Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death (11 page)

Roy’s thin face lightened. ‘That’s it. It can’t be my clothes. I mean, this sweater’s Italian and cost a mint, and my jeans are stone-washed.’

Agatha privately thought that no matter how much money he spent on clothes, Roy would always look somehow as if he belonged in one of those London street gangs of white-faced undernourished
youths.

‘Oh, bugger,’ said Agatha as they drove into Mircester. ‘Market-day. No central parking, and I’m sick of walking.’

‘Park right there!’ said Roy.

‘It’s a yellow line. No parking.’

‘Just park,’ said Roy, fumbling in his back pocket and taking out his wallet. He fished out a ‘disabled’ sticker and affixed it on Agatha’s windscreen.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘From a friend,’ said Roy.

‘But what if some copper comes along?’

‘We can always drool at the mouth and say we’re mentally disabled. Come along.’

They went into the police headquarters and asked for Bill Wong. ‘We should have phoned,’ said Agatha, as they waited. ‘He’s probably out.’

But after a few minutes, Bill appeared.

‘I hope you’ve got something for me,’ he said. ‘I’m busy.’ He led the way to an interviewing-room.

Agatha outlined everything she had learned since the last time she had seen him, ending up with Mary Owen’s claim that Jane Cutler had murdered Robert Struthers to inherit after his
death.

‘Not the case,’ said Bill. ‘His son gets everything, not even a mention of either Jane Cutler or Mary Owen in the will.’

‘Oh,’ said Agatha, disappointed.

‘This old boy, I mean Struthers,’ said Roy, ‘could have been playing both of them along. Old people sometimes do that to get attention. I mean, he liked playing cagey. He
wouldn’t tell any of the other councillors which way he meant to vote. Strikes me as being manipulative and liking his little bit of power. Just suppose Jane Cutler thought she was in the
will.’

‘That’s a good point,’ said Bill, ‘but why not get him to marry her and be absolutely sure? Common sense would tell her that he would leave it all to his son. Then Jane
Cutler is rich, and if Mary Owen has fallen on hard times, and
she
believed he had changed his will in
her
favour, then she might have bumped him off and then accused Jane to deflect
any suspicions from her, although it’s all very far-fetched.’

‘James has disappeared,’ said Agatha. ‘Have you heard anything?’

Yes, Bill had through the grapevine learned that James was masquerading as a member of Save Our Foxes, but he didn’t want to tell Agatha that. He felt the less Agatha saw of James, the
better. Out of sight was out of mind.

‘No,’ he lied. ‘Probably off on his travels.’

Agatha pulled herself together. ‘You said they had decided that Struthers had been killed elsewhere and dumped at the spring. Any forensic evidence?’

‘Nothing much. Forensic believes that someone vacuumed the body before dumping it. There was just one thing. A white cat hair in one of his turn-ups. He wore those old-fashioned
trousers.’

Agatha’s eyes gleamed. ‘So we are looking for someone with a white cat!’

‘Do you know, there isn’t one white cat in the village of Ancombe?’ said Bill. ‘We went from house to house. Someone could be lying, of course.’

‘It needn’t be an all-white cat,’ said Roy. ‘Could be one of those black-and-white things.’

‘Sorry. I should have explained that the hair was from a Persian cat.’

‘Definitely a Persian, and a cat?’ asked Agatha. ‘It couldn’t have been a dog?’

Agatha would have loved it to turn out to have been Mrs Darry.

‘Definitely a Persian cat.’

‘Still, it’s something to go on,’ said Agatha eagerly.

‘I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm for amateur detection, but a great number of policemen have been searching for that cat and are still searching.’

‘Does Mary Owen have an alibi?’

‘Yes, on the night of the murder she was staying with her sister in Mircester. She stayed all night.’

‘But he could have been killed earlier in the day!’

‘It’s always hard to estimate time of death, but he was killed earlier that evening. Mary Owen’s sister said she arrived at four in the afternoon and did not leave until the
following morning.’

‘A sister would say anything.’

‘True, but she seems a very direct, truthful sort of lady. Now, I’ve really got to get back to work.’

As Agatha and Roy approached Agatha’s car, a large policeman was standing staring at it.

‘Limp!’ hissed Roy.

