Agatha Raisin and The Wellspring of Death

Seven

Bill Wong arrived at Agatha's cottage with Chief Inspector Wilkes and a policewoman. They listened carefully to Agatha's answering service.

"She sounds agitated," said Wilkes.

"Robina could have received more of these threatening letters," said Agatha. "She'd been getting them and I told her to take them to the police, but she wouldn't. I told you about them, didn't I, Bill?"

"You'd better go over again, for the chief inspector's benefit, everything you've found out."

So Agatha began at the beginning. It all seemed such a muddle, and the idea that one of the respectable members of the Ancombe Parish Council should suddenly turn murderer was too strange to believe.

There was a ring at the doorbell.

Roy went to answer it and came back followed by James.

Agatha looked at him stonily, in her heart blaming him for her affair with Guy.

"Good," said Bill, looking up from his notes.

"We were going to call on you, and this saves time. Do you think any of those Save Our Foxes people could be mad enough to commit murder?"

"Could be," said James, sinking down in an armchair. "It might explain the second murder, but surely not the first. No one knew which way old Struthers meant to vote."

"It's a pity about Mary Owen," said Agatha. "She was my prime suspect. She's strong enough and nasty enough."

"There seems enough proof that she was where she said she was, at her sister's."

"Have you thought about, the water company?" asked James. "They've got world-wide publicity out of today. They would have got very little if it hadn't been for the murder. No pop group. Nothing to draw them."

"I think that's ridiculous," said Agatha hotly.

"Well, you would." James's voice was cold. "But if we can keep emotional involvement out of this and look at it objectively, this publicity is worth millions to the Freemont brothers."

"If you keep jealousy out of it," said Roy, "and think about it, it shouldn't do them all that much good. Two dead people dripping blood into that spring!"

"Why on earth should I be jealous?"

"Because of Aggie's ring-a-ding wish Guy Freemont."

"Rubbish," said James.

"There is nothing between me and Guy Free-mont," howled Agatha.

"Oh, so his car just happens to be parked outside your cottage all night by accident," said James nastily. "What were you doing all night? Drinking water?"

"Get out of here!" shouted Agatha, tears starting to her eyes.

"Calm down, all of you," said Wilkes. "I want the three of you to report to police headquarters tomorrow morning and we'll go over it again."

James left with the police.

"What now?" asked Roy. "Should we think of somewhere for dinner?"

"Let's go for a drive first," said Agatha. "I know, we'll go into Mircester. There's a new Chinese restaurant."

"Just look at the weather," said Roy bitterly as a flaming sunset settled over the Cotswold Hills and the first stars glimmered faintly in a perfect sky.

"There's a curse on the whole venture," said Agatha gloomily. "Perhaps, after dinner, we should go for a long walk and tire ourselves out."

"I'm tired already." Roy yawned.

"I mean I want to be exhausted when I go to bed or I'll keep seeing dead Robina."

They parked in the square at Mircester and walked to the Chinese restaurant. Agatha grabbed Roy's arm before he could go in and hissed, "Look who's sitting at the window."

Roy looked and saw a middle-aged Chinese man with a droopy moustache and what appeared to be a typical Gloucestershire housewife.

"So?"

"That's Bill Wong's parents."

"The father's Chinese, surely. Good sign."

"No, it's not. They like terrible food."

"Oh, well, where to? I'm not really hungry."

"Me neither. Let's walk for a bit."

They set off in a westward direction, glancing aimlessly in shops, both wrapped in their own thoughts.

Finally they reached the suburbs and walked along a quiet street lined with villas.

"Am I seeing things?" asked Agatha, breaking the silence. "Or is that Mary Owen just turning in at that gate?"

Under the light of a street lamp a little way ahead, the tall figure certainly looked like Mary Owen.

Agatha quickened her pace. "Mary!" she called.

The woman stopped, her hand resting on the gate, and looked back at them.

"Mary!" said Agatha again.

"I am Mary's sister," said the woman. "I am Mrs Darcy, and who are you?"

"I am Agatha Raisin, and this is Roy Silver."

"I have heard of you. You're that interfering busybody who fancies herself a detective. Good evening." Mrs Darcy went in and shut the gate with a clang. Agatha and Roy walked on.

"Did you notice the remarkable resemblance?" said Agatha excitedly. "They could be twins. Why didn't Bill say something about it?"

"So what?"

"That's how the alibi could have been established. The neighbours could have thought they were seeing Mary when in fact they were seeing Mrs Darcy."

"Wait a bit. The curtains were drawn back on the evening of the murder. They were seen dining together."

"But dinner doesn't take all evening." Agatha gave a skip of excitement.

"When was it you went to the spring?"

"It was nearly midnight. They're vague about the time of death, but put it somewhere earlier in the evening. Now, when you and I think about dinnertime, we think about eight o'clock or after, but a lot of people have it much earlier."

