picture it as being damp and horrible and full of crying children."

"We'll see," said Roy. "How could we find out if Mary Owen has money or not?"

"We could ask Angela Buckley. She's pretty direct, although, come to think of it, she did warn me off."

"Now why did she warn you off? She must have something to hide. Let's go and see her."

"All right. We'll leave your bags first and have a coffee."

After Roy had taken his bag up to the spare room, he joined Agatha in the kitchen.

He looked at the flowers in the bucket, and then picked up the florist's card which Agatha had left on the table. "Oho," said Roy. "'Love from Guy.' That wouldn't be the delicious Guy Freemont, would it?"

"We have a close working arrangement," said Agatha frostily.

"If you say so, dear." He accepted a mug of coffee. "So after we see this Angela, I Suppose we go to the spring for a punch-up. I wonder if Mary Owen really has money. What about asking James?"

"No."

"Have it your way. Is that sunlight outside?"

Agatha walked to the window and looked out. Raindrops glistened on the bushes and flowers in the garden. "I'll be able to let the cats out," she said, opening the door. Hodge and Boswell slid through and disappeared into the shrubbery.

"I could fix up a cat flap for you," said Roy. "I'm pretty good at DIY."

"I never got around to getting one. I keep imagining some small, slim burglar crawling through it at night."

"Have it your way."

Half an hour later, they set out for Ancombe, driving through the glittering rain-washed countryside. Agatha opened the car windows. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers.

She drove through puddles, sending up sheets of water on either side of the car. Roy began to sing happily in a flat, reedy voice. "I'm not very good at leisure," said Agatha.

Roy stopped singing. "How come?"

"I was just thinking that on a day like this, I should be sitting in the garden with my cats, reading or just looking. I always seem to be doing something. If I'm idle, I feel guilty."

"Take up a sport, then, tennis or something. Good for the waistline. Is that a bite on your neck, Aggie?"

"Insect bite."

"Oh, yes? I know those sort of insects. We have them in London as well."

"Here's Ancombe," said Agatha, anxious to change the subject. "The Buckley farm is off this way."

Soon they were bumping up the farm drive. "Looks prosperous," said Roy.

"Never can tell with farmers, I gather," said Agatha. "They can't all have that rich or idyllic a life, or so many of them wouldn't commit suicide."

"It's all those things they do with animals. I don't think so many people are eating meat. I don't. And I read that nobody wants to eat pork. They eat bacon, but no pork chops."

"I'll tell you why that is. When did you last have a pork chop that tasted like anything? You're not thinking of joining an animal-rights group, are you?"

"Not me, sweetie. I just don't enjoy meat so much. Feels unhealthy."

"Here we are." Agatha drew up outside the farm door. "And there is Angela."

Angela Buckley stood watching them, strong arms folded across a checked shirt-covered bosom, strong legs in cord and cowboy boots.

"Wouldn't want to meet her on a dark night," muttered Roy.

They got out of the car. Agatha introduced Roy.

"What d'you want?" demanded Angela harshly. "Not still poking your nose into things that are none of your business, are you?"

"Did you know Mary Owen was paying those Save Our Foxes people to demonstrate, and that they're going to be at the spring this afternoon to fill it in with cement?"

"What? You'd better come indoors. I've got the kettle on."

"I like this," said Roy, looking around the farm kitchen. "So truly rural."

Angela flashed him a look of contempt.

"So what's this about Mary?" She took the kettle off the Aga and proceeded to make a pot of coffee.

Roy watched anxiously. Angela's way of making coffee consisted of spooning coffee into the pot and pouring boiling water on top of it. He hoped she would allow the grounds to settle, but she stirred the mixture up with a long spoon. Agatha said black and Roy, white, and then Roy bleakly looked down at the gritty coffee swirling around in his cup.

Agatha explained again about Mary. "The old bitch," said Angela furiously. "I hope the police have arrested her."

"They've taken her in," said Agatha. "But what puzzles me is that Fred Shaw said Mary was broke and that's why she wanted to marry Robert Struthers. But if she's broke, how come she could pay these people--wages, transport, not to mention bags of cement, and fines in court?"

