Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

usually did when it settled down for the night and various wildlife rustled in the thatch. But every little noise made her jump and she wished she had not pretended to be so brave and had asked the vicar’s wife to stay the night. Then there was James, just next door, who must have heard of the murder by now. He should be here with her to protect and comfort her. A tear rolled down Agatha’s nose and she fell into an uneasy sleep.
    Another fine spring day did much to banish the horrors of the night before, and Bill Wong called, accompanied by a policewoman, to go over her statement.
    James Lacey had seen the police car arrive, knew all about the murder and that it was Agatha who had found the body. He had assumed she would call him, for he was eager for details, but finally Bill Wong left and his phone did not ring.
    Agatha phoned Roy Silver. ‘I’ve decided to take that freelance job with the water company,’ she said gruffly. Roy longed for the power to tell her to get lost, but the fact that his boss would look on the getting of Agatha as a great coup stopped him.
    ‘Great,’ he said coldly. ‘I’ll set up a meeting for you tomorrow with the directors.’
    ‘I suppose you’ve seen the papers?’ said Agatha.
    ‘What about?’
    ‘The chairman of Ancombe Parish Council was found dead last night – by me.’
    ‘Never! You’re quite a little vulture, Aggie. They’ll need you more than ever to counteract the bad publicity. Is it murder?’
    ‘Could be, but he was very old and maybe just fell over and struck his head on the stone basin.’
    ‘Anyway, I’ll get back to you, sweetie, and give you the time you’re to see them.’
    ‘Who will I be dealing with?’
    ‘Co-directors, Guy and Peter Freemont, brothers.’
    ‘What’s their pedigree?’
    ‘City businessmen, wheeler-dealers, you know the kind.’
    ‘All right, let me know.’
    Agatha looked at the clock. Nearly lunchtime. She decided to go along to the Red Lion, the local pub, and see what gossip she could glean. Perhaps James might be there . . . forget it!
    She made up with care, studying her face intently in her fright mirror, one of those magnifying ones. Her skin was still smooth on her cheeks but there were threads of wrinkles about her eyes and nasty ones on her upper lip. Her hair was thick and glossy and her legs were good. Her figure was a bit on the stocky side and her neck was a trifle short. She sighed as she spread foundation cream over the wrinkles and then applied powder and lipstick. She reached for a tube of mascara and then decided against it. Waterproof mascara simply meant it took longer to clean off and had a habit of sticking under her eyes for days. She should get her eyelashes dyed. Would a face-lift be worth it, or would it stop her from facing up to ageing gracefully? Did anyone ever age gracefully, or was it a choice between giving up or going down fighting?
    As she walked along to the pub, she was assailed with a feeling of loneliness, of isolation, and wondered, not for the first time, if the city was so deep in her bones that she could never put down roots in country soil. And yet it was all so beautiful and calm as she walked under arches of blossom. Far above her, the Cotswold sky was pale blue and cloudless. Going to be another hose-pipe ban soon, thought the practical side of Agatha.
    She was nearly at the pub when she realized she had forgotten to feed her two cats, Hodge and Boswell. She groaned. They would be all right until she got back. She was not going to turn into one of those drivelling women who were sentimental about animals.
    Nevertheless, she walked back to her cottage, fed her cats, let them out in the garden, and feeling she had endured enough exercise and fresh air for one day, got into her car and drove the short distance to the pub, plunging happily into its beer-smelling, smoky gloom.
    The barman, John Fletcher, gave her a gin and tonic and then the locals clustered around, anxious for news. Always happy to be the centre of attention, Agatha described in gruesome detail the finding of the body. ‘It may not be murder,’ she finished. ‘He could just have fallen.’
    ‘Bound to be murder,’ said Miss Simms, secretary of the Carsely Ladies’ Society and the village’s best-known unmarried mother. ‘And I know who done it!’
    ‘Who?’ asked Agatha.
    Miss Simms cradled her half-pint of beer against her chest. ‘It was that Mary Owen.’
    ‘Go on with you,’ said Fred Griggs,