Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

wallet.’
    ‘Perhaps he did.’
    ‘I doubt it. I have endured a long series of dinners and lunches with men who forget their wallets or go to the men’s room the minute the bill comes up.’
    ‘Then I suggest you forget your own cards and money the next time you go out. He might find he has his wallet on him after all.’
    Agatha grinned. ‘I’ll try that. No more trouble about the water, is there?’
    ‘As a matter of fact, there is.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You’ve heard of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘There’s a new lot nobody heard of before this year. Save Our Foxes.’
    ‘But they’re hunt saboteurs!’
    ‘Yes, but they are organizing a march on the spring for this Saturday.’
    ‘What’s it got to do with them?’
    ‘They say it is an example of how capitalism is ruining rural life.’
    ‘Bollocks.’
    ‘Quite. They will not get a welcome because the water company has started hiring staff, and young people from Ancombe are getting first priority.’
    ‘I hope this won’t mean bad publicity.’
    ‘I think it will mean some violence and I hope the police can control it. You see, most of these protesters come from the towns and they do not seem to understand country life. I am talking about the genuine protesters, usually serious and mild-mannered people. But they often find their protests are hijacked by thugs looking for a punch-up.’
    ‘I’d better be there,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Do be careful.’
    ‘I will.’
    After the vicar’s wife had left, Agatha sat down to bring her expenses for the water company up-to-date, knowing of old the horror of leaving expense accounts to the last minute. Then she opened her handbag and took out the bill from the French restaurant. She neatly typed into her computer, ‘To entertaining Mr Guy Freemont, ninety-two pounds, plus ten pounds gratuity,’ and grinned as she ran it off on the printer.
    Guy Freemont and his brother were sitting discussing business two days later when their accountant, James Briggs, came in.
    ‘Yes, Briggs, what is it?’ asked Peter.
    ‘There is an item on Mrs Raisin’s expense account I thought you might like to consider?’
    ‘What’s up with the old bat?’ demanded Peter. ‘Charging us for clothes or make-up, or what?’
    ‘It’s this.’ James Briggs placed a list of figures in front of the two brothers. ‘Everything seems in order except that I find it odd that she has put in an expensive restaurant bill for entertaining Mr Guy Freemont.’
    Peter tapped it. ‘What’s this, Guy?’
    ‘I did invite her out for dinner, but forgot my wallet.’
    ‘Again? Let it go this time, Briggs.’
    When the accountant had left, Peter said wrathfully, ‘She’s a good PR. Don’t screw her around until we get this water safely launched.’
    ‘I forgot my wallet,’ said Guy. ‘That’s all.’
    Agatha had learned that the protest was to take place at eleven o’clock on Saturday morning. She was there in good time. Other people were gathered around. Mary Owen came straight up to Agatha. ‘You’re not going to get away with this,’ she snarled.
    ‘Oh, sod off,’ said Agatha. ‘Is this protest your idea?’
    ‘No, but it goes to show that people all over Britain are not going to sit back and see the life of the country ruined.’
    Agatha shrugged and moved away, only to bump into Bill Allen. ‘You’d better be careful,’ he said in his odd, strangled Savoyard voice. ‘You have stirred up deep feelings.’
    ‘Are you threatening me?’
    ‘Just a warning, Mrs Raisin.’
    A silence fell on the crowd as eleven o’clock came and went. Agatha suddenly saw James’s tall figure at the edge of the crowd. She longed to join him but was frightened of being snubbed. And yet he had phoned her. She was just edging her way towards him when someone shouted, ‘Here they come!’
    A small procession was heading towards the spring. At the front were gentle-faced middle-aged people, but behind them came burly young men with tattoos, camouflage jackets, earrings, and trouble written all over them. Five policemen were standing in front of the spring.
    The onlookers cleared a way for them. A woman with a face like that of a worried sheep turned to face the crowd and took out a sheaf of papers.
    ‘We are here,’ she said in a wavering voice, ‘to protest against the commercialization of this spring. Our village life must be protected.’
    ‘Where do you live?’ shouted Agatha.
    The woman blinked, opened