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the parish council which, I gather, if accepted, will go towards the building of a new community hall. Yes, the publicity will bring tourists to the village but tourists will bring trade to the village shops. From nine in the morning each day until the following dawn, the spring will belong to the villagers as it always has.’
    Bill Wong leaned back in his seat and smiled appreciatively. It was nice to see Agatha Raisin back on form. He had been worried about her since her break-up with James.
    ‘Wait a bit,’ shouted Andy Stiggs. ‘I know you, Mrs Raisin. You’re one of those incomers, one of those people who are ruining the village character.’
    ‘If it weren’t for incomers, you wouldn’t have any village character,’ said Agatha. ‘Those cottages down the lower end of the village, what about them? They were derelict and abandoned for years. Then some enterprising builder did them up, lovingly restored them. Who bought them? Incomers. Who made the gardens pretty again? Incomers.’
    ‘That’s because the local people couldn’t afford the prices,’ panted Andy.
    ‘You mean they’re all broke like you, Miss Owen and Mr Bill Allen?’
    Agatha winked at the audience and there was an appreciative roar of laughter.
    ‘I must and will have my say.’ Bill Allen, the owner of the garden centre, got up and stood in front of the microphone. He was dressed in a hacking jacket, knee-breeches, lovat socks and brogues. A pseud, if ever there was one, thought Agatha, listening to the genteel strangulation of his vowels.
    He began to read from a sheaf of papers. It soon became apparent to all in the hall that he had written a speech. A cloud of boredom settled down. Agatha despaired. She wanted the meeting to end on a high note. But how to stop him?
    She scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Bill Allen. He glanced at it, turned brick-red and abruptly left the platform.
    Gleefully Agatha took his place. ‘The other thing I meant to tell you is that to launch the new bottled water, we are going to have a splendid fête right here in Ancombe, a good old-fashioned village fête. Yes, we’ll have film stars and people like that present, but I want you to have all your usual stalls, home-made jam, cakes, things like that, and games for the children. It will be the village fête to end all village fêtes. Television will be there, of course, and we will show the world what Ancombe is made of. Won’t we?’
    She beamed around the audience and was greeted with a roar of applause.
    When the vote was taken, the villagers were overwhelmingly in favour of the water company. Many of the villagers belonged to the group of incomers that Andy Stiggs had so despised.
    Agatha found her hand being shaken warmly by the councillors who were in favour of the water company – Mrs Jane Cutler, Mr Fred Shaw and Miss Angela Buckley. Angela Buckley, a strapping woman, gave Agatha such a congratulatory thump between the shoulder-blades that she nearly sent her flying off the platform.
    ‘Mission accomplished,’ whispered Guy in Agatha’s ear. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
    Outside the hall, Guy put his arms around Agatha. ‘You were marvellous,’ he said. He gave her a kiss full on the mouth. Agatha drew back and stared at him. He was so incredibly handsome and she had felt a definite buzz when he kissed her. She gave a sad little sigh. She had never liked the idea of a toy boy. Better to grow old gracefully.
    ‘What did you write on that note to get the old bore off the platform?’ asked Guy.
    ‘I told him his fly was open.’
    ‘Attagirl. Let’s have a drink.’
    Agatha was suddenly reluctant to take him home. ‘Let’s go to my local,’ she said.
    The Red Lion was crowded. The first person Agatha saw was James Lacey, standing at the bar. Agatha looked at his tall, rangy figure, his black hair going grey and handsome face, and felt a lurch in the pit of her stomach. A couple were just vacating a table over at the