Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

past.’
    ‘Okay,’ said Agatha, half-torn between elation and dread, dread that she was being sucked back down into all the miseries caused by proximity to James. ‘So maybe we should get on the phone and invite them all?’
    ‘All right. We’ll use my phone.’
    ‘Right, I’ll tell Roy to pack. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’
    ‘I’m going to James’s to make some phone calls,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll leave you to pack.’
    To her surprise, there was no argument from Roy about being left out. But Roy was glad of an opportunity to phone his boss on his own without Agatha listening. If there was any credit to be got out of the launch, he would take it; if there was any blame, then Agatha could shoulder it.
    Agatha walked along to James’s cottage. The door was standing open and she walked into the book-lined living-room. ‘Sit down and I’ll bring the coffee,’ shouted James from the kitchen.
    Agatha took out her compact and dusted her nose with powder.
    She stuffed it back in her handbag as James came in carrying a tray with two mugs.
    ‘Now,’ said James, ‘let’s see who we’ve got. Against the water company we have Mary Owen, Bill Allen and Andy Stiggs. For, we have Jane Cutler, Angela Buckley and Fred Shaw.’ He produced a notebook. ‘I’ve got their names and phone numbers here. Drink your coffee and we’ll start phoning. Who’s going to do the phoning?’
    ‘I think you’d better,’ said Agatha. ‘I seem to bring out the beast in them.’
    ‘And what’re we having? And how do we know the weather will be fine for a garden party?’
    ‘I’ll tell you why the weather’ll be fine,’ said Agatha bitterly. ‘Because it’s done its worst to drown out the launch and the long-range forecast is good. Do you think they will come? Mary Owen’s bound to refuse. I keep wondering who could have murdered Robina. Was it all really because of the water? I wonder who gets her cottage and her money?’
    ‘I heard someone say she had a son. Anyway, here goes. I’ll start with the worst. Mary Owen.’
    ‘Good luck. But I don’t think you’ll get very far. Do you know her?’
    ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I called on her before I went off to join Save Our Foxes. We got on all right.’
    ‘You might have told me!’
    ‘We’re having a truce – remember?’
    ‘Oh, all right, but I want a cigarette. I’ll take it out into the garden. Are we just going to have the people from the parish council? It might be viewed as a bit of a snub by our friends in the village if they’re not invited.’
    ‘Don’t let them know you’ve resigned from the water company, then. Let them think it’s business.’
    Agatha went out into James’s small front garden, sat down on the doorstep and lit a cigarette.
    She listened to him talking on the phone. That easy laugh of his! There was a lot of the actor in James. When he had finished phoning, should she confront him, say something like ‘Where do we stand now, James?’
    But he might answer something to the effect that they stood nowhere, nowhere at all.
    ‘Mary,’ she heard him say in a cajoling voice, ‘it’s just a get-together, champagne and eats, all paid for by the water company. Look at it this way: you’ve all got to put this behind you and work together for the better good of the parish. Yes, a good opportunity to mend fences. What time? Oh, twelve or twelve-thirty. Good, see you then.’
    So Mary was coming.
    Agatha finished her cigarette and threw the stub over the hedge and out into the road, where it landed at the feet of Mrs Darry, who picked up the stub and threw it back. ‘Don’t you have an ashtray?’ she demanded angrily. ‘We’re not in London now.’
    ‘If you’re so concerned about a clean environment, then stop that nasty little dog of yours pissing and defecating outside my home,’ yelled Agatha.
    ‘And show a bit of decorum,’ shouted Mrs Darry, her face puce. ‘You’re showing your knickers.’
    Agatha angrily pulled her skirt down, which had ridden up about her knees.
    If only it could turn out to be Mrs Darry. If only something could happen to remove her from Carsely.
    She moodily lit another cigarette. Some doctors in Britain were refusing to treat smokers for illness. Why? With all the taxes on tobacco that the smoker paid, they should be getting first-class free treatment. Why smokers? Why not drunks? Why not fat people? Bloody nanny state. Mrs Darry had put Agatha into a foul temper. People flapped