Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

hurriedly, as if anxious to change the subject, ‘What’s all this fuss about the new water company?’
    ‘Oh, that. They were talking about it at the ladies’ society last week. I can’t get excited about it. I mean, I don’t see what the fuss is about. They’re coming at dawn each day to take off the water and for the rest of the day everything will be as normal.’
    ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling in my bones about this,’ said Bill, dousing his chips with ketchup. ‘Anything to do with the environment, and sooner or later some protest group is going to turn up, and sooner or later there’s going to be violence.’
    ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Agatha poked disconsolately at a piece of chicken. ‘Ancombe’s a pretty dead sort of place.’
    ‘You might be surprised. Even in dead-alive sort of places there can be a rumpus. There are militant groups who don’t care about the environment at all. All they want is an excuse for a punch-up. I sometimes think they’re in the majority. The people who really care about some feature of the environment are usually a small, dedicated group who set out on a peaceful protest, and before they know where they are, they find themselves joined by the militants, and often some of them can end up getting badly hurt.’
    ‘It doesn’t interest me,’ said Agatha. ‘In fact, to be honest, nothing much interests me these days.’
    He looked at her in affectionate concern. ‘What you want is for me to produce a murder for you to investigate. Well, I’m not going to do it. You can’t go around expecting people to be murdered just to provide you with a hobby.’
    ‘It’s a bit rude calling it a hobby. What is this crap?’ She pushed her plate angrily away.
    ‘I think the food here is very good,’ said Bill defensively ‘You’re just being picky because you’re unhappy.’
    ‘I’m slimming anyway. The wretched Roy Silver phoned me up wanting me to do public relations for this water company.’
    ‘There’s a thing. Their office is right here in Mircester.’
    ‘I’m retired.’
    ‘And unhappy and miserable. Why don’t you take it on?’
    But Agatha was not going to tell him the real reason for her refusal. Days away at the office meant days away from James Lacey who might miraculously soften towards her.
    After they had parted, Bill went thoughtfully home. On impulse, he phoned James.
    ‘How are things going?’ asked James cheerfully. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages.’
    ‘You’ve been abroad. I’ve just been having lunch with Agatha and realized I hadn’t spoken to you for some time.’
    ‘Oh.’ And James’s ‘oh’ was so frigid that Bill thought if he were holding some cartoon phone receiver there would be icicles forming down the wire. So he chatted idly about this and that while all the while he wanted to ask James why he did not give poor Agatha a break and take her out for dinner.
    A week later Agatha had just finished her usual breakfast of four cigarettes and three strong cups of black coffee when the phone rang. ‘Let it be James,’ she pleaded to that anthropomorphic God with the long beard and shaggy hair with whom she often, in moments of stress, did deals. ‘Let it be James and I’ll never smoke again.’
    But the God of Agatha’s understanding owed more to mythology than anything else and so she was hardly surprised to find out it was Roy Silver on the other end of the line.
    ‘Don’t hang up,’ said Roy quickly. ‘Look, you’ve still got a grudge against me because I found your husband.’
    ‘And ruined my life,’ said Agatha bitterly.
    ‘Well, he’s dead now, isn’t he? And if James doesn’t want to marry you, that’s hardly my fault.’
    Agatha hung up.
    The doorbell went. Perhaps He had heard her prayer. She stubbed out her cigarette.
    ‘Last one,’ she said loudly to the ceiling.
    She opened the door.
    Mrs Darry stood there.
    ‘I wondered if you would do me a favour, Mrs Raisin.’
    ‘Come in,’ said Agatha bleakly. She led the way into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and gloomily lit a cigarette.
    Mrs Darry sat down. ‘I would be grateful if you refrained from smoking.’
    ‘Tough,’ said Agatha. ‘This is my house and my cigarette. What do you want?’
    ‘Don’t you know you are killing yourself?’
    Agatha looked at her cigarette and then at Mrs Darry. ‘As long as I am killing myself, I am not killing you. Out with it. What do you want?’
    ‘Water.’
    ‘There’s water in the tap. Has