The policeman swung round and watched their approach. ‘Thank you, dear boy,’ quavered Agatha. ‘I am getting so forgetful. I cannot remember where I left my stick.’

Hoping desperately it was not some policeman who had seen her before, Agatha smiled at him weakly and allowed Roy to help her into the driving seat. As soon as Roy was in behind her, she drove
off with a great grinding and clashing of gears.

‘Okay, I’m nervous,’ said Agatha. ‘The minute we stop I’m going to get that sticker off the windscreen.’

‘Where now?’

‘Let’s go back to Ancombe and have a wander around. We might see that cat.’

‘We haven’t eaten and I’m starving.’

‘We’ll eat in the pub in Ancombe.’

‘What about all that food I was going to cook? I’ve got to get the London train this evening.’

‘Next time,’ said Agatha.

James and Zak had agreed not to be seen spending too much time together. There was a member of Save Our Foxes called Billy Guide who drank heavily. James targeted him, buying
the grateful Billy as much as he could drink.

A week after Agatha’s interview with Mary Owen, James attended another meeting and his heart beat faster when he learned that the group’s next expedition was to the spring in
Ancombe.

Sybil, her fine eyes flashing, said they would take bags of cement and put them into the basin of the spring.

James, who longed to point out that their plan would cause more destruction to the village environment than the water company, kept silent. Why should such a group switch their attention from
animals to the matter of spring water? Someone must be paying them for this action. Sybil was saying that the bus would pick them up at the usual place.

He half-listened to her rant, wondering if she believed a word of it.

Various other members made rousing speeches. James stifled a yawn. He roused himself when he heard Trevor ask if the press had been informed.

‘No,’ said Sybil. ‘When the spring is cemented up, we’ll phone them.’

‘Wait a bit,’ slurred Billy Guide, ‘if the basin is filled with cement, that means the water from the spring will flood that woman’s garden – what’s her name?
– Toynbee.’

‘And serve her right!’ cried Sybil. ‘It’s all her fault that capitalist commercialism has been allowed to pollute one of our English villages.’

At last the meeting finished. James edged up to Billy. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Okay, squire,’ said Billy, ‘but I’m a bit broke.’

‘On me.’

‘Great.’

‘Let’s find a pub a bit away from here,’ said James, knowing that Billy would go anywhere for a free drink.

On the road to the pub, Billy said, ‘My missus is always complaining I come home smelling of beer.’

‘Let’s have vodka,’ said James. ‘That doesn’t smell.’

And may God forgive me, he thought. I didn’t think any of this useless lot were married. Billy already smelt like a brewery, but James was only interested in getting him drunk enough to
loosen up.

He didn’t, however, want Billy to get so drunk that he couldn’t think or speak.

‘Have you been married long?’ he asked.

‘Ten years.’

‘Kids?’

‘Four.’

‘You haven’t got a job, have you? What do you live on?’

‘Missus goes out cleaning and the mother-in-law takes care of the kids.’

So much for women’s liberation, thought James bleakly.

Billy went into a long rambling monologue about the unfairness of life.

At last James asked, ‘How did you get into this Save Our Foxes business?’

‘Get a bit o’ drink money.’

‘Do you care about saving foxes?’

Billy gave him a sly grin. ‘O’ course. Got to save the little bleeders.’

‘What I can’t understand,’ said James, ‘is why you’re all so interested in this spring? Who’s paying you?’

‘You know, Jim. We go along. Have a bit of a punch-up. Get forty quid. Not bad.’

‘But, I mean, where does the money come from to pay us?’

‘We’re not supposed to know, Jim. But I heard . . .’

Billy looked thoughtfully down at his empty glass.

‘I’ll get us another,’ said James quickly.

He returned with two vodkas. Billy was never quite drunk, never quite sober. He seemed to be able to sink an enormous capacity without falling over. James was beginning to feel pretty drunk
himself, and he was anxious to get some facts out of Billy while he was still able to.

‘You were saying about who was paying us?’ asked James.

‘Was I?’ Billy looked suddenly truculent and suspicious. ‘What’s a posh fellow like you doing with us lot?’ James had given up trying to hide his accent.

‘Because a bit of a punch-up is fun,’ he said.

‘That’s what I thought.’ Billy raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you.’

