Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

I’ll go and have a talk to her.’
    ‘Are you sure she isn’t in need of money, Bill?’
    ‘Oh, that. No, we checked her bank statements. She’s pretty wealthy.’
    ‘So why did Fred Shaw say she wasn’t?’
    ‘I asked him. He said since she did all the gardening and cleaning herself, with only a bit of occasional help, he assumed she had gone broke. Leave it to me.’
    He rang off. Agatha rejoined Mrs Bloxby in the kitchen. ‘Neither Mary nor her sister complained to the police.’
    ‘Very odd, that,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I don’t like to see you so distressed.’
    ‘It’s all the insults and cracks about my affair with Guy. I’ve been made to feel like a vulgar trollop.’
    ‘You must not take it all to heart. The fact is that you are dealing with a lot of frightened people. Everyone is suspect and they know it and so they take their fright out on you because they see you as some enemy stirring up the muddy waters.’
    ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way. I slammed the door in Mrs Darry’s face before you came. She’s a horror.’
    ‘I’m afraid she is. Cheer up. She whines that she is very disappointed in Carsely and that it is not a very nice place at all. I feel she will be leaving us soon.’
    ‘I do hope so. That woman has halitosis of the soul.’
    After Mrs Bloxby had left, Agatha went upstairs and washed her face and put on make-up. She would call on James and tell him about Mary. If only he would put his arms about her and hold her close.
    Bracing herself, she went next door and rang his bell.
    James answered the door, looking flustered. ‘What is it, Agatha?’
    ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
    ‘I’m actually very busy packing.’
    ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘I’m going up to London for a few days.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Private business.’
    Agatha felt so rejected, so forlorn, that she did not tell him about Mary. ‘Bye,’ she said weakly and walked away.
    James looked after her impatiently, at the droop of her shoulders. He opened his mouth to call her back and then shut it again and went back inside to finish his packing.
    Agatha, in her own cottage, dialled Roy’s office. She didn’t want to be alone. Roy would surely come running if she asked him.
    Roy came on the phone. ‘Changed your mind about the water company, Aggie?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I mean, are you going to go on working for them after all?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘So is this just a friendly chat?’
    ‘I wondered whether you would like to come down for the weekend?’
    Roy had been invited to a barbecue on Saturday by his boss and he was not going to turn down such an important invitation, particularly as the boss had a marriageable daughter.
    ‘Sorry, sweetie, too busy. Maybe another time.’
    ‘Yes. Bye.’
    Agatha sat staring at the phone. She wondered if she should pack a suitcase herself, drive to Heathrow and get on the first available plane out to anywhere.
    The phone rang. Agatha picked it up cautiously, as if the receiver might bite.
    ‘Agatha!’ It was Guy’s voice. ‘I really miss you. What about dinner on Saturday?’
    ‘I don’t know . . .’
    ‘Come on. It would be nice to see you again. That French restaurant in Mircester. What about it? I could pick you up at eight.’
    ‘All right,’ said Agatha, thinking as she said goodbye and replaced the receiver, what the hell, nobody else wants me.
    By Friday, Agatha was feeling calmer. Some healthy walks and a comfortable meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society did much to restore her equanimity, that and the news that Mrs Darry had gone on holiday.
    By late on Friday evening she had decided to cancel her date with Guy. She was just reaching for the phone when it rang. She picked it up gingerly, all her old fears coming back.
    ‘This is Portia Salmond,’ said a cool voice. ‘I think we should talk.’
    ‘So talk.’
    ‘I don’t want to talk over the phone. Can you come here?’
    ‘Where’s here?’
    ‘I live at 5 Glebe Street. It’s near the abbey in Mircester.’
    ‘I know it. Why now? It’s late.’
    ‘It won’t take long.’
    Curiosity overcame Agatha. ‘Give me half an hour.’
    She drove through the quiet night-time lanes and then down the A44 to the Fosse. There was a chill in the air. Summer had gone.
    She wondered if James had ever taken Portia out for dinner. That was what she really wanted to find out.
    Glebe Street was narrow and cobbled and dark. A sliver of moon hung in the sky at the end of the street and the