Agatha Raisin And The Wellspring Of Death Part 8

"Because the majority of the British people voted for them," said Agatha.

"Naw. It was because the majority of Conservative voters sat at home on their b.u.ms and didn't vote."

"Have you any idea who might have killed Mr Struthers?" asked Roy.

Fred tapped the side of his nose. "Let's have another."

"I don't think..." Agatha began, but he was already refilling their gla.s.ses.

"Now," said Agatha. "Yes, cheers, Mr Shaw. You were saying?"

"There's things go on here that I know. I keep my ear to the ground. Get me?"

"Yes, yes," said Roy, wriggling with excitement.

Fred gave him a suspicious look. "It's a good thing I've got a dishwasher. Sterilizes things," he said obscurely. "Yes. Let me tell you, Peyton Place has nothing on Ancombe. Now, Mary Owen had an eye on Mr Struthers-"

"But Mr Struthers was eighty-two!"

"But Mary Owen is sixty-five, and when you get as old as that," said Fred, just as if he weren't nearly that age himself, "you look for security."

"Everyone says that Mary Owen is independently wealthy!"

"Ah, but she prides herself on being a wheeler and dealer on the stock market. Believed to have lost a packet, and recently, too. So she sets her sights on old Robert Struthers. That's when our Jane Cutler moves in. Our Jane specializes in rich men who haven't long to live. It's a wonder Robert Struthers didn't die of overeating. If one of them wasn't making him meals or taking him out to dinner, the other was."

"And who looked like winning?"

"I had my money on our Jane and Mary was fit to be tied. Council meeting two months ago, she called Jane a harlot."

"Are you suggesting that Mary Owen murdered Mr Struthers?" asked Roy. "Why not murder Jane Cutler?"

"Ah, that was because at that council meeting where Mary called Jane a harlot, our Robert upped and made Mary apologize. Mary said to me afterwards that Robert Struthers was a decent man who had been corrupted by Jane."

"But murder!" protested Agatha.

"Our Mary's a powerful woman and she doesn't like anyone to get in her way."

"All this is fascinating," said Agatha. She could feel her head beginning to swim with all she had drunk. "Have you told the police any of this?"

"Naw! Got no time for the police. Do you know they arrested me for drunk driving last year after I'd only had a couple of pints? b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. The countryside's crawling with murderers and rapists and all they can do is persecute innocent citizens. Another?"

"No, really thank you." Agatha got to her feet.

Roy was holding out his gla.s.s and she plucked it from his fingers and set it firmly on the table.

"About that fete," said Fred. "I'm a fine speaker."

"I'm sure we'll find something for you," said Agatha, now desperate to get out in the fresh air.

"That's very kind of you," said Fred. "I'll call on you nearer the time and we can go over my speech."

"We can't drive, either of us," said Agatha when they got outside. The rain had stopped and a pale washed-out evening sky stretched overhead. It had turned cold.

"Oh, come on. I'll drive," said Roy. "It's not far."

"No," said Agatha firmly. "I've got a clean licence and it's going to stay that way and my insurance doesn't cover you driving."

"We didn't have much to drink."

"We did. Those gla.s.ses of whisky were enormous."

"What about having a bash at Mary Owen?"

"Not till my head clears up. We need food. Come along, a walk will do us both good."

They were half-way to Ca.r.s.ely when, against the sky p.r.i.c.ked by the first stars, black clouds started streaming overhead.

They quickened their steps but soon the first drops began to fall and then the deluge came. By the time they finally reached Agatha's cottage, they were soaked to the skin but stone-cold sober.

After they had dried themselves and changed their clothes, Roy said he would set about making dinner, but Agatha, fearing that Roy would fuss about the kitchen, using every pot, and that they would probably end up eating at midnight, insisted on going to the pub.

When they arrived back again, she realized she had not checked her British Telecom Call Minder to see if there were any messages. The lady whose voice is on the Call Minder always seemed to Agatha an irritating relic of the days when women took elocution lessons. It was a governessy sort of eat-your-porridge-or-you-won't-go-to-the-circus sort of voice. "Two messages," said this voice. "Would you like to hear them?" Did anyone not want to hear messages? thought Agatha crossly.

The first was from Guy Freemont. "Been trying to get hold of you. Call me."

The second was from Mary Owen. "I think it is time we had a talk, Mrs Raisin. Please call me."

