Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

he had found out. Her scene in the pub had been unforgivable.

Chapter Four

    The following Monday, Agatha packed her bags and headed for London. She had a heavy week’s work ahead of her talking to journalists. James’s words still burnt and hurt.
    The Charles he had referred to was Sir Charles Fraith, a baronet in his forties with whom Agatha had enjoyed a fling in Cyprus. Although she had only gone to bed with Charles out of pique over James’s own unfaithfulness, she knew he had no more forgiven her for that brief affair than for trying to marry him when she was already married.
    Charles had phoned Agatha several times since their return from abroad, but she had always told him she was too busy to see him and so he had stopped calling.
    She was glad she was leaving. There was a police force to cope with murder investigations. She would concentrate on her work and forget James and forget murder and forget Carsely for a little.
    She passed a busy week in London, cajoling journalists into promising to come to the fête. Instead of bringing the new brochures over to Carsely as he had promised, Guy had sent them to her hotel in London.
    At the end of her week’s work, Agatha finally accepted an invitation to lunch from Roy Silver.
    Roy took her to an old City restaurant where the public relations company they both worked for had an account. It was quiet and stately, mahogany and brass and solid old-fashioned City food. It was hardly Roy’s scene. He would have preferred a trendy wine bar full of bright young things, but he had no intention of paying for the meal when he could charge it to the firm.
    Roy was wearing an Armani suit which looked a size too large for his thin figure. His tie was a noisy psychedelic glare in the gloom of the conservative restaurant.
    They both ordered roast beef, Agatha eating hers with every appearance of enjoyment and Roy poking at his and occasionally eating little nibbles.
    They discussed various aspects of the fête, who was definitely going to attend, who was iffy. Then Roy leaned back in the chair and ran his fingers through his hair. He had a thin face, a weedy body and sharp clever eyes. After working for Agatha and taking up his present job, he had adopted a more sober style of dress – if you discounted the tie – and the hole in his left ear where he used to wear an ear-ring was the only mute sign of his discarded image.
    ‘You haven’t mentioned James Lacey or murder all week, Aggie,’ he said.
    ‘Been too busy,’ said Agatha. ‘I wonder if I should have a pudding?’
    ‘It’s your waistline, sweetie.’
    Agatha signalled the waiter. ‘I’ll have the spotted dick.’
    Roy giggled. ‘What a name for a pudding! Sounds like a case of syphilis. So, like I said, how’s murder?’
    ‘I told you, I’ve been too busy.’
    ‘Not like you. What’s happened to that famous curiosity of yours?’
    ‘I’ve decided to do my job and leave the police to do theirs.’
    ‘So what happened with you and James in Cyprus?’
    ‘He went off with a tart. He claims it was all part of his investigations into drugs.’
    ‘And you don’t think so? Come on, Aggie. Our James isn’t the kind to go with tarts for any reason other than investigation. Too much of a puritan.’
    ‘Well, I had a bit of a fling with someone and he got miffed.’
    ‘Naughty old Aggie. You really ought to do something about this murder.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Be a good bit of publicity if you found out who did it. I mean, haven’t you got one teensy-weensy suspect?’
    ‘There’s one I would like it to be.’
    ‘Give.’
    ‘Some old bat called Jane Cutler. She’s a walking monument to the plastic surgeon and the beautician. In her sixties, but all face-lifted. She’s poison. The things that go on in villages. She seems to specialize in marrying men on their last legs with cancer and then benefiting in their wills. She’s a parish councillor. One of the others, Angela Buckley, fortyish, strapping, was keen on the late Percy Cutler, but the older Jane Cutler snatched him out of her grasp. Actually, Angela warned me off.’
    ‘So you think it might have nothing to do with the water?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Anyone else warn you off? Any trouble?’
    ‘Andy Stiggs, another councillor, one of the ones who are against the water company. He warned me off when there was that ruckus from Save Our Foxes.’
    ‘Who the hell are they?’
    ‘Some environment group who have transferred their attention