The Wellspring of Death by M.C. Beaton

Author:M.C. Beaton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 1997-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

6

Agatha went back to London with Roy after the weekend. She knew journalists, ever fickle creatures, were quite capable of forgetting to turn up for the fête, and needed to be reminded of it and bullied all over again into coming. She also needed an excuse to get away from Carsely, James and Guy.

At first she found the journalists had become lukewarm about the prospect of a visit down to the country to a fête to celebrate the launch of water, of all things. So Agatha told them all about the attempt to block up the spring, which the television stations and national newspapers had heard about too late to film or photograph. Agatha hinted darkly at fears of an almighty punch-up on the day of the fête, painting an alarming picture of sweet little children sent flying by protesters, and village ladies screaming in fright. Interest in the fête was reanimated to such an extent that Agatha thought at times it might be a good idea to pay the protesters herself to turn up.

By the end of her week, she felt she had done very well, only to receive a set-back just as she was preparing to leave. Jane Harris, the film star who was to open the fête, would not attend. Her agent phoned to say that Ms Harris had read the reports of the murder at Ancombe and the demonstrations and she sympathized with the demonstrators, as she considered English rural life should be protected.

“The silly bitch lives between Chelsea and L.A.,” howled Agatha.

The agent hung up on her.

I’m losing my touch, thought Agatha miserably. Now who do I get? It had better be someone good or the Freemonts will be cancelling my contract.

The phone rang. It was Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife. “How did you get my number?” asked Agatha.

“You left it with me, don’t you remember? How are things?”

“Not very well. I have to stay on. Jane Harris has cancelled. I haven’t told the water company yet. I need to get a replacement.”

There was a long silence.

“Are you still there?” Agatha demanded.

“I’m thinking.”

Agatha sighed. She was very fond of the vicar’s wife, but how on earth could she help?

“I have it,” said Mrs Bloxby.

“What?” asked Agatha.

“The Pretty Girls.”

“Who are they when they’re at home?”

Mrs Bloxby laughed. “I never expected to be more up in the world than you. They are a pop group. Number one on the hit parade. They are a new type of pop singer. Very pretty, and wear old–fashioned clothes. They do a lot for charity. Who gets the money from the fête?”

“The water company, I suppose.”

“If you say the money is going to help AIDS – The Pretty Girls support that – I think if they are free, they would do it. They would be a big crowd-puller. They also support animal liberation, so their presence at the fête will give it respectability with environmental groups.”

“You’re a genius,” said Agatha. “I’ll get on to it right away.”

Some hard phoning later and Agatha to her delight had secured the presence of The Pretty Girls.

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