Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

pretty. Just a sherry, please.’
    Agatha came in and sat down. The fact that Guy was more than likely a cold-blooded killer had finally sunk in and she felt sick and frightened.
    Mrs Bloxby looked brightly at Agatha and then at Guy. ‘Do you go to church, Mr Freemont?’
    ‘What?
    ‘I asked, do you go to church?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I am the vicar’s wife and I like to collect as many souls for the church as possible.’
    Mrs Bloxby knows, thought Agatha. Somehow she knows. It was totally out of character for the vicar’s wife to ask anyone if they went to church.
    Guy gave an awkward laugh. ‘Well, Christmas, Easter; I’m afraid I am a two-service-a-year Anglican.’
    ‘But are you never afraid for your immortal soul?’
    ‘Never think about it.’
    ‘Oh, but you should. We will all be judged on Judgement Day.’
    ‘I don’t want to offend you, Mrs Bloxby, but it’s all a lot of tosh. When someone dies, they just die – finish, the end.’
    ‘That is where you are wrong.’
    ‘How do you know that? God tell you so?’
    Mrs Bloxby took a sip of sherry and looked meditatively at the leaping flames. ‘No, but I have observed goodness in people as well as evil. There is a bit of the divine spirit in all of us. I have also observed an odd pattern of justice.’
    ‘Justice?’ demanded Guy sharply and Agatha groaned inwardly.
    ‘Oh, yes, I have seen evil people thinking they have got away with things, but they always suffer in the end.’
    ‘The fires of hell?’
    ‘Yes, and they suffer from them in their lifetime. I think whoever killed poor Mr Struthers and Robina Toynbee will eventually suffer dreadfully.’
    ‘Not if the police don’t catch him, or her.’ Guy stood up. ‘Excuse me, I’ve left my cigarettes in my coat pocket.’
    ‘Have one of mine,’ said Agatha. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
    ‘There’s a lot about me you don’t know.’
    He went out. Agatha looked at the vicar’s wife with agonized eyes. She mouthed, ‘Don’t go too far.’
    Guy came in and stood in the doorway. He had his coat on and a small serviceable revolver was pointed straight at them.
    ‘Fun’s over,’ he said coldly. ‘We’re going for a ride. Into the car and one squeak and I’ll shoot both of you.’
    ‘Why are you doing this?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘Just shut up and get moving. Move!’
    Outside, he snarled at Agatha. ‘You drive and the Holy Roller can sit beside you. One false move and I’ll kill you both.’
    ‘Take the road through Ancombe,’ he ordered as Agatha drove off.
    Agatha felt all hope die. The police would come into the village the other way and so miss them. The cold muzzle of the revolver was pressed against her neck.
    Mrs Bloxby sat quietly beside her, hands clasped in prayer. What good will that do? Agatha wanted to scream at her.
    ‘Down to Moreton and take the Fosse towards Stratford,’ ordered Guy.
    Agatha obeyed. There was nothing else she could do. Jammed beside her on the seat was her handbag, which she had picked up through force of habit. Was there anything in it she could use as a weapon? Nail scissors? Forget it. There was a little can of spray lacquer. If only she could get that and spray it in his face. But how?
    Start him talking, she thought. ‘So you killed them?’ she said.
    ‘Just drive and keep your mouth shut.’
    In books, thought Agatha wildly, the criminals always bragged about their crimes, allowing the hero to escape. The windscreen wipers moved rhythmically like metronomes.
    They left Moreton-in-Marsh behind and out they went along the Fosse Way, the Roman road which, like all Roman roads, went straight up hills and down the other side. Roman armies had not gone in for easy detours.
    ‘Right here!’ barked Guy.
    ‘This goes to Toddenham,’ said Agatha. ‘We could have gone round the back of Budgen’s.’
    ‘Drive!’
    Would Doris Simpson look after her cats? He surely meant to kill them.
    ‘Stop!’ he commanded.
    Agatha stopped with a squeal of brakes. ‘You first,’ Guy said to Mrs Bloxby. ‘If you run for it, I’ll kill her.’
    ‘Run for it,’ Agatha urged the vicar’s wife. ‘He’s going to kill both of us anyway.’
    But Mrs Bloxby got out and stood meekly beside the car.
    ‘Into the field,’ said Guy.
    Agatha found she was still clutching her handbag.
    As she ducked under the fence, she released the flap and groped for that little can of lacquer.
    ‘Now stand there, together.’ The rain had stopped and