Agatha looked at the clock. It was midnight. Too late to call. They had to walk back to Ancombe in the morning to pick up the car. She would see Mary Owen then.

As she fell asleep that night, her last thoughts as usual were about James. Where was he?

James, a very different-looking James, had earlier that week joined a meeting of Save Our Foxes in the back room of an Irish pub in Rugby. His black hair had been dyed blond, he had three ear-rings in one ear, and he was wearing a camouflage jacket, dirty jeans and large ex-army boots. Frightened that his accent might prove him to be an impostor, he had mostly communicated with his new companions in grunts.

He felt that if he could find out who had been paying the protesters for that demonstration at the spring, he might have a clue to the ident.i.ty of the murderer.

The chairperson-stupid, stupid word, thought James with true Agatha savagery: there was either a chairman or a chairwoman, and what was wrong with that?-the chairthing, then, was a thin, neurotic woman with tangled locks, a sallow, hungry face, and large, rather beautiful eyes. She was called Sybil. No one used second names. James himself had become Jim.

The purpose of this meeting was because one of the members had noticed in the local newspaper that a car salesman in Coventry was to hold a barbecue in his garden on his fortieth birthday. To celebrate his 'gypsy' heritage, he planned to serve his guests barbecued hedgehogs. A man called Trevor pointed out that hedgehogs were not a protected species, to which Sybil shouted, "He'll find out they are now!" and got a round of applause. James covertly studied the group. They all looked militant. There was no sign of the mild-looking ones who had fronted the procession to the spring. Probably got frightened off. Nor, fortunately, was there any sign of the man who had tried to attack Agatha.

His own presence had been accepted after only one question from Sybil. How had he learned of them? Someone up in Birmingham, James had grunted.

The whole meeting was rather like a political rant. Sybil became very emotional over the plight of the hedgehogs. Why was it, James wondered, that nursery-book animals were always singled out for protection while things like spiders could be slaughtered with a free conscience?

Or if they had learned of a barn where the farmer was about to exterminate rats, would they have mustered with the same pa.s.sion? And the one burning question was: Who was paying for all this? For the meeting room, for the transport to various hunts and to the spring itself?

There must be an office somewhere.

The only member who made James uneasy was a large, burly young man with a shaven head and a skull and crossbones tattooed on it. He was called Zak, and James was uncomfortably aware of Zak's eyes on him from time to time.

At last the meeting was wound up. Sybil said a bus would pick them all up in the centre of Coventry on the Sat.u.r.day at 2 a.m. and take them to the wicked car salesman's barbecue.

As they were shuffling out of the door, Zak took James by the elbow in a powerful grip. "I think we should find a place for a drink, mate," he said.

"Got someone to see," muttered James.

"They can wait," said Zak, not releasing his grip on James's arm.

Not wanting to attract attention by making a scene, James allowed himself to be led out and marched along the street to another pub.

The new pub was quite respectable and fairly full. James began to relax. He could always get someone to call the police if Zak started to get nasty They ordered half-pints of bitter and took them to a corner table.

"Now, mate," said Zak, "what's your game?"

"What d'yer mean?" said James.

"You ain't one of them. Spotted it the minute you walked in."

James studied Zak's unlovely face and then said in his own voice, "Them? You said 'them'. Not, 'one of us'. What's your game?"

They scrutinized each other like two strange cats. James glanced under the table at Zak's feet. The torn jeans Zak was wearing ended in a pair of black lace-up shoes.

James gave a slow smile. "Are you a detective?"

"Copper. The CID don't waste their time with a piffling thing like this. So what's your business?"

"How did you guess I wasn't one of them?"

"You're too clean and your nails are manicured. Did you notice the smell of unwashed bodies in there? They consider it bourgeois to wash. Sybil says that a capitalist society has removed all the exciting body odours from the British population,"

"I'm from near Ancombe," said James. "The village where that murder took place at the spring."

"So what's that got to do with mis lot?"

"They demonstrated at the spring. I wondered what had brought them. No animals involved."

"You think they had something to do with the murder?"

"No, but the water company taking away the water aroused strong feelings among the members of the parish council who didn't want the water taken away. I thought one of them might have paid this lot, and if someone paid this lot, then that person might be the murderer. Who pays mem, by the way? I heard somewhere that hunt saboteurs get as much as forty pounds a day."