"We could ask the neighbours."

"I've a feeling if we did that, Mary and her sister would report us for intrusion of privacy. We'll ask Bill tomorrow. Roy, I'd begun not to care who committed the first murder. But two! And James going ahead and investigating without me! By God, I'd like to find out who did it just to see his face."

"I'm really tired now," complained Roy, "and hungry. Look at the time, Agatha." He thrust his Rolex watch in front of Agatha's eyes. "Eleven o'clock. A lot of the pubs are shut. We'll be lucky to find anywhere open."

"They trudged the long way back into the centre of Mircester. The Chinese is still open."

"Oh, let's just have a bowl of something, then," said Agatha.

The restaurant was nearly empty. "Let's just order one of the set meals," said Agatha. "I'm too weary to wade through the menu."

The food was delicious. "So we wandered around for nothing," said Roy.

"Not nothing. We know now that Mary looks remarkably like her sister."

"Can I have something to drink? You're driving."

"I thought you'd gone off alcohol."

"It's the stress."

"You know what they say--once you start saying you need a drink, you're in trouble."

"But that's your favourite line, Aggie dear."

"Well, these are exceptional circumstances." Agatha called the waiter over and asked for the wine list. "We'll get a cab home. James can drive us in the morning."

"Oho! I thought you wanted nothing to do with him."

"We're in competition now and I want to know what he's up to."

Agatha slept heavily and awoke to find it was nine in the morning. She let out a squawk of alarm and phoned James.

"Yes, what is it, Agatha?" Crisp, very crisp.

"I've left my car in Mircester and wondered if you could give me and Roy a lift over to Mircester this morning."

There was a short silence and then James said curtly, "I'll pick you up at ten."

Agatha shot upstairs, calling on Roy to wake up as she did so. She washed and made herself up with care.

Roy and Agatha walked along to James's cottage promptly at ten. He got in beside the wheel of his car. Roy made as if to get into the front passenger seat, but Agatha jerked him back.

"Only trying to save you embarrassment, Aggie," muttered Roy, getting into the back seat.

"So who do you think is committing these murders?" asked James.

"I favour Mary Owen."

"Why?"

"Just a hunch."

"It's more than that," said Roy eagerly. "We took a walk in Mircester last night and we came across that sister, Mrs Darcy. She's the spitting image of Mary."

I'll kill you, Roy, thought Agatha, who had been hoping to keep back that bit of information.

"But Bill said something about the neighbours having seen them having dinner together."

"But Aggie didn't find Struthers's body until near midnight. Mary could have driven over from Mircester, bumped him off somewhere and dumped the body at the spring. Or she could have been helped by her sister."

"I don't like that idea," said James. "I would like to know more about the Freemonts."

"You can't think it's them," said Agatha.

"Why not? They may have known Struthers was going to vote against the water."

"But what about Robina?" asked Agatha.

"Well, she could have changed her mind."

"Too late to do that," Roy pointed out. "She must have signed something and that speech of hers--or rather the notes for it--if there had been anything about stopping the water company, it would have been in those notes and the police would have said something."

"True." James negotiated a bend too quickly and Agatha was thrown against him. She struggled upright. That touch of her shoulder against James's had sent an electrical charge through her body. "What is the background of the Freemonts, Agatha?"

"Business in Hong Kong. Rag trade. Moved over here."

"I know all that. Anything else? Either of them married or been married?"

"Guy isn't married," said Agatha quickly. "I don't know about Peter."

"How do you know Guy isn't married?"

"I just know," said Agatha crossly. "Oh, look out!"

James braked suddenly. A small deer darted in front of the car and vanished into the dappled shade of a wood at the side of the road.

James drove on more slowly. "I mean," Agatha continued, "he hasn't tried to hide me off in obscure restaurants."

"His wife need not be living in the area," said James.

"I still think the murderer is one of the parish council," said Roy. "They all seem pretty nasty."

"If there is one thing I hate," said Agatha, "it's environmental groups, them with their open-toed sandals and open-toed minds."

"They can be a pain." James accelerated along the Fosse. "But someone's got to put the brakes on some of the time. Do you know what they did with some of those lovely old Georgian houses in Mayfair? They're supposed to preserve the facade, so they take down the building behind in such a way that the whole thing collapses. Oops! Sorry, they say, and build some horrible modern box instead. Then take Greenpeace."

"Please," muttered Roy sotto-voce from the back seat.

"They often come across as a bunch of publicity seekers who never actually do anything constructive, and yet it was their complaints about the filth of British beaches that started the clean-up."

"Interesting discussion." Agatha sighed. "It's not getting us any nearer finding out who murdered Robina or Struthers."

