Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

waistline?’
    ‘I’m tired of my waistline. I’m tired of exercise and strict diet. I’m going to kiss my waistline goodbye.’
    ‘Let me do it for you.’
    ‘Behave yourself and eat your pudding!’
    Charles drove her back. More through habit than anything else, Agatha glanced at James’s cottage and then let out a gasp. Lights were shining from the downstairs windows and smoke was rising from the chimney.
    ‘James is home!’ she cried.
    ‘And so he is,’ said Charles, parking smoothly outside her cottage. ‘Why not ask me in for a nightcap, Aggie?’
    ‘All right,’ said Agatha defiantly.
    They both got out of the car. James came out of his cottage door and stood looking at them.
    Agatha unlocked her front door and said over her shoulder to Charles in a loud, clear voice, ‘Come along, darling.’
    ‘Coming, my angel, my sweet,’ said Charles cheerfully.
    The door slammed.
    James Lacey stood there for a few moments and then he too went in and slammed the door, but with such force that the sound echoed along the quiet lanes of Carsely and set a farm dog up on the hills above the village yelping with alarm.

If you enjoyed The Terrible Tourist, read on for the first chapter of the next book in the Agatha Raisin series . . .

Chapter One

    Agatha Raisin was bored and unhappy. Her neighbour, James Lacey, had returned at last to the cottage next door to her own in the Cots-wold village of Carsely. She tried to tell herself that she was no longer in love with him and that his coldness towards her did not matter.
    She had almost married him, but her husband, still then very much alive, had surfaced at the wedding ceremony, and James had never really forgiven her for her deception.
    One spring evening when the village was ablaze with daffodils, forsythia, magnolia and crocuses, Agatha trudged along to the vicarage to a meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, hoping to find some gossip to enliven the tedium of her days.
    But such that there was did not interest her because it concerned a spring of water in the neighbouring village of Ancombe.
    Agatha knew the spring. In the eighteenth century, a Miss Jakes had channelled the spring through the bottom of her garden, through a pipe in the garden wall, and into a fountain for the use of the public. The water gushed out through the mouth of a skull – a folly which had caused no end of criticism even in the grim days of the eighteenth century – then to a shallow basin sunk into the ground, over the lip of the basin and down through a grating and under the road. On the other side, it became a little stream which meandered through other gardens until it joined the river Ancombe.
    Some lines of doggerel, penned by Miss Jakes, had been engraved above the skull. They read:
    Weary traveller, stop and stare
    At the water gushing here.
    We live our days in this Vale of Strife.
    Bend and drink deep of the Waters of Life.
    Two hundred years ago, the water was held to have magical, restorative properties, but now only walkers paused to fill their flasks, and occasionally locals like Agatha brought along a bottle to fill up and take home to make tea, the water being softer than the stuff which came out of the tap.
    Recently, the newly formed Ancombe Water Company had attempted to secure permission from the Ancombe Parish Council to drain water from the spring each day, paying a penny a gallon.
    ‘Many are saying it is sacrilege,’ said Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife. ‘But there was never anything religious about the spring.’
    ‘It is bringing a sour note of commercialism into our gentle rural life,’ protested a newcomer to the ladies’ society, a Mrs Darry, who had recently moved to the Cotswolds from London and had all the incomer’s zeal for preserving village life.
    ‘I say it won’t bother anyone,’ said the secretary, Miss Simms, crossing her black-stockinged legs and showing with a flash of thigh that they were the hold-up variety. ‘I mean ter say, the truck for the water’s going to come each day at dawn. After that, anyone can help themselves as usual.’
    Agatha stifled a yawn. As a retired businesswoman who had run her own successful public relations company, she thought it was a sound commercial idea.
    She did not like Mrs Darry, who had a face like a startled ferret, so she said, ‘The Cotswolds are highly commercialized already, bursting with bus tours and tea-shops and craft-shops.’
    The room then split up into three factions, those