Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

might have seen that body dumped at the spring, heard a car or something, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. It’s funny, you sitting there being interested in a case. It would be quite like old times, except that you haven’t got Agatha with you.’
    ‘I assume she’s too busy with her new job,’ said James flatly.
    ‘Is that what she said?’
    ‘I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I really don’t want to discuss Agatha. Do you think one of the members of the parish council might have done it?’
    ‘They’re all too respectable,’ mourned Bill. ‘Still, you never know. It’s amazing what you find out about people once you start digging into their past. I can’t really tell you what we’ve got so far because it’s all confidential. If you want to know anything, you’ll need to ferret around yourself, provided you don’t get under the feet of the police.’
    ‘I don’t trust that water company,’ said James. ‘I don’t like that younger one, Guy Freemont.’
    Bill’s eyes crinkled up in a smile. ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not jealous.’
    ‘If you say so.’
    ‘So who are they? Where did these Freemont brothers come from?’
    ‘They had an import-export business in Hong Kong.’
    ‘Oh, yeah? Drugs?’
    ‘No, clothes. Cheap clothes going out and more expensive clothes for the rich coming in.’
    ‘I bet they ran sweatshops.’
    ‘Sure you’re not jealous? So far we can find out nothing against them. They made their pile in Hong Kong, all legit, and came back to Britain recently, just before the Chinese take-over. But we’re still investigating.’
    ‘Why water? Why Ancombe?’
    ‘Mr Peter Freemont said he happened to notice the spring during a weekend in the Cotswolds and thought a mineral-water company might be a good idea.’
    ‘So they bump someone off who might have stopped their plans?’
    ‘It’s hardly a good advertisement.’
    ‘It got the name Ancombe Water in all the papers.’
    ‘So it did. But, like I said, hardly a good advertisement. Anyone buying the water will remember the body was found lying with the head in the basin, and our Agatha’s vivid description in the newspapers of the blood swirling around in the moonlight. I think you can forget them. Why don’t you ask Agatha? She must have got to know them pretty well.’
    ‘I told you. For once in her life, Agatha seems too busy to concentrate on murder.’
    While Bill and James were dining, Agatha was having a pleasant dinner with Guy Freemont. He encouraged her to talk about herself, flattered her ability in public relations and then asked her what a ‘city girl’ like herself was doing buried in the Cotswolds.
    ‘I sometimes wonder,’ said Agatha ruefully. ‘But you get used to the safe life, the sleepy life, and it’s so beautiful, particularly at this time of year. It’s beautiful everywhere you look. Have you seen that purple wisteria in Broadway? The blooms are so magnificent. It’s a wonder it doesn’t cause accidents, with so many drivers putting on their brakes to have a better look.’
    ‘But don’t you miss the excitement of London?’
    ‘London has changed so rapidly. Last time I was up, I had a meal in a restaurant in Goodge Street and decided afterwards to walk down Tottenham Court Road to get the tube for the Central Line. There were beggars and drug addicts all the way along and shapeless bundles of clothes huddled in doorways. When I got off the tube at Notting Hill to change on to the Circle Line for Paddington, a man, drunk as a skunk, tried to throw himself under the next train. This big burly man snatched him back in the nick of time and marched him up the escalators to the ticket collector. At the top, the would-be suicide wrenched free, vaulted the turnstile and vanished into the night. His rescuer said to the ticket collector, “That man just tried to throw himself in front of the train!” The ticket collector shrugged and looked bored. Didn’t do anything about it. I was glad to get back down here. I don’t belong in London any more. It can be a lonely place.’
    He took her hand and gave it a warm squeeze. ‘Any romance in your life?’
    ‘Nothing that I want to talk about,’ said Agatha as his thumb began to stroke the palm of her hand. Her mind raced. I can’t be doing this, she thought frantically. I’m too old. I don’t have stretch marks, but I have love handles and my boobs don’t perk up