"Could you not," said James, "get them all together in one room? I mean, Agatha, as a rep of the water company, you could send out invitations to a get-together. A sort of bury-the-hatchet meeting? Offer them champagne and a buffet. Something that'll draw them."

"It might work." Agatha thought quickly. "They'll all feel under suspicion and that might draw them together. 1% mink about it. I know, my garden's looking pretty nice. I could hold a garden party."

"I'll pay half," said James. "I shouldn't think the water company would stump up."

"They might." Agatha sounded cautious. "I mean, they still want me to work for them, so I might put it to them that it would be a goodwill gesture. In fact, after we're finished at the police station, we could drive over to the company and I'll suggest it."

So much for competing with James, thought Roy. But he knew if Agatha worked a little longer for the company, then his firm would get a substantial cut and he would be the golden boy.

To Agatha it seemed strange that she and James, who had only recently been at loggerheads, should be conversing so amiably. But then James had always been like that.

As she made her statement at the police station, she could not help remembering the other times she had made statements to the police along with James. Did he think of that? Did he think ever of the times they had made love?

It was always hard to tell with James.

After they had made their statements, they drove out to the water company. It was a hive of activity, not the semi-deserted place it had been when Agatha had first arrived.

While James parked, Agatha whipped out her powder compact and peered anxiously at her face in the little mirror, all her fear of wrinkles returning now that she was to see Guy.

In reception they waited until Portia came to fetch them. She smiled at James and Roy but not at Agatha. She was wearing a tailored jacket over tailored shorts which exposed her long, long legs in sheer black tights.

She led them into the boardroom. Guy and Peter were waiting for them.

"What's this delegation?" asked Guy.

Agatha explained that they had all gone together to police headquarters to make statements and since Roy was her house guest and from head office, and James Lacey, her neighbour, had kindly driven them, she had just brought them along.

"So are you going to work for us for a bit longer?" asked Peter.

"That's what I want to discuss with you. These murders have caused a lot of bad feeling in Ancombe. I thought it might be good public relations to throw a garden party for the members of Ancombe Parish Council."

Guy looked amused. "I can't see the press turning up for anything like that."

"It's more of a goodwill mission than a press party," said Agatha.

"I appreciate your motives," said Peter, "but we've already done enough for that village and we have to work to our budget. I cannot see the point of funding anything that doesn't get us in the newspapers."

"Then I'll do it myself," said Agatha. With James beside her, she wanted more than ever to distance herself from Guy. "And as a matter of fact, I'm going to stop representing you. The launch is over. The water's on the market. There is really no need any longer to engage me."

Portia, who had been sitting at the end of the table, said suddenly, "I've been telling you and telling you, I am perfectly capable of doing the public relations job. The launch was a fiasco."

"I didn't plan the rain, the murder or The Pretty Girls scandal," said Agatha.

"I said, didn't I, Guy, that The Pretty Girls were a bad idea?" said Portia. "I mean, one heard murmurs."

"Murmurs that you didn't bother telling me about." Agatha glared.

Portia shrugged her elegant shoulders.

"We don't want to lose you," said Guy.

"That's very flattering." Agatha got to her feet. "But I'm going to be too busy. Give the job to Miss Sunshine over there."

Guy rushed to hold the door open for her. "Dinner tonight?" he asked.

"Can't," said Agatha. "Got Roy staying. I'll phone you."

Portia led them out to reception. Agatha nodded to her curtly and walked away. To her horror, she heard James ask Portia, "Are you free for dinner one evening?"

Agatha stopped in her tracks, her shoulders rigid.

She heard Portia laugh and say, "I don't think my boyfriend would approve, but why don't you give me your phone number anyway?"

Agatha, with Roy behind her, walked out to James's car and stood fuming.

"He's sure one of the Freemonts did it," said Roy in a soothing voice. "That's why he asked her out."

But Agatha's mind was full of pictures of James dining by candle-light with the beautiful Portia, James taking Portia home, James staying the night.

"So do we still go ahead with the garden party?" asked James when he joined them.

"May as well. I'll try to get them here for next Sunday. Will you stay on for that, Roy?"

"Think, if you don't mind, I'd better get back to London tonight," said Roy. He was considering that it was one thing to stay on with Agatha Raisin, prize PR for the water company, but quite another, in his boss's eyes, to stay on with plain unemployed Mrs Raisin.

Agatha flashed him a cynical look. Roy's job would always come first.

James dropped them at Agatha's car and they followed him home.

When they arrived back in Carsely, James said, "When are we going to discuss the arrangements for this garden party, Agatha?"

Roy had got out of the car first and was waiting on Agatha's doorstep.

James and Agatha were standing outside their cars on the pavement.

"If you want to work with me," said Agatha in a low voice.

"Truce," said James. "Let's just forget all the hard things we've been saying to each other. We've worked well together in the past."

