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

something so threatening in the word
“environment”.’
    ‘I do think you ought to tell the police about the letters,’ said Agatha.
    ‘I gather you have gained the reputation of being a bit of a sleuth ,’ said Robina. ‘But there is really nothing to worry about. So much better to leave things to the
experts.’
    Agatha was beginning to dislike Robina.
    The living-room, so pleasant when they arrived, seemed to have become claustrophobic. The day outside had suddenly darkened. Robina was wearing a very sweet, very powerful scent which mingled
with the scent of some air freshener and the smell of brandy. Miss Jakes glared down at them as if to say she would not have given such people house-room in her day.
    ‘If a murdered man had been found at the bottom of my garden and I was receiving threatening letters,’ said Agatha, ‘I would be very worried indeed.’
    ‘Ah, that’s because you are an incomer. Incomers never really belong . Us country people are so close to the soil and the violence of nature that we become tougher.’
    ‘Us city people are so close to the violence of the streets that we have a healthy wariness,’ said Agatha.
    Robina waved her brandy glass and looked at Roy and raised her eyebrows. ‘She doesn’t understand.’
    ‘What about the man who was murdered?’ said Roy. ‘Who do you think killed him?’
    ‘That would be the Buckleys.’
    ‘Because of the paddock?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Oh, you’ve heard about that. Angela and her father are really quite coarse and brutal people.’
    ‘So you don’t think it had anything to do with the water?’ asked Roy.
    She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘No, nothing at all. More brandy?’
    ‘No, we must be on our way,’ said Agatha, standing up. ‘But please, let the police know about those letters.’
    ‘Where to now?’ asked Roy as they scampered to the car through a heavy shower of rain.
    ‘We may as well call at the electrician’s shop. We might catch Fred Shaw before he leaves.’
    ‘Is he for or against?’
    ‘For,’ said Agatha. ‘Although, after Robina, Jane Cutler and Angela, I’m beginning to think the ones against couldn’t turn out to be any nastier.’
    Fred Shaw was just closing up when they arrived. He hailed Agatha like an old friend and invited them into his back shop, where he opened a bottle of whisky and started to pour
a strong measure in each glass.
    ‘Here’s to success,’ said Fred, raising his glass. ‘You sorted them out, Mrs Raisin.’
    Agatha murmured, ‘Success.’ She covertly studied Fred Shaw. Although sixty years old, he was a powerful man with a thick neck and broad shoulders and hands.
    ‘I only wish old Struthers was still alive,’ Fred was saying.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because he was pissing about like a shy virgin over the decision. “I will give you my considered opinion all in good time.” Old fart!’
    ‘You didn’t like him?’
    ‘I should be chairman,’ said Fred. ‘I’d have put a bomb under this lot. Couldn’t make a decision about anything to save themselves.’
    ‘But at least Angela Buckley and Jane Cutler were on your side over the business of the water company.’
    ‘Them! Let me tell you, Mrs Raisin, just between us, that precious pair didn’t give a damn about the water company one way or t’other. They were just tired of being bossed
around by Mary Owen.’
    ‘You don’t seem to like each other much in this village,’ volunteered Roy.
    ‘I’ve got good mates here,’ said Fred, ‘but none of ’em are on the council.’
    ‘Why is that?’ Roy took a good swig of whisky and mentally said goodbye to a few more brain cells. He wished he’d never been told that about dying brain cells. He could almost
see the little buggers choking and gasping and expiring on a sea of whisky.
    ‘Because this is a snobby village and we’ve all been councillors for yonks. Nobody stands against us. You know why? Because no one wants to take responsibility for anything these
days.