Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

thinking,’ ventured Agatha, deciding not to rise to insults, ‘that this awful murder might have something to do with the row about the water. I mean, why would anyone want to bump off a nice man like Mr Struthers?’
    A merry laugh. ‘Dear Mrs Raisin, who gave you the odd idea that Mr Struthers was a nice man?’
    ‘I mean,’ floundered Agatha, ‘there was surely nothing about him that bad to make anyone want to murder him.’
    ‘We-ell, I probably shouldn’t be saying this . . .’
    Agatha waited patiently, convinced that nothing in this world could make Mrs Cutler refrain from saying anything nasty about anyone else.
    ‘You see, Mr Struthers owned the paddock which borders on Angela Buckley’s father’s land. Do you know our Angela? Great strapping monster. Big powerful hands. Well, the Buckleys wanted to buy that paddock. Take it from me, dear, land greed is a worse addiction than drink or drugs or’ – her glance flicked up and down Agatha’s figure – ‘chocolate. There was quite a stormy scene at the last council meeting and it wasn’t about the water. Angela said that Mr Struthers never used that paddock, that it was a waste of land and that the only reason he wasn’t selling it was out of spite. Mr Struthers said it was no wonder she had never married, she was such a frump, and it was no wonder Percy Cutler had jilted her almost at the altar, and Angela slapped his face! My dear, we had to pull her off! ’
    ‘Cutler,’ said Agatha slowly. ‘Percy Cutler? Your son?’
    ‘No, my late husband.’
    ‘But –’
    ‘Oh, there was an age difference, I admit, but what does that matter when there is real love? When poor Percy died of cancer, that bitch Angela said I had known that he had cancer and had only married him to get my hands on his money.’
    ‘How dreadful,’ said Agatha faintly.
    ‘I pointed out to her that the husband before Percy, my Charles, had been very rich and I had no need to marry again for money.’
    ‘How many husbands have you had?’ blurted out Agatha.
    ‘Just the three.’
    ‘And what did the first two die of?’
    ‘Cancer. So sad. I nursed them all devotedly.’
    It might be considered a brand-new way of gold digging, thought Agatha. Marry a man who knows he’s got cancer and not long to live.
    ‘So you think,’ she said aloud, ‘that perhaps Angela or her father might have murdered Mr Struthers. But why? How would that give them the land?’
    ‘Because the son and the father never got on. The son, Jeffrey, was always nagging his father to sell them the land. They’ll get it now.’
    There was a silence while Agatha digested this news. ‘Anyone else have it in for old Struthers?’
    ‘Well, everyone knows about Andy Stiggs.’
    ‘Not me,’ said Agatha fervently.
    ‘Of course, you’re one of those incomers from . . . where? Birmingham, maybe?’
    Agatha coloured angrily. She had been brought up in a Birmingham slum and had done her best with clothes and accent to bury her past forever.
    ‘London,’ she snapped.
    ‘Really? I could have sworn there was a trace of Brummie there. Anyway, the late Mrs Struthers, away back before God was born, was the belle of Ancombe. I never saw it. One of those rather common blowsy creatures with a loud laugh, you know – the kind you see on a bar-stool in a road-house, skirt hitched up, laughing insanely when not taking sips out of one of those drinks that come with an umbrella sticking out of the glass. Andy Stiggs was passionately in love with her and swore Robert Struthers had lured her away.’
    ‘So does anyone know which way Mr Struthers meant to vote?’
    ‘Oh, who cares? We all got tired of him nodding his stupid head and saying, “I’ll make up my mind when the time comes.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to change. I am expecting a gentleman caller.’
    Feeling quite stunned by all this gossip, Agatha made her way out. She got into her car and was about to drive off when she was suddenly overcome with curiosity to see who this gentleman caller might be. She drove as far as the end of the road and parked under a lilac tree where she could still command a good view of Jane Cutler’s front door.
    She waited and waited and after three quarters of an hour was just beginning to decide that Jane had used a fiction of a gentleman caller to get rid of her when she saw a familiar car drawing up outside her house and a familiar figure got out. James Lacey!
    Agatha’s hand tightened angrily on the