"Believe me, mate, thafs something I've never been able to find out. You'll get paid on Sat.u.r.day. Plain envelope, notes inside. We've been able to trace legitimate contributions, sad, lonely people who can only relate to animals."

"The ones who demand unconditional love?"

"You've lost me there."

"There's a lot of hypersensitive people around who keep getting hurt by humans and so they pour out all their love on dogs and cats, and the dogs, in particular, return the love, and they can't speak, can't nag and are not likely to run away to another owner,"

"I get it. Well, some old codger dies and either because of the reasons you gave, or because they think their relatives didn't appreciate them, they leave their money to organizations like this."

"So do you go undercover to tip the police off when there's going to be a demonstration?"

"If it's going to be really nasty, yes, but I have to be careful. I won't bother about this thing on Sat.u.r.day. If it gets rough, I'll hide behind a bush and call them in on my mobile."

"How long have you been doing it?"

"Six months, here and there, different groups."

"Seems a bit rough. That tattoo, for instance."

"Washes off. Not the real thing, and my hair'll grow back in again. They've promised to take me off it soon, send someone else."

"So is Sybil the head of this lot?"

"No. Look, they go on about the liberation of women, but these groups are as male-chauvinist-pig as you could find anywhere. So they put up some noisy female as chairperson while the fellows actually do all the organizing. You sometimes get a few upper-cla.s.s ones joining in. They like a rumble for a bit of excitement and don't care what the cause is. So tell me about yourself."

So James did: retired colonel, trying to write military history.

"I don't mind you being around and that's a fact," said Zak when James had finished. "But dirty up your nails a bit."

"And you should change your shoes," said James with a grin. "They scream 'copper'."

Car salesman Mike Pratt surveyed his appearance complacently in the mirror that Sat.u.r.day. He didn't look forty. Bit of grey hair at the temples, but that gave him a distinguished look. His designer jeans had knife-edge creases and his new white leather shoes, he thought, gave him an international look. He glanced at his gold Rolex, not a real one, mind, but bought in Nathan Street in Kowloon, and who could tell the difference?

His wife came into the bedroom and stood with her thin arms folded, looking at him. Kylie was his second wife. She had been a pretty little blonde when he married her ten years ago, but now, he thought, glaring at her reflection in the mirror, she looked a fright, with dark roots showing in her blonde hair, and a skimpy Ts.h.i.+rt, skin-tight leggings and high-heeled shoes all accentuating her painful thinness. He tied a red scarf at the neck of his open-necked blue s.h.i.+rt.

"Everything's ready for you to play the big shot," said Kylie. "But I ain't roasting them hedgehogs, no way."

"You wouldn't know how to," sneered Mike. "I know, just like that, cos of my gypsy background."

"What gypsy background?" said Kylie. "Your father's a burglar and he's still doing time."

"I'm talking about my grandparents. My grandmother was a gypsy." Mike took a swig of vodka from a gla.s.s on the dressing-table. His consumption of alcohol was awe-inspiring.

It is a sad trait among American alcoholics to claim a Cherokee grandmother; among their British counterparts, it is a gypsy.

Mike and Kylie Pratt lived in a neat bungalow among other neat bungalows, all almost identical with their niched curtains at the windows and their manicured lawns.

Mike went out carrying his gla.s.s, brus.h.i.+ng past his wife. He heard the first car arrive. He had invited all the neighbours. He was not sure how hedgehogs should be roasted, but they were meat like any other animal, and should surely simply be salted and peppered and put on the barbecue.

The day was fine, not a cloud in the sky. Feeling the lord of the manor, he advanced to meet the first of his guests.

He had paid the butcher to skin the hedgehogs, and the little carca.s.ses lay in a pathetic bunch on a table beside the barbecue. On other tables were bowls of salads, paper plates, cups, bottles and gla.s.ses.

He felt at his best when dispensing drinks. The garden began to fill up. Voices were raised in the usual neighbourly salutations, "You a'right? I'm a'right." The women surrounded their men, listening eagerly as if they had not heard every word over the preceding years, prompting their spouses with little cries of "Ye-yes. Oh, yes."

Mike put the hedgehogs on the barbecue and poked at them with a long fork. Maybe he should have tried to cook one before. The smell was not very appetizing.

And then the protesters erupted into the garden. "Murderer!" screamed Sybil.