"Okay," said Agatha, half-torn between elation and dread, dread that she was being sucked back down into all the miseries caused by proximity to James. "So maybe we should get on the phone and invite them all?"

"All right. We'll use my phone."

"Right, I'll tell Roy to pack. I'll see you in a few minutes."

"I'm going to James's to make some phone calls," said Agatha. "I'll leave you to pack."

To her surprise, there was no argument from Roy about being left out. But Roy was glad of an opportunity to phone his boss on his own without Agatha listening. If there was any credit to be got out of the launch, he would take it; if there was any blame, then Agatha could shoulder it.

Agatha walked along to James's cottage. The door was standing open and she walked into the book-lined living-room. "Sit down and I'll bring the coffee," shouted James from the kitchen.

Agatha took out her compact and dusted her nose with powder.

She stuffed it back in her handbag as James came in carrying a tray with two mugs.

"Now," said James, "let's see who we've got. Against the water company we have Mary Owen, Bill Allen and Andy Stiggs. For, we have Jane Cutler, Angela Buckley and Fred Shaw." He produced a notebook. "I've got their names and phone numbers here. Drink your coffee and we'll start phoning. Who's going to do the phoning?"

"I think you'd better," said Agatha. "I seem to bring out the beast in them."

"And what're we having? And how do we know the weather will be fine for a garden party?"

"I'll tell you why the weather'll be fine," said Agatha bitterly. "Because it's done its worst to drown out the launch and the long-range forecast is good. Do you think they will come? Mary Owen's bound to refuse. I keep wondering who could have murdered Robina. Was it all really because of the water? I wonder who gets her cottage and her money?"

"I heard someone say she had a son. Anyway, here goes. I'll start with the worst. Mary Owen."

"Good luck. But I don't think you'll get very far. Do you know her?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I called on her before I went off to join Save Our Foxes. We got on all right."

"You might have told me!"

"We're having a truce--remember?"

"Oh, all right, but I want a cigarette. I'll take it out into the garden. Are we just going to have the people from the parish council? It might be viewed as a bit of a snub by our friends in the village if they're not invited."

"Don't let them know you've resigned from the water company, then. Let them think it's business."

Agatha went out into James's small front garden, sat down on the doorstep and lit a cigarette.

She listened to him talking on the phone. That easy laugh of his! There was a lot of the actor in James. When he had finished phoning, should she confront him, say something like "Where do we stand now, James?"

But he might answer something to the effect that they stood nowhere, nowhere at all.

"Mary," she heard him say in a cajoling voice, "it's just a get-together, champagne and eats, all paid for by the water company. Look at it this way: you've all got to put this behind you and work together for the better good of the parish. Yes, a good opportunity to mend fences. What time? Oh, twelve or twelve-thirty. Good, see you then."

So Mary was coming.

Agatha finished her cigarette and threw the stub over the hedge and out into the road, where it landed at the feet of Mrs Darry, who picked up the stub and threw it back. "Don't you have an ashtray?" she demanded angrily. "We're not in London now."

"If you're so concerned about a clean environment, then stop that nasty little dog of yours pissing and defecating outside my home," yelled Agatha.

"And show a bit of decorum," shouted Mrs Darry, her face puce. "You're showing your knickers."

Agatha angrily pulled her skirt down, which had ridden up about her knees.

If only it could turn out to be Mrs Darry. If only something could happen to remove her from Carsely.

She moodily lit another cigarette. Some doctors in Britain were refusing to treat smokers for illness. Why? With all the taxes on tobacco that the smoker paid, they should be getting first-class free treatment. Why smokers? Why not drunks? Why not fat people? Bloody nanny state. Mrs Darry had put Agatha into a foul temper. People flapped their hands in your face and said, "I don't want to die from passive smoking," and then they got in their cars and drove off, blasting carcinogens into the night air. The cigarette tasted foul. Come to think of it, all cigarettes tasted foul after the first three of the day. But come to think of it, too, just when one thought of giving up, some puritan would pop up to lecture sanctimoniously on the evils of nicotine and drive the will to stop farther away. The only time the cigarettes tasted just fine all day long was during the annual No Smoking Day. Funny that, mused Agatha. If they changed it to Smoke-lill-You-Drop Day, probably a lot more addicts would give up.

"You can come in now," called James. "That's the lot. They're all coming."

Agatha rose and went back in.

"What about food?" he asked.

"Normally I'd get people like Mrs Bloxby to help me," said Agatha, "but as we are supposed to be running this on behalf of the water company, we'd better hire a catering firm. We'll have something like cold salmon and salad and strawberries and cream."

"The strawberries are past their best."

"People eat strawberries, no matter what. They like the idea. It's like fish and chips. What a good idea, particularly on a cold night, you think, all warm and hot and golden and smelling divine. In fact, all you get is a sodden packet of greasy food which lies like lead in your stomach."

