Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death by M.C. Beaton

going to have a stiff brandy before I go out.’
    ‘I’d hate to see you drink alone . . .’
    ‘I don’t mind.’
    ‘Just a teensy one, then.’
    One brandy led to three and it was an amiable couple who set out for Ancombe. Agatha parked on the main road a little way along from the spring, where a group of tourists were standing staring
at it and pointing. The barrier of blue-and-white police tape which had guarded the spring had been taken away.
    The entrance to Robina Toynbee’s cottage was by a gate in a lane which ran up the side of the cottage from the main road. ‘We should have phoned first,’ said Roy.
    ‘It’s all right, she’s at home. She’s watching us from the window.’
    As Agatha raised her hand to knock at the door, Robina opened it. ‘I’m delighted to see you, Mrs Raisin,’ she said. ‘I was thinking of phoning you to thank you. Please
come in.’
    The cottage was old, might even be seventeenth century, thought Agatha. The living-room was pleasant: large fireplace, low beams on the ceiling, vases of flowers, pictures and books and a cat
asleep on top of the television set.
    Outside the small leaded windows, a long narrow garden led down to the road, an artistic jumble of pansies, begonias, wisteria, clematis, and lobelia. There was a green lawn with a sundial next
to where the spring bubbled up and then was channelled between rocks and flowers to where it disappeared through the old garden wall.
    Above the fireplace was a dark oil painting of a grim old lady in an enormous cap.
    ‘Your ancestor?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Yes, that is Miss Jakes,’ said Robina. She was wearing a soft-green velvet trouser suit. Agatha herself possessed several velvet trouser suits. She realized, looking at Robina, that
velvet trouser suits were something favoured particularly by middle-aged women and decided to pack hers up and give them away to some charity shop. Although it was only late afternoon,
Robina’s dress was more suitable for evening. With the trouser suit, she wore sparkling ear-rings and a paste diamond necklace, and on her feet, high-heeled black satin shoes.
    In the same way that some lonely women will keep a Christmas tree still lit up long after Christmas, so will they favour evening clothes during the day, as if the very sparkle and glitter could
keep youth alive a little longer.
    ‘So,’ said Robina with a gentle smile, ‘what will we all drink?’
    ‘I don’t know . . .’ began Roy.
    ‘Come now. That is a brandy smell, is it not? I would like to join you in a brandy.’
    Agatha blinked away a picture of herself, Roy and Robina standing chatting inside a large goblet of brandy and said, yes, that would be nice.
    ‘Here’s to success,’ said Robina when the drinks were served. ‘I hope that is an end of the matter. So silly of them to complain about a little bit of water. I think it
was all fuelled by jealousy because I am being paid by the water company. Not much, you know, but it all helps. I mean, as you must be well aware, Mrs Raisin . . .’
    ‘Agatha.’
    ‘Agatha. You must be aware that we have to think of our old age. These nursing homes cost a fortune.’
    ‘I haven’t begun to worry about my old age yet,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Oh, but you should . We can all live so dreadfully long these days.’
    ‘I believe if you think young, you stay young.’
    ‘So right,’ said Robina, casting a flirtatious glance at Roy. ‘And I am not one of those women who think having a toy boy shocking.’
    ‘Roy is not my toy boy,’ said Agatha, wondering if this gentle woman could actually be bitching her. ‘So have there been any repercussions about the water deal?’
    ‘Some very nasty threatening letters. “I’ll kill you, bitch” was the last message. Anonymous, of course.’
    ‘Did you give them to the police?’
    ‘No, I think it is some of those environmental cranks. Do you remember when words were so simple and people talked about the countryside? There is