Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

bottled water, we are going to have a splendid fête right here in Ancombe, a good old-fashioned village fête. Yes, we’ll have film stars and people like that present, but I want you to have all your usual stalls, home-made jam, cakes, things like that, and games for the children. It will be the village fête to end all village fêtes. Television will be there, of course, and we will show the world what Ancombe is made of. Won’t we?’
    She beamed around the audience and was greeted with a roar of applause.
    When the vote was taken, the villagers were overwhelmingly in favour of the water company. Many of the villagers belonged to the group of incomers that Andy Stiggs had so despised.
    Agatha found her hand being shaken warmly by the councillors who were in favour of the water company – Mrs Jane Cutler, Mr Fred Shaw and Miss Angela Buckley. Angela Buckley, a strapping woman, gave Agatha such a congratulatory thump between the shoulder-blades that she nearly sent her flying off the platform.
    ‘Mission accomplished,’ whispered Guy in Agatha’s ear. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
    Outside the hall, Guy put his arms around Agatha. ‘You were marvellous,’ he said. He gave her a kiss full on the mouth. Agatha drew back and stared at him. He was so incredibly handsome and she had felt a definite buzz when he kissed her. She gave a sad little sigh. She had never liked the idea of a toy boy. Better to grow old gracefully.
    ‘What did you write on that note to get the old bore off the platform?’ asked Guy.
    ‘I told him his fly was open.’
    ‘Attagirl. Let’s have a drink.’
    Agatha was suddenly reluctant to take him home. ‘Let’s go to my local,’ she said.
    The Red Lion was crowded. The first person Agatha saw was James Lacey, standing at the bar. Agatha looked at his tall, rangy figure, his black hair going grey and handsome face, and felt a lurch in the pit of her stomach. A couple were just vacating a table over at the window, well away from the bar. ‘Let’s sit over there,’ said Agatha quickly.
    ‘I’ll get you something,’ said Guy. ‘What’ll it be? I know. Let’s see if they have any champagne.’
    Agatha was about to protest, to say that she would be happy with a gin and tonic but she saw James staring across at her and smiled up at Guy and said, ‘How lovely!’
    Guy returned to the table and within a short time the landlord, John Fletcher, came over, carrying the bottle in an ice bucket. The pop of the cork was a festive sound. Several locals stopped by the table to congratulate Agatha on her speech at the village hall. James was left with the company of Mrs Darry.
    Agatha could not possibly be interested in that young man, he thought sourly. She was making a fool of herself, sitting there drinking champagne and flirting. She should remember her age! He desperately wanted to talk to her about the murder but did not know how to break the ice that he himself had caused to form.
    He talked as civilly as he could to Mrs Darry and then abruptly left the pub.
    An hour later, he heard a car drive up and stop outside Agatha’s cottage. He rushed to the little upstairs window on the landing which overlooked Agatha’s cottage. Agatha opened the car door. Guy Freemont was at the wheel. He could see that clearly because the light sprang on inside the car when Agatha opened the door. Guy put his hand on Agatha’s arm and said something. He saw Agatha smile and say something in reply. Then she went into her cottage and Guy drove off. At least he hadn’t gone in with her.
    He waited the next day expecting Agatha to call him, to suggest they investigate the murder together, but nobody called at all. He went out and bought all the newspapers. The locals had given the meeting a good show and there was even a photo of Agatha on the front page of the Cotswold Journal , but the nationals only carried small paragraphs.
    James began to feel restless and bored. He decided to investigate the murder himself.
    After several tries, he managed to get Bill Wong on the phone, and finding he was off duty that evening, offered to buy him dinner. Bill agreed. His beloved Sharon had said she had to wash her hair.
    James had chosen a Chinese restaurant, recently opened. The restaurant was quiet and the food good.
    ‘I’m fascinated by this murder,’ said James. ‘Any idea who did it?’
    ‘We’re ferreting into backgrounds at the moment, and checking up on movements. You would think that somebody