Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

kindness of the villagers had got under the carapace she had created for herself.
    ‘If it should be murder and I concentrate on that,’ said Agatha slowly, ‘I might take this job of public relations officer for the Ancombe Water Company.’
    ‘Mrs Darry said you already had it.’
    ‘What a gossip that frump is! I only told her because she called round to ask me to get her some water from the spring and said, more or less, that I had nothing else to do. She made me feel as if I were already on the scrap-heap.’
    ‘It could be dangerous for you if you asked too many questions.’
    ‘If it’s murder, it will probably be quickly solved. One of the fors didn’t want Struthers to block it or one of the againsts thought he was going to break up village life and pollute the environment.’
    ‘I don’t think that can be the case. You don’t know the parish council; I do. Certainly this issue has made them very heated, but they are stable, ordinary members of the community. Shall you and James be investigating it? You have both had a lot of success in the past.’
    ‘He has been very rude to me and snubbed me,’ said Agatha. ‘No, I shall not go near him.’
    When Mrs Bloxby left, Agatha got ready for bed. The old cottage creaked as it usually did when it settled down for the night and various wildlife rustled in the thatch. But every little noise made her jump and she wished she had not pretended to be so brave and had asked the vicar’s wife to stay the night. Then there was James, just next door, who must have heard of the murder by now. He should be here with her to protect and comfort her. A tear rolled down Agatha’s nose and she fell into an uneasy sleep.
    Another fine spring day did much to banish the horrors of the night before, and Bill Wong called, accompanied by a policewoman, to go over her statement.
    James Lacey had seen the police car arrive, knew all about the murder and that it was Agatha who had found the body. He had assumed she would call him, for he was eager for details, but finally Bill Wong left and his phone did not ring.
    Agatha phoned Roy Silver. ‘I’ve decided to take that freelance job with the water company,’ she said gruffly. Roy longed for the power to tell her to get lost, but the fact that his boss would look on the getting of Agatha as a great coup stopped him.
    ‘Great,’ he said coldly. ‘I’ll set up a meeting for you tomorrow with the directors.’
    ‘I suppose you’ve seen the papers?’ said Agatha.
    ‘What about?’
    ‘The chairman of Ancombe Parish Council was found dead last night – by me.’
    ‘Never! You’re quite a little vulture, Aggie. They’ll need you more than ever to counteract the bad publicity. Is it murder?’
    ‘Could be, but he was very old and maybe just fell over and struck his head on the stone basin.’
    ‘Anyway, I’ll get back to you, sweetie, and give you the time you’re to see them.’
    ‘Who will I be dealing with?’
    ‘Co-directors, Guy and Peter Freemont, brothers.’
    ‘What’s their pedigree?’
    ‘City businessmen, wheeler-dealers, you know the kind.’
    ‘All right, let me know.’
    Agatha looked at the clock. Nearly lunch-time. She decided to go along to the Red Lion, the local pub, and see what gossip she could glean. Perhaps James might be there . . . forget it!
    She made up with care, studying her face intently in her fright mirror, one of those magnifying ones. Her skin was still smooth on her cheeks but there were threads of wrinkles about her eyes and nasty ones on her upper lip. Her hair was thick and glossy and her legs were good. Her figure was a bit on the stocky side and her neck was a trifle short. She sighed as she spread foundation cream over the wrinkles and then applied powder and lipstick. She reached for a tube of mascara and then decided against it. Waterproof mascara simply meant it took longer to clean off and had a habit of sticking under her eyes for days. She should get her eyelashes dyed. Would a face-lift be worth it, or would it stop her from facing up to ageing gracefully? Did anyone ever age gracefully, or was it a choice between giving up or going down fighting?
    As she walked along to the pub, she was assailed with a feeling of loneliness, of isolation, and wondered, not for the first time, if the city was so deep in her bones that she could never put down roots in country soil. And yet it was all so beautiful and calm as she walked under arches of blossom. Far above her,