"What about tables and things?"

"There's only six of them and two of us--that's eight. My kitchen table's quite large and I'll borrow a table from the school hall for the champagne. They can't all be hard drinkers. A bottle a head is generous enough."

"Right. What I suggest is that you pay for the lot and let me know how much it comes to and I'll pay half."

"I feel I might be able to get the water company to actually foot the bill. I didn't press hard enough."

"Ah, but that would mean the Freemonts might attend as well, and the purpose of this party is to see how they act once they're all together."

"I thought you suspected the Freemonts."

"I'll get around to them."

Agatha looked at him thoughtfully. "So we're back in business again, James."

"Mmm?" He looked up from some notes he had been making. "Oh, yes, back in business."

"Don't you feel any awkwardness?"

"Don't let's get into that, Agatha."

No, thought Agatha, don't let's ever talk about feelings, about the times we made love, about the rows, about pain. Let's just go on like a couple of bachelors interested in crime.

"I'd better go and talk to Roy."

"You do that," he said cheerfully.

Why did I say anything? mourned Agatha as she let herself into her cottage. I promised myself I wouldn't. What else did I expect? A human response? From James? Rats!

Roy came clattering down the stairs. "How did you get on with lover boy?"

"If you mean James, cut it out. They're all coming."

"What about little me?"

Agatha suddenly didn't want Roy around. She was already planning what to wear.

"Skip it this time, Roy," she said. "I'll be too busy to cope with a house guest."

Roy looked hurt. "Be like that. But remember, I won't always be at your beck and call when you need me."

"I thought your only interest in me was to further your career."

"I think I'll get an earlier train if there is one." Roy looked offended.

"We'll have lunch. You can get the afternoon one."

It was a silent lunch.

"Look," said Agatha, relenting over the coffee. "I haven't been straight with you. I really do want James all to myself,"

"Waste of space, sweetie."

"Perhaps." Agatha sighed. "Let's not quarrel. I'll drive you to Oxford. We'll have a better choice of trains."

"You can do something to make up."

"What?"

"I've always wanted to punt."

"What? At Oxford? On the river?"

"Yes."

"All right. Finish your coffee and we'll go now."

Agatha managed to find a parking place in the High and they walked down to Magdalen Bridge and down the Steps at the side to the landing-stage.

"I haven't been here before," said Agatha. "I didn't know the river would be so narrow here. And there are so many punts out. Are you sure you want to try this?"

"Yes, yes." Roy gave an excited little skip. "I read about it in a Sunday supplement."

When they asked for a punt, the boatman told them the charge was eight pounds for an hour, twenty-five pounds deposit and to leave identification.

"I'm a bit short," said Roy. "Could you...?"

"Oh, all right." Agatha paid the money and left her driving licence.

"I feel this is a mistake." Agatha scrambled on to the seat of the punt. Roy seized the long pole. "There are paddles," said Agatha. "Wouldn't it be a good idea to paddle to a quiet bit?" There were not only punts but rowing boats.

The boatman pushed them out. Roy dug the pole in and pushed. The punt swung in a wide circle and bumped into a puntload of students.

"Steady on," called one.

Roy was pink with embarrassment. "I'll use the paddle." He shipped the pole and crouched down in the bow and paddled. After a few false starts and a few more bumps, they headed up the river.

Then he stood up and took up the pole again. Agatha lay back in the punt and decided to ignore Roy's amateurish efforts. The sun was filtering down through the trees. Conservatories were glittering on one side, a cricket pavilion on the other, willow trees trailing in the water, dappled light and peace. But not a typically English scene, thought Agatha, looking at the students. I always imagined everyone in white and ladies with parasols. The students all looked terribly young and undernourished and seemed to favour black shirts, tatty jeans and pony-tails--the men, that is. They came from a mixture of nationalities. She was roused from her reverie as a branch banged against her head.

"Look where you're going!"

"Sorry, just getting the hang of this."

James. Would she and James ever get together again? Would she ever stop thinking about him? Why was it Guy meant so little? Perhaps because sex did not mean intimacy. Talk was intimacy. Friendship was intimacy. Perhaps if she had practised friendship a bit more in earlier life, she would know better how to handle him. Or just leave him alone, said a cynical voice in her brain. It's sick. You need an exorcist.

"I'm really getting good at this."

"Can't you steer a straight course?" asked Agatha. "You nearly banged into that rowing-boat."

"We're doing fine," said Roy. "You just dig the pole in, Aggie, and thrust--"

To Agatha's horror, he pole-vaulted and landed face-down on the grassy bank while Agatha and the punt went shooting off in the other direction.

The punt hit the opposite bank with force as she instinctively rose to her feet, and Agatha was catapulted into the river.

