Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

new underwear underneath and a pair of new flat shoes which were extremely comfortable. Roy had enjoyed his tea and they had begun to laugh helplessly over their exploits on the river. Agatha smiled reminiscently. She could not remember laughing so hard in such a long time.
    As she drove down the winding country lane which led to the village of Carsely under the arching tunnel of green, green trees, she felt like some sort of animal heading homeward to a comfortable burrow.
    And since her fall in the river, she hadn’t thought of James, not once.
    That evening she went to a meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society at the vicarage. Mrs Bloxby served tea and sandwiches in the vicarage garden. Mrs Darry was not present and Agatha entertained the rest of them with a highly embroidered tale of her punting adventure.
    The meeting then got down to business. The society had decided to put on a concert. Agatha groaned. The concerts were a nightmare of boredom. Not one of them had a bit of talent and yet so many were delighted to get up on the stage and sing in cracked voices.
    And yet they attended other concerts in other villages and the performances were just as awful. Mrs Bloxby had explained to her gently that everyone secretly wanted to perform on the stage and this was a chance for them all to get their moment in the sun. Agatha noticed, however, that the vicar’s wife, like herself, never performed.
    Conversation after the official meeting turned to the murders in Ancombe. ‘I’ve got all the members of the parish council coming to a garden party at my place,’ said Agatha. ‘I haven’t invited any of you because the water company is paying for it and it’s public relations business.’
    ‘They’re a funny lot,’ said Miss Simms, the secretary. She was wearing white stiletto-heeled sandals, the heels digging into the smooth vicarage lawn like tent pegs. ‘I never complain,’ Mrs Bloxby had said. ‘It aerates the lawn.’
    ‘I mean,’ went on Miss Simms, ‘they’ve been at each other’s throats for years. I think the reason none of them resign is that they don’t want to give the others the satisfaction. I’m sorry for you, Mrs Raisin. Sounds like the garden party from hell.’
    But James was back in Agatha’s mind along with worries about what to wear to dazzle him.
    The day of the garden party was perfect. Clear blue skies and hot sun.
    Agatha, in a fine gown of delicately flowered silk and with a wide shady straw hat bedecked with large silk roses, supervised the caterers and took a last look around the garden. Then she went upstairs to check her make-up.
    The sound of cars in the lane below her window made her look down. They all seemed to have arrived at once. Mary Owen was wearing a shirtwaister of striped cotton and flat-heeled shoes, and Angela Buckley white cotton trousers and a blue cotton top. Jane Cutler had on a simple Liberty print dress.
    Feeling suddenly ridiculously overdressed, Agatha whipped off her hat and gown and put on a cotton skirt and a plain white blouse, and then ran downstairs to meet them.
    James was now out in the garden with the caterers. He was wearing faded blue jeans and an open-necked shirt. Agatha realized with a pang that he must have let himself in with the key to her cottage that she had given him in happier times.
    She braced herself for her visitors.
    The men, Bill Allen, Andy Stiggs and Fred Shaw, as if to make up for the informal dress of the women and James, were all wearing blazers, collars and ties. Bill Allen’s blazer had a large gold-embroidered crest on the pocket.
    Champagne was poured all round. Agatha raised her glass. ‘Here’s to goodwill,’ she said. ‘We’ve all had our differences, but I think we should all be friends.’
    ‘Why?’ demanded Mary Owen.
    ‘Because it’s more pleasant that way.’
    Angela Buckley looked at Agatha suspiciously. ‘You don’t belong to one of those mad religious sects, do you?’
    ‘I should think it’s therapy,’ said Mary Owen. ‘People who indulge in therapy groups are always wanting chummy get-togethers. Any moment now we’ll all have to sit in a circle and talk about the nasty thing that happened to us in the wood-shed all those years ago.’
    ‘That’s a good one,’ said Bill Allen and gave a great horse-laugh.
    ‘I’m not surprised you go around murdering each other,’ said James in a cold, carrying voice.
    ‘Here now. None of that,’ said Andy Stiggs, red in the face above a tie