The Quiche of Death (9 page)

After ten minutes, she got up slowly. She looked at the window. Brown excrement was stuck to it, along with wisps of kitchen
paper. Barbara must have thrown a wrapper full of the stuff.

She went through to the kitchen and got a bucket of water and took it outside and threw it at the window, returning to get
more water until the window was clean. She was going back inside when she saw Mrs. Barr standing at her garden gate, watching
her, her pale eyes alight with malice.

Her rumbling stomach reminded Agatha that she had not eaten. But she did not have the courage to go out again. At least she
had bread and butter. She made herself some toast.

The phone rang shrilly. She approached it and gingerly picked up the receiver. "Hullo," came Roy's mincing voice. "That you,
Aggie?"

"Yes," said Agatha, weak with relief. "How are you?"

"Bit fed up."

"How's Steve?"

"Haven't seen him. Gone all moody on me."

"Buy him a book on village customs. That'll make his eyes light up."

"The only way to make that one's eyes light up," said Steve waspishly, "is to shine a torch in his ear. I've been given the
Tolly Baby Food account."

"Congratulations."

"On what?" Roy's voice was shrill. "Baby food's not my
scene,
ducky. They're doing it deliberately. Hoping I'll fail. More your line."

"Wait a bit. Isn't Tolly Baby Food the stuff that some maniac's been putting glass in and then blackmailing the company?"

"They've arrested someone, but now Tolly wants to restore their image."

"Try going Green," suggested Agatha. "Suggest to the advertising people a line of healthy baby food, no additives, and with
a special safety cap. Get a cartoon figure to promote it. Throw a press party to show off the new vandal-proof top. 'Only
Tolly Baby Food keeps baby safe,' that sort of thing. And don't drink yourself. Take any journalist who has a baby out for
lunch separately."

"They don't have babies," complained Roy. "They give birth to bile."

"There are a few fertile ones." Agatha searched her memory. "There's Jean Hammond, she's got a baby, and Jeffrey Constable's
wife has just had one. You'll find out more if you try. Anyway, women journalists feel obliged to write about babies to show
they're normal. They have to keep trying to identify with the housewives they secretly despise. You know Jill Stamp who's
always rambling on about her godson? Hasn't got one. All part of the image."

"I wish you were doing it," said Roy. "It was fun working for you, Aggie. How's things in Rural Land?"

Agatha hesitated and then said, "Fine."

This was greeted by a long silence. It suddenly struck Agatha with some amazement that Roy might possibly want an invitation.

"You know all that tat in my living-room?"

"What, the fake horse brasses and things?"

"Yes, I'm auctioning them all off in the name of charity. On the tenth of June, a Saturday. Like to come down and see me in
action?"

"Love to."

"All right. I'll meet the train on Friday evening, on the ninth. Wonder you can bear to leave London."

"London is a
sink,"
said Roy bitterly.

"Oh, God, there's a car outside," yelped Agatha. She looked out of the window. "It's all right, it's only the police."

"What
have
you been up to?"

"I'll tell you when I see you. Bye."

Agatha answered the door to Bill Wong. "Now what?" she asked. "Or is this just a friendly call?"

"Not quite." He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

"You were at the Ancombe Fair, I gather," said Bill.

"So?"

"You were seen in the beer tent waving a knife at Miss Barbara James."

"Self-defence. The woman tried to strangle me."

"Why?"

"Because I believe she had been having an affair with Cummings-Browne and she learned my name and saw red."

He flipped open a small notebook and consulted it. "Photographer Ben Birkin of the
Cotswold Courier
snapped a picture and lo and behold, his camera case was snatched. No cameras taken but all the rolls of film."

"Odd," said Agatha. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please. Then I had a call from Fred Griggs, your local bobby. He had a report that a woman an swering to Barbara James's
description threw shit at your windows."

"She's mad," said Agatha, thumping a cup of instant coffee in front of Bill. "Quite mad. And you still claim the death of
Cummings-Browne was an accident. I regret that scene in the beer tent. I'm glad that photographer lost his film. I've suffered
enough without having my photo on the front of some local rag. Oh, God, I suppose they'll run the story even if they don't
have the picture to go with it."