‘So I mean, who’s paying? Not to mention paying fines for disturbance of the peace?’

Billy leaned forward. ‘Sybil and Trevor like to keep us in the dark about that. Playing at spies, like. But I heard Sybil say something like, I got the money from that Owen
woman.’

Mary Owen. I’ll be damned, thought James, masking his excitement.

To his relief he heard the barman call, ‘Time, gennelmun, pullease.’ Got the information just in the nick of time.

He said goodbye to Billy outside the pub and hurried back to his temporary room. He would hang around a few days to allay suspicion and then he would head back to Carsely and call Bill Wong to
tell him he had solved the murder. For if Mary Owen felt so passionately about the spring, then it followed that she must have committed the murder. And James wanted Agatha to be there when he told
Bill.

He thought briefly of Zak. Perhaps he should tell Zak – but then James wanted all the glory for himself.

James returned to Carsely early in the morning on the day before the attack on the spring was due to take place.

He phoned Bill Wong and asked him to call at ten in the morning. No, he couldn’t tell him over the phone. It was only fair that Agatha should hear his news at the same time.

He decided to walk next door to Agatha’s cottage and give her the invitation. He felt quite like Poirot and only wished he had a library so that he could stand on the hearthrug in front of
the marble fireplace and tell them how it had all been done.

But as soon as he stepped outside his own front door he saw a car parked behind Agatha’s, outside her front door.

That chap from the water company. And James was willing to bet he hadn’t been making an early-morning call but had stayed the night.

Muzzy with sex and sleep, Agatha awoke to the shrill sound of the telephone ringing.

She grabbed the receiver.

‘Agatha!’ It was James.

‘Yes?’

‘I have something to tell you and Bill Wong about the murder. Can you be at my cottage at ten this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Who was that?’ demanded Guy, stretching and yawning.

‘Just a neighbour,’ said Agatha. ‘Got to get dressed.’

She went through to the bathroom and leaned on the wash-hand basin and stared at her puffy face and tousled hair in the mirror. When she was young, a night of love-making would leave her looking
radiant. Now that she was old, it seemed to do nothing but accentuate the bags under the eyes and the lines down either side of the mouth.

What did James want? And why, oh why, had he chosen this morning of all mornings to phone?

She washed and dressed, made up with care, and went down to the kitchen, where Guy was sitting at the table in one of her frilly dressing-gowns drinking coffee.

He gave her a warm smile. Agatha blinked at him. She wished she had never gone to bed with him again. But James seemed to have been gone so long and they had both drunk rather a lot at dinner
the night before.

She wondered if Guy felt any affection for her at all. Charles, that wretched baronet, had seemed to treat her as an easy lay, but he had teased her and laughed at her and had seemed genuinely
fond of her in his way. But Guy seemed to be acting a part.

Agatha glanced at the kitchen clock. Five minutes to ten. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said hurriedly ‘Could you let yourself out? And won’t you be in trouble turning up
late at the office?’

He laughed. ‘One of the benefits of being a director is one can turn up late at the office.’

She bent over him and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Phone you later,’ said Agatha and made her escape.

It had been raining during the night and the air was fresh and clean, making Agatha feel soiled and depraved. She hoped to have a few words with James, but when she arrived outside his door she
was joined by Bill Wong, who had just driven up.

Bill and Agatha stared in amazement at the blond and ear-ringed James who answered the door.

‘What’s happened to you?’ asked Agatha.

‘Part of my disguise,’ said James. ‘I’ve been undercover. Come in and sit down and I’ll tell you who murdered Robert Struthers.’

‘So you’ve been investigating on your own.’ Colour flamed in Agatha’s face.

‘You’ve got a love-bite on your neck,’ said James coldly.

‘Here, now,’ admonished Bill. ‘This is important.’

They all sat down, Agatha and Bill on a sofa facing James, who sat in his favourite armchair.

‘I joined Save Our Foxes,’ said James.

‘So it
was
you I saw on television,’ cried Agatha.

‘The barbecue? Yes, that was me,’ said James proudly. ‘Well, here’s what I found out. They are going to the spring tomorrow afternoon and they are going to block it off
with cement. And that’s not all. I’ve found out who’s paying them to demonstrate. Mary Owen.’