Roy jumped in to save her, swam towards her and made ineffectual grabs at her hair.

"Leave me alone!" shouted Agatha. "My handbag's in the punt. Get it. I mean, get the punt."

Under the delighted gaze of a boatload of Japanese, Roy seized the rope at the front of the punt and towed it to the bank on which he had first landed. Agatha swam after him.

He helped her out.

"All right?" called a Japanese student. "Very funny. You in a film?"

"No," said Agatha curtly. She rounded on Roy. "Let's just get back in that damned instrument of torture and get back."

As the amused Japanese looked on, they got back on board. "We'll pull you back," shouted one.

"No, we'll manage," said Roy.

"No, we won't. That would be great," said Agatha.

They sat in the punt dripping wet, faces red with mortification as the Japanese towed them back to the landing-stage. A group of English students were waiting to greet these Japanese friends and they laughed and clapped as Roy and Agatha, bedraggled and miserable, were helped from the punt.

They walked together up the High, a yard apart, and people turned to stare at them.

"I am taking you straight to the station," said Agatha when they got in the car. "You've got your luggage. You can change in the station loo."

"I'm really, really sorry," said Roy meekly. "It was something I'd always wanted to do."

Agatha drove in grim silence.

"Look, Aggie. I left school at fifteen, never went to university. We all have dreams. Punting at Oxford was one of mine."

Agatha slowed down.

"I tell you what we'll do," she said. "Dry yourself and change at the station. Then take a cab up to Marks and Spencer and buy me some dry clothes and then I'll change. I'll take you for tea at the Randolph."

Three hours later, Agatha made her way back to Carsely wearing a new outfit of blouse and skirt, along with the new underwear underneath and a pair of new flat shoes which were extremely comfortable. Roy had enjoyed his tea and they had begun to laugh helplessly over their exploits on the river. Agatha smiled reminiscently. She could not remember laughing so hard in such a long time.

As she drove down the winding country lane which led to the village of Carsely under the arching tunnel of green, green trees, she felt like some sort of animal heading homeward to a comfortable burrow.

And since her fall in the river, she hadn't thought of James, not once.

That evening she went to a meeting of the Carsely Ladies' Society at the vicarage. Mrs Bloxby served tea and sandwiches in the vicarage garden. Mrs Darry was not present and Agatha entertained the rest of them with a highly embroidered tale of her punting adventure.

The meeting then got down to business. The society had decided to put on a concert. Agatha groaned. The concerts were a nightmare of boredom. Not one of them had a bit of talent and yet so many were delighted to get up on the stage and sing in cracked voices.

And yet they attended other concerts in other villages and the performances were just as awful. Mrs Bloxby had explained to her gently that everyone secretly wanted to perform on the stage and this was a chance for them all to get their moment in the sun. Agatha noticed, however, that the vicar's wife, like herself, never performed.

Conversation after the official meeting turned to the murders in Ancombe. "I've got all the members of the parish council coming to a garden party at my place," said Agatha. "I haven't invited any of you because the water company is paying for it and it's public relations business."

"They're a funny lot," said Miss Simms, the secretary. She was wearing white stiletto-heeled sandals, the heels digging into the smooth vicarage lawn like tent pegs. "I never complain," Mrs Bloxby had said. "It aerates the lawn."

"I mean," went on Miss Simms, "they've been at each other's throats for years. I think the reason none of them resign is that they don't want to give the others the satisfaction. I'm sorry for you, Mrs Raisin. Sounds like the garden party from hell."

But James was back in Agatha's mind along with worries about what to wear to dazzle him.

The day of the garden party was perfect. Clear blue skies and hot sun.

Agatha, in a fine gown of delicately flowered silk and with a wide shady straw hat bedecked with large silk roses, supervised the caterers and took a last look around the garden. Then she went upstairs to check her make-up.

The sound of cars in the lane below her window made her look down. They all seemed to have arrived at once. Mary Owen was wearing a shirtwaister of striped cotton and flat-heeled shoes, and Angela Buckley white cotton trousers and a blue cotton top. Jane Cutler had on a simple Liberty print dress.

Feeling suddenly ridiculously overdressed, Agatha whipped off her hat and gown and put on a cotton skirt and a plain white blouse, and then ran downstairs to meet them.

James was now out in the garden with the caterers. He was wearing faded blue jeans and an open-necked shirt. Agatha realized with a pang that he must have let himself in with the key to her cottage that she had given him in happier times. She braced herself for her visitors.

The men, Bill Allen, Andy Stiggs and Fred Shaw, as if to make up for the informal dress of the women and James, were all wearing blazers, collars and ties. Bill Allen's blazer had a large gold-embroidered crest on the pocket.

Champagne was poured all round. Agatha raised her glass. "Here's to goodwill," she said. "We've all had our differences, but I think we should all be friends."