He looked at her speculatively. "You are a very lucky woman. The editor was so furious with Ben Birkin that he didn't want
to know about two women fighting in the beer tent. Furthermore, it so happens that John James, Barbara's father, owns shares
in the company which owns the newspaper. The editor's only interested in cramming as many names and pictures of the locals
into his paper as he can. Luckily, there were several amateur photographers at the fair and Bill was able to buy their film.
Do you wish to charge Barbara James with assault or with throwing what possibly was dog-do at your window?"

Agatha shuddered. "I never want to see that woman again. No."

"I've been making more inquiries about CummingsBrowne," said Bill. "Seems he was quite a Lothario. You wouldn't think it
to look at him, would you? Pointy head and jug ears. Oh, I've found the identity of the woman who was glaring at you at Warwick
Castle."

"Who is she?"

"Miss Maria Borrow, spinster of the parish, not this parish, Upper Cockburn."

"And was
she
having an affair with CummingsBrowne?"

"Seems hardly believable. Retired schoolteacher. Gone a bit batty. Taken up witchcraft. Sixty-two."

"Oh, well, sixty-two. I mean, even CummingsBrowne could hardly—"

"But for the past three years she has won the jam-making competition at Upper Cockburn, and Mr. Cummings-Browne was the judge.
Now don't go near her. Let well alone, Mrs. Raisin. Settle down and enjoy your retirement."

He rose to his feet, but instead of going to the front door he veered into the living-room and stood looking at the fire.
He picked up the long brass poker and shifted the blazing wood. Little black metal film spools rattled through the fire-basket
and onto the hearth.

"Yes, you are
very
lucky, Mrs. Raisin," said Bill. "I happen to detest Ben Birkin."

"Why?" asked Agatha.

"I was having a mild flirtation with a married lady and I was giving her a cuddle behind the abbey in Mircester. Ben took
a photograph and it was published with the caption: 'Safe in the Arms of the Law.' Her husband called on me and I had a job
to talk my way out of that one."

Agatha rallied. "I'm not quite sure what you are getting at. I found a pile of old unused film in my luggage and I was burning
it."

Bill shook his head in mock amazement. "One would think all your years in public relations would have taught you how to lie
better. Mind your own business in future, Agatha Raisin, and leave any investigation to the law."

The squally rain disappeared and clear blue skies shone over the Cotswolds. Agatha, shaken by the fight with Barbara James,
put her bicycle in her car and went off to drive around the Cotswolds, occasionally stopping at some quiet lane to change
over to her bicycle. Huge festoons of wisteria hung over cottage doors, hawthorn blossoms fell in snowy drifts beside the
road, the golden stone of houses glowed in the warm sun and London seemed very far away.

At Chipping Campden, she forgot her determination to slim and ate steak and kidney pie in the antique cosiness of the Eight
Bells before sauntering down the main street of the village with its green verges and houses of golden stone with gables,
tall chimneys, archways, pediments, pillars, mullioned or sash windows, and big flat stone steps. Despite the inevitable groups
of tourists, it had a serene, retiring air. Full of steak and kidney pie, Agatha began to feel a little sense of peace. In
the middle stood the Market Hall of 1627 with its short strong pillars throwing black shadows onto the road. Life could be
easy. All she had to do was to forget about CummingsBrowne's death.

During the next few days, the sun continued to shine and Agatha continued to tour about, occasionally cycling, occasionally
walking, returning every evening with a new feeling of health and well-being. It was with some trepidation that she remembered
she was to accompany the Carsely ladies to Mircester.

But no angry faces glared at her as she climbed aboard the bus. Mrs. Doris Simpson was there, to Agatha's relief and surprise,
and so she sat beside the cleaning woman and chatted idly of this and that. The women in the bus were mostly middle-aged.
Some had brought their knitting, some squares of tapestry. The old bus creaked and clanked along the lanes. The sun shone.
It was all very peaceful.