"I think Fred Shaw invented the whole thing. He's always sneering because Mary lives in the manor and doesn't seem to put much money into it. She does all the cleaning herself, things like that. Did he say Mary wanted to marry old Robert?"

"Yes, and he said Jane Cutler was after him as well."

Angela's face darkened. "That I could believe. The mercenary old bag."

"Don't you think Mary could have murdered Struthers? She must have felt very strongly about the spring to pay Save Our Foxes." Agatha took out a tissue and dabbed at the moustache of coffee grounds above her mouth.

"She felt very strongly about having her will crossed. I noticed she always seemed to be wining and dining Robert, but I thought that was because she didn't like not getting her own way and Robert used to drive her mad with exasperation because he wouldn't tell her of his decision."

"Why did you warn me off?"

"Because," said Angela patiently, "once you start digging around people's personal lives, a lot of people get hurt, and unnecessarily so." She glared at Roy. "Who the hell are you?"

"Friend of Aggie's down for the weekend. Me and Aggie go back a long way."

"You're too young to go back a long way. You don't have to try to make a liaison look respectable to me."

"Oh, for Pete's sake," howled Agatha. "Can't I have a conversation with anyone in this damn village without being insulted?"

"If you poke around people's private lives to find out the worst about them, they're bound to think the worst of you," said Angela. "Now, I'm busy. Why don't you push off?"

"Well!" said Roy when they drove off. "Is it something in the soil here that makes everyone bitter and twisted? Feel like seeing anyone else?"

Agatha looked at the clock on the dashboard.

"No, let's have lunch, and then go to the spring for the fun and games."

As they sat over lunch, Roy asked if anything had been found out about the cat with white hair. "Not that I know of," said Agatha. "You remember, we looked and looked."

They heard the wail of police sirens in the distance. "The troops have arrived," said Roy. "Cheer up, Aggie. All this will keep Ancombe in the news."

They left the car outside the pub and walked along to the spring. Alerted by the sirens, villagers were starting to make their way along as well.

Agatha saw Bill Wong talking to some policemen and went across to him. He led her a little to one side. "Mary Owen does have a cast-iron alibi."

"But her sister could be covering for her, surely?"

"She was seen by the neighbours. The curtains in the evening weren't drawn and the two sisters could be seen sitting over dinner, and talking."

"Rats. Back to square one. Have you arrested Mary Owen?"

"No, there's nothing illegal about donating money to these groups. Unless we can get one of them to confess that Mary Owen actually told them to take action, we haven't anything on her. And she says all that about her being broke is a fiction and says we can check with her bank."

"What about that chap who told James she was paying them?"

"Billy Guide? With any luck he'll be with the rest. Here's James."

James and Agatha exchanged frosty little nods.

"Here come the protesters," said Roy.

The bus canying them stopped a little way along the road. Agatha could see several of them glaring out at the unexpected sight of the large police presence. They argued for a few minutes, then the door of the bus slid open. Four of the men appeared, carrying between them a bag of cement.

Followed by the others, they headed for the spring. James, his hair dyed back to its normal colour and minus the ear-rings, said to Bill Wong, "Billy Guide is not among them, and where's Zak?"

"He was pulled out. After seeing us all here today, they'd start searching around for an informer. They'll probably think it was you, but they might have picked on Zak, and he was fed up with the job anyway. Billy Guide was taken to hospital the day after your hospitality suffering from pancreatitis."

A policeman stood in front of the four carrying the bag of cement. "Where are you going with that?"

"Keep going!" shouted Sybil from behind them. "Don't let the pigs stop you."

To the protesters' surprise, the policeman stood aside. They marched to the spring and one slit open the neck of the bag of cement.

That, of course, Agatha realized, was the moment the police had been waiting for. They had to be caught in the act of trying to block the spring. The men were seized, the bag wrenched away. The other protesters, about twenty of them, began attacking the police, kicking and punching and gouging.

Sybil was dragged past James by two policemen. She looked at him as she passed with dawning recognition and then spat full in his face.

"I quite warm to that girl," said Agatha.