"Why?" demanded Mary Owen.

"Because it's more pleasant that way."

Angela Buckley looked at Agatha suspiciously. "You don't belong to one of those mad religious sects, do you?"

"I should think it's therapy," said Mary Owen. "People who indulge in therapy groups are always wanting chummy get-togethers. Any moment now we'll all have to sit in a circle and talk about the nasty thing that happened to us in the wood-shed all those years ago."

"That's a good one," said Bill Allen and gave a great horse-laugh.

"I'm not surprised you go around murdering each other," said James in a cold, carrying voice.

"Here now. None of that," said Andy Stiggs, red in the face above a tie which seemed to be strangling him. "We're all respectable citizens, and if you ask me, that water company's behind these murders."

"That's what I think," said Bill Allen.

Muscular Fred Shaw was sweating. "You lot don't know how to think, that's my opinion. You hated Robina like poison, Mary, and so did you, Angela."

"I didn't hate her," said Mary. "She was one of those dreary little fluffy women of small brain."

Between the acrimonious exchanges, all were drinking champagne, an efficient waiter making sure all the glasses were kept topped up.

"You and Angela could have learned something about femininity from Robina," said Fred. "She was all woman, not a leathery trout like you two."

"A common little man like you wouldn't know a feminine woman even if she leaped out of your soup and bit you on the bum," said Angela.

"How do you lot ever get anything done for the parish if you snipe at each other like this?" demanded James. "Aren't any of you curious to know why Robert Struthers and Robina Toynbee were murdered, and by whom? It could have been one of you."

There was a shocked silence.

"What's this?" demanded Fred Shaw. "One of us? Why?"

"Why not?" said Mary Owen. "You were up at Robina's cottage the evening before she was murdered, Fred. She would have told you about how she planned to make that speech from her garden wall."

"I'm the only one of you that liked Robina." Fred wrenched off his tie. Then he took off his blazer and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "I often went round there, and so did Bill and Andy. It was you and Angela that always had it in for her."

"Nonsense." Angela looked at the buffet table. "Are we going to eat that stuff or not? I'm starving."

There was a temporary lull while they collected plates of food. Although Agatha had put out chairs in the garden, Angela and Mary sat down on the grass, a sensible move, since it meant they did not have to balance plates of food on their knees. The others joined them.

James began to ask them what they felt about the proposed bypass around Ancombe. Soon Fred Shaw was dedaiming it was a disgrace because it would ruin shopkeepers like himself if the through traffic was taken away, and Bill Allen, who ran the garden centre, agreed with him.

"I think it's a good idea," put in Mary. "I mean, who wants droves of Americans?"

"What's up with Americans?" demanded Andy Stiggs. "Damn this tie. You've had the right idea, Fred." He took his off and then his blazer.

How different the dream always is from the reality, marvelled Agatha. In her dream about the garden party, she stood there gracious in her pretty gown with the lightest of breezes fluttering through the flowers in her hat. James, in white shirt, blazer and cravat, would be bending over her, smiling in admiration. But James was sitting on the grass with the others, eating cold salmon and drinking champagne and apparently concentrating solely on getting to know these councillors better.

"Oh, these Americans. Everything always so quaint and pretty. Pah."

"I thought American-bashing was desperately unfashionable these days," said Agatha. "I mean, the ones that get this far are usually pretty sophisticated and seem to know more about the Cotswolds than the locals."

"So brash and vulgar." Mary glanced at Agatha. "Like to like, I suppose."

"Oh, shut your face and eat your food," said James, and to Agatha's surprise, Mary laughed and threw him an almost flirtatious look.

"What have you got to do with this water business?" Andy Suggs asked James.

"It's Agatha's business. I am here to lend her moral support."

Angela looked narrowly from Agatha to James. Then she said, "Well, it can't be romantic support. Agatha's affair with Guy Freemont is the talk of both villages."

To her fury, Agatha felt herself turning dark red. "I am not having an affair with Guy Free-mont," she said.

"It's all right, Agatha," said Mary. "Angela's just being catty. Guy Freemont's much too young for you."

"Listen, the lot of you!" Agatha put her plate and glass carefully on the grass. "The idea of this garden party was to mend fences, to get you to be friendly towards each other again. It was a great mistake. You're always like this, murder or no murder--nasty, carping, vicious and bitchy. How so many like people should end up on one parish council beats me."

She stood up and marched into the house and up to her bedroom, where she sat on the edge of her bed and stared bleakly into space. The words about herself and Guy burnt and hurt. Had they not been said in front of James, they would not have mattered much.

Her bedroom door opened and James came quietly in. "You're a miracle, Agatha."

"What?" Agatha looked up at him in a dazed way.

"Your outburst has drawn them all together. Come down and sit quietly with me in a corner of the garden and let them get on with it. And listen. They're starting to talk about the murders."

