Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

to be handling the public relations for the new water company.’
    Mrs Darry gathered up her handbag and gloves and got to her feet. ‘I am surprised at you, Mrs Raisin. That you who live in this village should be aiding and abetting a company that is out to destroy our environment is beyond belief.’
    ‘Push off,’ said Agatha.
    Left alone, she lit another cigarette. On and off during that day, she turned over in her mind the idea of representing the water company. Of course, the offer might not still be open. If she was employed in the launch, then she would need to work very hard, and if she was working very hard, she would not be impelled to make any more silly phone calls to James and suffer the inevitable rejection.
    A poor evening on television did little to lighten her mood. She ate a whole bar of chocolate and felt the waistline of her skirt tighten alarmingly. In vain did she tell herself that the constricting feeling at her middle was probably psychosomatic. She decided on impulse to take a flask and walk over to Ancombe and get some water for tea, and to take another look at the spring.
    It was another beautiful evening. Bird cherry starred the hedgerows, orchards on either side of the road glimmered with apple blossom. She trudged along, a stocky figure, feeling diminished by the glory of the night.
    The walk to Ancombe was several miles and by the time she approached the spring, she was weary and already regretting her decision not to take the car.
    The spring was at the far end of the village, the unlit end, where the houses stopped and the countryside began again.
    As she approached she could hear the tinkling sound of the water.
    She was about to bend over the spring when she started back with a gasp of alarm and dropped her flask. For lying at her feet, staring up at the faint light from the moon and stars above, was a dead man.
    Very dead, thought Agatha, feeling for his pulse and finding none.
    She ran back to the nearest house, roused the occupants and phoned the police.
    Waving aside offers of brandy or tea, Agatha returned resolutely to the spring and waited. Word quickly spread around the village and by the time the police arrived, there was a silent circle of people around the body. The skull above the spring glared maliciously at them from over the dead man’s body.
    Agatha learned from the hushed whispers that the body was that of a Mr Robert Struthers, chairman of Ancombe Parish Council. Blood was seeping from the back of his head into the spring, blood, black in the night, swirling around the stone basin.
    Sirens tore through the silence of the night. The police had arrived at last. Bill would not be among them. It was his day off.
    But Agatha recognized Detective Inspector Wilkes.
    She sat in one of the police cars and made a statement to a policewoman. She felt quite numb. She was told to wait and a police car would take her home.
    At last she was dropped off at her own cottage. She hesitated on her doorstep, looking wistfully towards the cottage next door. Here was a splendid opportunity to talk to James. But the shock of finding the dead man had changed something in her. I’m worth better than that, thought Agatha, as she unlocked her door and went in.
    She was just making herself a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. This time she did not expect to see James standing on the doorstep and it was with genuine gratitude and relief that she welcomed the vicar’s wife, Mrs Bloxby.
    ‘I heard the terrible news,’ said Mrs Bloxby, pushing a strand of grey hair behind her ear. ‘I came along to spend the night with you. You won’t want to be alone.’
    Agatha looked at her with affection, remembering nights before when Mrs Bloxby had volunteered to keep her company. ‘I think I’ll be all right,’ she said, ‘but I’d be grateful if you would stay for a bit.’
    Mrs Bloxby followed her into the kitchen and sat down. ‘Mrs Darry phoned me with the news. If you look out, you’ll see lights all over the village. They’ll be talking about it all night.’
    ‘Tell me about this water business,’ said Agatha, handing her a mug of coffee. ‘I assume they were asked to make a decision on the water.’
    ‘Yes, indeed, and some very noisy debates they had on the subject, too.’
    ‘Who owns the water?’
    ‘Well, it comes from Mrs Toynbee’s garden, but as the well is out on the road, that bit belongs to the parish. There are seven members of the parish council and they’ve