Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

health shops to buy stuff that will pep them up or slow them down but persuade themselves that as they are buying whatever in a health shop, it makes it all right. People will sozzle their brains in pubs with alcohol and sneer about junkies. Vegetarians stuff their faces with sugar. And in my opinion the health warning on a packet of cigarettes is one of the best advertisements going. People are drawn to death, Agatha, because of their fear of it, like people are drawn to the edge of a cliff. And never have people been more afraid of death than in this age.’
    ‘I can’t really go along with that,’ said Agatha. ‘People have very short memories. Ancombe Water was flashed around the world because of the murders, yes. But then they forget that and just remember they’ve heard about it. I don’t believe that dicing with death has any attraction at all.’ Agatha lit a cigarette.
    Guy pulled a newspaper cutting out of his pocket. ‘Oh, yes? Well, I’ve brought you a cutting about a hypnotist in Mircester. You do want to stop smoking, don’t you?’
    ‘Yes,’ lied Agatha, who did not really in her heart want to stop at all. ‘I’ll get you another drink and then I’ll fix dinner.’
    ‘Okay. I’ll join you in the kitchen.’
    ‘No, don’t do that. I don’t like anyone watching me cooking.’
    She gave him another drink and then went into the kitchen and shut the door. All that talk about death being good for publicity. Was it Guy after all who was the murderer? She had arranged the salmon mousse on plates. The duck would need to be heated in the microwave and then both portions, along with the already micro-waved potatoes and vegetables, kept warm in the oven.
    What a fool she had been! James had kept insisting it was the Freemonts. How James would crow over her.
    She looked back at the closed kitchen door. Maybe a call to police headquarters . . .
    She cautiously picked up the receiver and got through to police headquarters. She asked for Bill but was told he was out. ‘Tell him,’ she said urgently, ‘that Guy Freemont is at my home and I am convinced he committed those murders. This is Mrs Agatha Raisin. No, I haven’t time to wait to be put through to anyone else . . .’ She heard a movement outside the kitchen door and quickly replaced the receiver.
    Her cats curled around her legs. She opened the kitchen door and shooed them out into the garden. ‘You’ll be safe there,’ she whispered, and was later to wonder why she had not run out of the kitchen door and fled to safety herself.
    She put the duckling in the microwave, picked up the two plates of salmon mousse and headed for the dining-room.
    She put down the plates and lit the candles. Then she went through to the sitting-room.
    ‘Were you on the phone?’ asked Guy. He was standing by the fireplace.
    ‘Were you listening?’ asked Agatha lightly.
    ‘No, when you pick up the receiver in the kitchen, the receiver in here gives a little ping.’
    ‘Yes, I was on the phone. I was calling Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife.’
    His face was hard and his eyes glittered oddly in the firelight. He took a step towards her.
    The doorbell rang.
    The police, thought Agatha.
    ‘I’ll just get that.’
    He caught hold of her arm. ‘Don’t you want to be alone with me?’
    He studied her face. Agatha tried to look as puzzled and offended as she would have been in normal circumstances.
    ‘All right,’ he said, releasing her.
    Agatha went to the door and opened it. Mrs Bloxby stood on the doorstep.
    Agatha goggled at her and then raised her voice. ‘I was just saying to Guy when I phoned you a moment ago that it was bound to be you.’ She winked desperately.
    ‘I brought you some of my trifle.’ Mrs Bloxby held out a bowl.
    ‘Come in and meet Guy,’ said Agatha.
    ‘If you’re entertaining, I don’t want to interrupt you.’
    ‘Just a drink,’ pleaded Agatha.
    ‘Yes, how nice.’ Guy loomed up behind Agatha.
    ‘How good to see you, Mr Freemont,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I won’t stay long. As I was saying to Agatha a moment ago on the phone, I thought she might like some of my special trifle.’
    Guy looked as relaxed now as he had been tense a moment before. ‘You take the trifle, Agatha, and I’ll get Mrs Bloxby a drink.’ Mrs Bloxby handed over the bowl of trifle and then put her umbrella in the stand in the hall.
    ‘Such a dreadful evening, Mr Freemont,’ she said. ‘Oh, this is comfortable. I always think a log fire is so