"James..."

But he was already clattering down the stairs. Feeling bruised in spirit, Agatha joined him in the garden. They sat together on the grass, a little way away from the others.

"How much champagne did you order?" asked Agatha. James had said he would take care of the drinks.

"I ordered a bottle a head, but the catering company brought along a lot of extra bottles, which is just as well. They seem to be demolishing rather a lot."

"It's that waiter. He's never stopped pouring the stuff."

"I think champagne is rather like your fish and chips, Agatha. Everyone likes the idea but few actually enjoy the taste. Listen!"

"So Robina says to me, just that evening before she was killed." Fred Shaw was flushed and slightly tipsy. "She says, 'Fred,' she says, 'I wish to God I had never let them go ahead taking the water'. 'Why?' asks I. 'You was all for it'. 'Well,' she says, says she, 'I've been getting these here threatening letters and all I want now is a quiet life.'"

"Did she plan to say something like that in her speech?"

"Maybe. I asked the police what was in them typewritten notes but they won't tell me."

"Better ask Bill Wong," whispered James.

"Did any of us actually know which way Robert was going to vote?" asked Bill Allen.

A shaking of heads. "You were close to him, Mary," said Angela. "He must have said something."

Mary shook her head. "Not to me. Jane?"

All eyes turned to Jane Cutler. She had been relatively quiet since the start of the party. The sun shone on her immaculately groomed hair and on the strange smoothness of her face from which old, suddenly tired eyes looked out.

"He said he liked to keep people guessing. I got quite irritated with him. Said there was no reason for him to go on like the secret service." She turned to Fred Shaw. "You said Robina's notes were typewritten. Who told you that?"

"The police."

"That's odd," said Jane.

"What's odd? Yes, I will have some more." Angela held up her glass.

"I never remember Robina having a typewriter. I mean, she was the sort of woman who prided herself on not being able to do anything manual at all. Does anyone remember her having a typewriter?"

There was a shaking of heads.

"She could have got someone to type out her notes for her," suggested Jane.

"I got the impression from the police they were just notes, not a full typed speech," said Fred Shaw.

"I don't know why you're all going on about whether her notes were typed or not," said Angela Buckley. "I mean, was she murdered because she typed? Ridiculous."

Fred Shaw's eyes gleamed. "But don't you see, if she had something in her original hand-written notes to say she had changed her mind about the water, someone could have typed out different notes to throw us off the scent."

"And who else would want to do that but the water company?" said Mary Owen. "I've been against this water business from the start."

"Oh, we all know that," sneered Angela. "So much so that you paid a bunch of hoodlums to make trouble. So much for your bloody so-called concern for the environment, Mary dear. Bringing louts into the village. They were going to cement the spring. Our spring, Mary, not just yours!"

"I didn't know what they were really like," said Mary.

"Oh, yes, you did!" Angela's eyes were blazing. "You saw damn well what they were like at the first protest, but you kept on paying them."

"As I told the police, I simply contributed money to what I thought was a worthy cause. I did not know they would demonstrate."

"Save Our Foxes, Mary? Save Our Foxes! Come on. Do the police know you're a member of the Cotswold Hunt?"

"I handed in my resignation a year ago."

"And told us all it was because you were too old!"

"I told you no such thing. I did not think it necessary to explain my reasons to a trollop like you. I saw the error of my ways and contributing to Save Our Foxes was a way of making amends."

Jane Cutler tittered. "How odd. I simply cannot imagine you as having one sensitive bone in your body, Mary. You would make a good murderess."

"Ah, but I have an alibi," Mary flashed back. "Which is more than you can say for yourself."

"The guilty ones always have a cast-iron alibi."

"Ladies, ladies." Bill Allen held up his hands, red and powerful in the sunlight. "Peace. We've all had our differences over the years but we've all stuck together through thick and thin. It's a lovely day and there seems to be a lot more champagne. So let's just bury the hatchet and enjoy ourselves."

"I'll kill that waiter," muttered Agatha to James. "This is going to cost a fortune."

"Worth every penny. I'll pay for the champers."

The councillors began to gossip together about safe village topics. Agatha and James seemed to be forgotten.

When they finally all reeled off to their cars, drunkenly oblivious to the fact that each was now well over the limit, James and Agatha waved them goodbye and went in to survey the debris of the party.

"Well, if the purpose of the party had been to really get that nasty lot together again," said Agatha, "we succeeded."

"We got a lot of what we wanted. Let's see if we can get hold of Bill Wong tomorrow and find out more about those notes. And then let's call on Mary's sister. If she's been covering for her, we might be able to guess something from her manner. We need an excuse."

"I know." Agatha held up a silver lighter. "This is Mary's. We can say we happened to be in Mircester and thought she might be visiting."