Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

villages by incomers?’ Agatha shifted uneasily. ‘I do not think the water should be sold off without the villagers’ permission. I suggest we put it here and now to a vote.’
    Oh, no, thought Agatha, not before they’ve heard me. She was about to get to her feet when a woman stood up in the audience. ‘It’s my water,’ she said.
    ‘Come up and let’s hear you,’ called Agatha, glad of the distraction.
    The woman was helped up on to the platform. Miss Owen gave her a filthy look but surrendered the microphone to her. ‘Who are you?’ asked Agatha, lowering the microphone to suit the height of the newcomer.
    ‘I am Mrs Toynbee and the spring is in my garden.’
    Mrs Toynbee was a small, ‘soft’ woman, rather like marshmallow, though not plump. She had silver hair which formed a curly aureole about her head. She had the kind of face which romantic novelists call heart-shaped. She had large light blue eyes and fair lashes. Her soft bosom was covered by a glittery evening sweater, white with silver sequins, worn over a long floral skirt. Agatha judged her to be in her forties but when she started to speak, she had a clear, lisping, girlish voice.
    ‘As you all know,’ she began, ‘I am Mrs Robina Toynbee and I have had a hard time of it since my Arthur passed away.’ She paused and carefully dabbed each eye with a small lace-edged handkerchief. Agatha, strictly a man-sized Kleenex woman, marvelled that there were obviously still lace-edged handkerchiefs on the market. ‘The water rights are mine to sell,’ went on Robina Toynbee.
    ‘But the actual fountain is outside your garden!’ cried Mary Owen, leaping to her feet.
    Robina Toynbee cast her a look of pain and shook her head gently. ‘If that is what troubles you, then I have the right to block the spring and they can take the water from my garden.’
    ‘Too difficult,’ murmured Guy in Agatha’s ear, ‘we need that skull for the labels.’
    Agatha marched forward. ‘If I might have a word, dear.’ She edged Robina Toynbee away from the microphone.
    ‘Perhaps I can explain things,’ said Agatha. Her eyes flew to where James was standing at the back of the hall, his arms folded. She gave her head a little shake, as if to free it from thoughts of James Lacey. She mentally marshalled her facts and figures and proceeded to bulldoze her audience.
    ‘The company are paying Mrs Toynbee for the water, yes, but they are also paying a generous yearly sum to the parish council which, I gather, if accepted, will go towards the building of a new community hall. Yes, the publicity will bring tourists to the village but tourists will bring trade to the village shops. From nine in the morning each day until the following dawn, the spring will belong to the villagers as it always has.’
    Bill Wong leaned back in his seat and smiled appreciatively. It was nice to see Agatha Raisin back on form. He had been worried about her since her break-up with James.
    ‘Wait a bit,’ shouted Andy Stiggs. ‘I know you, Mrs Raisin. You’re one of those incomers, one of those people who are ruining the village character.’
    ‘If it weren’t for incomers, you wouldn’t have any village character,’ said Agatha. ‘Those cottages down the lower end of the village, what about them? They were derelict and abandoned for years. Then some enterprising builder did them up, lovingly restored them. Who bought them? Incomers. Who made the gardens pretty again? Incomers.’
    ‘That’s because the local people couldn’t afford the prices,’ panted Andy.
    ‘You mean they’re all broke like you, Miss Owen and Mr Bill Allen?’
    Agatha winked at the audience and there was an appreciative roar of laughter.
    ‘I must and will have my say.’ Bill Allen, the owner of the garden centre, got up and stood in front of the microphone. He was dressed in a hacking jacket, knee-breeches, lovat socks and brogues. A pseud, if ever there was one, thought Agatha, listening to the genteel strangulation of his vowels.
    He began to read from a sheaf of papers. It soon became apparent to all in the hall that he had written a speech. A cloud of boredom settled down. Agatha despaired. She wanted the meeting to end on a high note. But how to stop him?
    She scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Bill Allen. He glanced at it, turned brick-red and abruptly left the platform.
    Gleefully Agatha took his place. ‘The other thing I meant to tell you is that to launch the new