Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

the stalls. At twelve the village band would lead a procession to the spring.
    When Agatha went to the main tent to hear Lord Pendlebury’s speech, she knew the whole thing was a ghastly failure. The rain dampened everything, despite the flowers and heaters inside the tents. The ground was muddy and spongy underfoot and the day was cold. A malicious wind had got up and flapped the sodden canvas.
    Lord Pendlebury made a long and boring speech about his military service during World War II. He did not mention the water company and Agatha was suddenly convinced he had totally forgotten why he was there. A baby began to cry. One little boy kicked his sister in the shins; she began to scream and other children screamed in competition.
    Teenagers who had travelled down from Birmingham in the hope of seeing The Pretty Girls were drinking beer from cans and looking surly.
    When the time for the procession to the spring arrived, all Agatha wanted to do was run away and hide. The plan was that she and the Freemont brothers and Lord Pendlebury would lead the procession. Originally it was to be led by The Pretty Girls. And how often Agatha had fondly imagined that original picture. The crowds, the laughter, the jolly band, the sun beating down.
    She saw James talking to an attractive woman in the refreshment tent. He was laughing at something she was saying. Agatha’s misery was complete.
    She found Guy at her elbow. ‘Where were you during Lord Pendlebury’s speech?’ she asked.
    ‘Off somewhere thinking about getting drunk but not doing it. Let’s go and join the procession.’
    ‘How are the band to play in this rain?’
    ‘The band leader assures me they’re used to it. Get the press and tell them we’re off.’
    The press had obviously been making up for lack of a newsworthy event by swapping stories and drinking hard. They looked reluctant to leave, but they dutifully picked up their gear and followed Agatha out into the rain.
    As they approached the spring, the band had opted to play ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’. It sounds like a dirge, thought Agatha, feeling she would like to cry, and this is like a funeral procession.
    ‘Oh, my God,’ said Guy, grabbing Agatha’s arm.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Look there!’
    The music behind them faltered off into silence except for the drummer, who did not have a clear view of what was transfixing the rest of them.
    Robina Toynbee hung head down over her garden wall. Blood from a gaping wound in her head dripped down into the spring. Boom, boom, boom, went the drum. Then it too was silent.
    A woman screamed, high and long and loud.
    Chaos erupted.
    The galvanized press pushed and shoved to get photographs.
    Guy whipped out his mobile phone and thrust it at Agatha.
    ‘Find a quiet corner and get on to the nationals – quick!’
    ‘But the police –’
    ‘I’ll get them. Go!’ He gave her a little shove.
    Agatha thrust her way round the edge of the crowd and then ran to the deserted press tent. She sat down and poured herself a stiff brandy and then started to phone while inside her grew a loathing for her job.
    She was joined by Roy. She pushed him a list of the media she had already phoned. ‘I’ll do some,’ said Roy. ‘God, I feel sick. That poor woman.’
    ‘She called me last night, and the news about The Pretty Girls put it straight out of my head,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Never mind, let’s get on with this. Peter Freemont wants you to mug up some sort of speech for him to make to the press.’
    Agatha opened up her briefcase and took out her laptop and switched it on. Almost without thought, the words came. ‘Ancombe Water, the Water of Life, will be successful because it is the best mineral water on the market. The unfortunate murders will not stop the company from producing it or believing in their fine product. There have already been suggestions that some unscrupulous rival company is going to any lengths to sabotage the launch,’ and so on.
    Dimly she was aware of Roy’s voice chattering away.
    Among the bottles of booze in front of her, Ancombe Water glittered whitely, the skull on the label etched in black, a little row of serried skulls grinning at her.
    ‘I’ll need to go home and run this off on the printer,’ she said.
    ‘I brought it,’ said Roy, who had just rung off after another call. ‘I mean, I’ve got mine. It’s stashed in my case over in the corner. I’ll get it.’
    ‘When can we expect the nationals?’
    ‘The stringers will