Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

the reports of the murder at Ancombe and the demonstrations and she sympathized with the demonstrators, as she considered English rural life should be protected.
    ‘The silly bitch lives between Chelsea and L.A.,’ howled Agatha.
    The agent hung up on her.
    I’m losing my touch, thought Agatha miserably. Now who do I get? It had better be someone good or the Freemonts will be cancelling my contract.
    The phone rang. It was Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife. ‘How did you get my number?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘You left it with me, don’t you remember? How are things?’
    ‘Not very well. I have to stay on. Jane Harris has cancelled. I haven’t told the water company yet. I need to get a replacement.’
    There was a long silence.
    ‘Are you still there?’ Agatha demanded.
    ‘I’m thinking.’
    Agatha sighed. She was very fond of the vicar’s wife, but how on earth could she help?
    ‘I have it,’ said Mrs Bloxby.
    ‘What?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘The Pretty Girls.’
    ‘Who are they when they’re at home?’
    Mrs Bloxby laughed. ‘I never expected to be more up in the world than you. They are a pop group. Number one on the hit parade. They are a new type of pop singer. Very pretty, and wear old-fashioned clothes. They do a lot for charity. Who gets the money from the fête?’
    ‘The water company, I suppose.’
    ‘If you say the money is going to help AIDS – The Pretty Girls support that – I think if they are free, they would do it. They would be a big crowd-puller. They also support animal liberation, so their presence at the fête will give it respectability with environmental groups.’
    ‘You’re a genius,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll get on to it right away.’
    Some hard phoning later and Agatha to her delight had secured the presence of The Pretty Girls. She then phoned the water company in Mircester and was put through to Peter Freemont.
    ‘I don’t think Jane Harris is the right person,’ said Agatha, proceeding to lie. She felt that Jane Harris turning down the fête reflected badly on her business abilities. ‘So I secured The Pretty Girls.’
    ‘You’re brilliant, Agatha. How on earth did you get them to come?’
    ‘We’ll contribute the money from the fête to AIDS.’
    ‘After deductions for the costs?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘I just don’t know how you do it. They’re number one on the hit parade.’
    ‘I know.’ Agatha felt uncomfortable at not giving Mrs Bloxby any credit for the idea, but it was a hard world and she did not want to admit she had never heard of the pop group, Agatha’s interest in pop groups having stopped when she retired and gave up representing some of them.
    She found out afterwards that The Pretty Girls had risen to fame in one meteoric month and felt better about being so behind the times. She then stayed on in London anyway to make the rounds with this new information, this time choosing journalists from the entertainment pages.
    Agatha had also secured the attendance of old Lord Pendlebury, a local peer, to give away the prizes at a children’s talent competition.
    By the time she travelled back to Carsely, she felt she was on the brink of pulling off the biggest public relations coup of her career.
    The weather in July was perfect, one sunny day following another. Agatha kept herself busy. She had resolved to end the affair with Guy, but each cold, hard look from James, when she crossed his path, sent her straight back into Guy’s ever-ready company. She hated the age difference. She had completed her delayed appointments with the beautician, and still felt all the strain of keeping up appearances. She found she kept studying women of her own age, anxious to avoid wearing the sort of clothes that middle-aged women wore, such as the aforementioned velvet trouser suits. In fact, decided Agatha, unless the middle-aged figure was slim and youthful-looking, all trouser suits were out. And those striped French sailor sweaters. Sign of a skittish, middle-aged woman. Noel Coward’s Mrs Wentworth-Brewster.
    But at least all the worries about ageing and all the arrangements for the fête kept her very busy and James was centred somewhere deep inside her, a little dark ache, but nothing more.
    The golden days moved into August. Murder and the non-existence of a white Persian cat were forgotten. There were no more anti-spring demonstrations.
    Finally it was the eve of the fête. Agatha returned with Roy from patrolling the site, checking the marquees, going