Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

tailored skirt which had been too tight at the waist when she had last tried it on a few months ago. She also put on a shirt blouse and tailored jacket, packed a writing-pad and pens into a Gucci briefcase, and decided she was ready for her new job.
    One of the pleasures of being independently wealthy, she thought, was she did not care very much whether she got the job or not.
    She stopped on her way out of the village at the general store and bought the newspapers. Nothing much yet. Only small paragraphs in each to say the police were continuing their investigations into the death of Mr Struthers.
    She drove to Mircester and then through the main town and out to an industrial estate on the fringe where the new water company was situated.
    Her practised eye took in the sparse furnishings of the entrance hall. Low sofa, table, glossy magazines, green plants in pots. Good appearance but not that much money spent.
    The receptionist with a smooth brown skin and large doe-like eyes had a Jamaican accent and shoulder-pads like an American football player. She took Agatha’s name, rang someone and then said, ‘The secretary will be with you presently.’
    Now let’s see how long they keep me waiting, thought Agatha. Successful company directors did not play at being important.
    After two minutes a tall, willowy Princess Di look-alike swanned in. ‘Mrs Raisin? Follow me, if you please.’ Following a waft of Givenchy’s Amarige, Agatha trailed behind the vision along a corridor of offices. There didn’t seem to be much sound coming from behind those office doors. Agatha wondered if they were empty.
    The secretary opened a door at the end of the corridor marked ‘Boardroom’ and stood aside to let Agatha enter.
    Agatha cast a quick eye around the boardroom. Long oak table, six chairs, venetian blinds at the two windows, table in the corner with coffee machine, cups, milk, sugar and biscuits.
    ‘If you will sit here, Mrs Raisin.’ The secretary drew out a chair at the end of the table. ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Black, please, and an ashtray.’
    ‘I don’t think we have an ashtray.’
    ‘If I am going to work for you, you’d better find one,’ said Agatha, made tetchy with all the guilt the smoker feels these days.
    The secretary had wide blue eyes fringed with black lashes. A little flicker of dislike flashed in the blue shallows of her eyes and then was immediately gone.
    ‘What’s your name?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Portia Salmond.’
    ‘Well, Portia, are we going to get down to business this day?’
    ‘Mr Peter and Mr Guy will be with you directly.’ Portia went to the coffee machine and poured a cup of coffee for Agatha. She returned and put it down in front of her, along with an extra saucer. ‘You can use that until I manage to find an ashtray.’
    The door at the far end of the room opened and a man entered, hand outstretched.
    ‘I am Peter Freemont,’ he said. ‘Guy will be along in a minute.’
    Peter Freemont was about forty years old, powerful and swarthy with black hair already greying at the temples. He had a large fleshy nose and a small mouth, thick bushy eyebrows and a very large head. His broad figure was encased in a pin-striped suit and his feet, which were tiny, in black lace-up shoes, like children’s shoes. He looked like the figure of a man painted on the side of a balloon. Agatha wondered madly whether, if she tied string around his ankles and held him out of the window, he would float up to the sky.
    But then brother Guy walked in and Agatha promptly forgot about Peter. Guy Freemont was beautiful. He was tall and slim, with jet-black hair and very blue eyes, a tanned skin and an athlete’s body. Agatha judged him to be in his middle thirties. He gave Agatha such a blinding smile that she searched in her briefcase for her notebook to cover her confusion.
    They both sat down at the table. ‘Now, to business. You come highly recommended,’ said Peter.
    ‘I would like to know first,’ said Agatha, ‘if this meeting to be held by Mary Owen in the village hall is going to pose problems. What if the villagers all decide they don’t want the water company?’
    ‘There’s nothing they can do,’ said Peter, clasping his plump hands covered in black hairs on the table in front of him. ‘The spring rises in Mrs Toynbee’s garden. Mrs Toynbee is a direct descendant of Miss Jakes, who first channelled the spring out to the road, and Mrs Toynbee has given us her permission.’
    Guy opened a