Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

persuade her to change her mind.’
    Agatha looked at him thoughtfully, wondering when she could slip in a question about his speech. Instead she said, ‘Was there ever a Mrs Stiggs?’
    ‘Yes, he married Ethel Fairweather on the rebound right after Robert got married and lived unhappily right up until her death. She was a shrew. In some way, he blamed Robert for his rotten marriage, know what I mean?’
    ‘Where does he live?’ asked James. ‘I have his address but I’m not sure exactly where his cottage is.’
    ‘Second on the left past the church.’
    ‘You never called to see me with your speech,’ said Agatha.
    ‘What speech?’
    ‘The one you were going to make at the fête.’
    ‘When I heard that pop group was coming, I knew you wouldn’t want me.’
    And yet the pop group was a relatively late booking, thought Agatha. And when Fred had thought that Jane Harris was to open the fête, it had not stopped him.
    ‘You don’t think Mary Owen could have had anything to do with it?’ asked Agatha. ‘I mean, it turns out as far as I can gather that she’s not broke after all. She paid those protesters.’
    ‘She’s big enough, strong enough and nasty enough,’ said Fred. ‘But Andy Stiggs is my choice.’
    ‘You thought it was Mary Owen at one time.’
    ‘Did I? I can’t remember that.’
    ‘So let’s try Andy Stiggs,’ said James when they left the shop.
    ‘What’s our approach?’
    ‘Same as with Fred. Just want to get it cleared up.’
    Andy Stiggs’s cottage was a mellow building of Cotswold stone with a newly thatched roof. There was a pleasing jumble of old-fashioned flowers: stocks, impatiens, delphiniums, lupins, and roses, roses all the way.
    Andy Stiggs was weeding a flowerbed. He straightened up as they came through the garden gate.
    ‘What?’ he demanded.
    Oh, to be from the police and be able to say, ‘Just a few questions,’ with an air of authority, thought Agatha.
    ‘We were in the village,’ said James, ‘and we thought we would drop in and see you.’
    ‘Why?’ He brushed earth from his large hands.
    ‘As vice-chairman of the council, soon to be chairman, you must know a lot about what goes on in the village.’
    ‘And what’s that got to do with you? You don’t live here.’
    ‘You surely want these murders cleared up.’
    ‘Of course I do, and the answer is staring you in the face. It’s that water company. It’s my belief that poor Robina changed her mind and so they bumped her off.’
    ‘I think it’s only on TV that companies go around bumping people off,’ said Agatha.
    ‘ You can’t see what’s under your nose because that Guy Freemont has been romancing you,’ said Andy.
    ‘That’s got nothing to do with it!’ Agatha’s face flamed.
    ‘To my mind it has. What else would a young man like that be doing with a woman of your age?’
    ‘That’s enough of that,’ said James coldly. ‘You are just as suspect. I gather that Robert Struthers pinched the love of your life from under your nose.’
    ‘That was years and years ago.’
    ‘Sometimes resentments grow with the passing of time.’
    Andy picked up a hoe and brandished it at them. ‘Get out of here. Just get out and don’t come round again or I’ll . . .’
    ‘Or I’ll what?’ asked James. ‘Murder us? Come along, Agatha.’
    ‘I think I’ve got a headache coming on,’ said Agatha as they walked back to the car. ‘If you don’t mind, I would like to go home and lie down for a little.’
    ‘I think we’ve done enough for one day anyway,’ said James.
    Half an hour later, Agatha crawled under the duvet on her bed and drew her knees up to her chin. She felt she could not go on investigating the murders. The council members with their insults had finally been able to intimidate her.
    Despite the warmth of the duvet and the warmth of the day, she shivered. All the Carsely security, all the safety, all the comfort seemed to have been ripped away and she was alone once more in a hostile world.
    The phone rang, loudly and imperatively. She heaved herself up on one elbow and looked at it. What if it was James? No, probably Roy trying to get her back into PR, or something like that. Let it ring and she would check the answering service in a few minutes and find out who had called.
    She waited and then dialled 1571. ‘There is one message,’ said the prissy voice. ‘Would you like to hear it?’
    ‘Yes,’ muttered Agatha.
    ‘I am afraid I didn’t quite get that. Would