Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

getting badly hurt.’
    ‘It doesn’t interest me,’ said Agatha. ‘In fact, to be honest, nothing much interests me these days.’
    He looked at her in affectionate concern. ‘What you want is for me to produce a murder for you to investigate. Well, I’m not going to do it. You can’t go around expecting people to be murdered just to provide you with a hobby.’
    ‘It’s a bit rude calling it a hobby. What is this crap?’ She pushed her plate angrily away.
    ‘I think the food here is very good,’ said Bill defensively ‘You’re just being picky because you’re unhappy.’
    ‘I’m slimming anyway. The wretched Roy Silver phoned me up wanting me to do public relations for this water company.’
    ‘There’s a thing. Their office is right here in Mircester.’
    ‘I’m retired.’
    ‘And unhappy and miserable. Why don’t you take it on?’
    But Agatha was not going to tell him the real reason for her refusal. Days away at the office meant days away from James Lacey, who might miraculously soften towards her.
    After they had parted, Bill went thoughtfully home. On impulse, he phoned James.
    ‘How are things going?’ asked James cheerfully. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages.’
    ‘You’ve been abroad. I’ve just been having lunch with Agatha and realized I hadn’t spoken to you for some time.’
    ‘Oh.’ And James’s ‘oh’ was so frigid that Bill thought if he were holding some cartoon phone receiver there would be icicles forming down the wire. So he chatted idly about this and that while all the while he wanted to ask James why he did not give poor Agatha a break and take her out for dinner.
    A week later Agatha had just finished her usual breakfast of four cigarettes and three strong cups of black coffee when the phone rang. ‘Let it be James,’ she pleaded to that anthropomorphic God with the long beard and shaggy hair with whom she often, in moments of stress, did deals. ‘Let it be James and I’ll never smoke again.’
    But the God of Agatha’s understanding owed more to mythology than anything else and so she was hardly surprised to find out it was Roy Silver on the other end of the line.
    ‘Don’t hang up,’ said Roy quickly. ‘Look, you’ve still got a grudge against me because I found your husband.’
    ‘And ruined my life,’ said Agatha bitterly.
    ‘Well, he’s dead now, isn’t he? And if James doesn’t want to marry you, that’s hardly my fault.’
    Agatha hung up.
    The doorbell went. Perhaps He had heard her prayer. She stubbed out her cigarette.
    ‘Last one,’ she said loudly to the ceiling.
    She opened the door.
    Mrs Darry stood there.
    ‘I wondered if you would do me a favour, Mrs Raisin.’
    ‘Come in,’ said Agatha bleakly. She led the way into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and gloomily lit a cigarette.
    Mrs Darry sat down. ‘I would be grateful if you refrained from smoking.’
    ‘Tough,’ said Agatha. ‘This is my house and my cigarette. What do you want?’
    ‘Don’t you know you are killing yourself?’
    Agatha looked at her cigarette and then at Mrs Darry. ‘As long as I am killing myself, I am not killing you. Out with it. What do you want?’
    ‘Water.’
    ‘There’s water in the tap. Has yours been cut off?’
    ‘No, you do not understand. My mother is coming to stay.’
    Agatha blinked. Mrs Darry she judged to be in her late sixties.
    ‘Mother is ninety-two,’ went on Mrs Darry. ‘She is very partial to good tea. I do not have a car and I wondered whether you would get me a flask of water from the spring at Ancombe?’
    ‘I did not intend to go to Ancombe,’ said Agatha, thinking how much she disliked this newcomer to the village. She was such an ugly woman. How odd that people could be so ugly, not particularly because of appearance, but because of the atmosphere of judgemental bad temper and discontent they carried around with them.
    She was wearing one of those sleeveless quilted jackets, tightly buttoned up over a high-necked blouse. Her pointed nose, her pursed mouth and her sandy hair and her pale green hunting eyes made her look more than ever to Agatha like some vicious feral animal, always looking for the kill.
    ‘Is there no one else you could ask?’ Agatha considered offering Mrs Darry coffee, and then decided against it.
    ‘Everyone else is so busy,’ mourned Mrs Darry. ‘I mean, it’s not as if you have much to do.’
    ‘As a matter of fact I do,’ retorted Agatha, stung to the quick. ‘I am going