Agatha assumed that the entertainment to be provided for them by the ladies of Mircester would take the form of tea and cakes,
and meant to indulge herself to the full, feeling all the exercise she had taken in the past few days merited a binge on pastry.
But when they alighted at a church hall it was to find that a full-scale lunch with wine had been laid on. The wine had been
made by members of the Mircester Ladies' Society and was extremely potent. Lunch consisted of clear soup, roast chicken with
chips and green peas, and sherry trifle, followed by Mrs. Rain-worth's apple brandy. Applause for Mrs. Rainworth, a gnarled
old crone, was loud and appreciative as the brandy went the rounds.

The chairwoman of the Mircester Ladies' Society got to her feet. "We have a surprise for you." She turned to Mrs. Bloxby.
"If your ladies would take their bus to the Malvern Theatre, they will find seats have been booked for them."

"What is the entertainment?" asked Mrs. Bloxby.

There were raucous shouts from the Mircester ladies of "Secret! You'll see."

"I wonder what it is," said Agatha to Doris Simpson as they climbed aboard their coach again. It was now Doris and Agatha.
"I don't know," said Doris. "There was some children's theatre giving a show. Might be that."

"I've drunk so much," said Agatha, "I'll probably sleep through the lot."

"Now that is a surprise," exclaimed Doris when their ancient bus clanked to a halt outside the theatre. "It says, 'All-American
Dance Troupe. The Span-glers.'"

"Probably one of these modern ballet companies," groaned Agatha. "Everyone in black tights dancing around what looks like
a bomb site. Oh, well, I hope the music's not too loud."

Inside, she settled herself comfortably with the other members of the Carsely Ladies' Society.

To a roll of drums, the curtain rose. Agatha blinked. It was a show of male strippers. The music beat and pulsated and the
strobe lights darted here and there. Agatha sank lower in her seat, her faced scarlet with embarrassment. Mrs. Rainworth,
the inventor of the apple brandy, stood up on her seat and shouted hysterically, "Get 'em orf." The women were yelling and
cheering. Agatha was dimly glad of the fact that Doris Simpson had taken out some knitting and was working away placidly,
seemingly oblivious to what was going on on the stage or in the audience. The strippers were tanned and well-muscled. They
did not strip completely. They had an arch teasing manner, more like bimbos than men. Naughty but nice. But most of the women
were beside themselves. One middle-aged dyed blond, one of the Mircester ladies, made a wild rush to the stage and had to
be pulled back.

Agatha suffered in silence. But when the show finished, her agony was not over. Members of the audience who wanted their photographs
taken with one of the strippers could do so for a mere fee of ten pounds. And with a few exceptions, the Carsely ladies all
wanted photographs taken.

"Did you enjoy the show, Mrs. Raisin?" asked the vicar's wife, Mrs. Bloxby, as Agatha shakily got on board the bus. "I was
shocked," said Agatha.

"Oh, it was only a bit of fun," said Mrs. Bloxby. "I've seen worse on television."

"I'm surprised
you
should find it amusing," said Agatha.

"They're such good boys. Do you know they did a special show for the Kurdish refugees and raised five thousand pounds? And
all that money for the photographs goes towards restoring the abbey roof."

"How clever of them," said Agatha, who recognized good PR when she heard it. By donating occasionally to charity, the troupe
of male strippers had made themselves respectable and allowed licensed lust to flourish in the breasts of the Cotswold ladies,
who would turn up by the busload to cheer them on. Perhaps these Americans had started an English tradition, mused Agatha
sourly. Perhaps in five hundred years' time there would be male strippers performing in the squares of the Cotswold villages
while tour guides lectured their clients on the beginnings of this ancient ritual.

Back to the church hall and down to business. Once more they were a large group of staid worthy women, discussing the arrangements
of this fete and that to raise funds for charity. Mrs. Bloxby got to her feet and said, "Our Mrs. Raisin is running an auction
on June tenth to raise money for charity. I hope you will all come and help to drive up the bidding. We are very grateful
to Mrs. Raisin and hope you will all do your best to support her." Agatha cringed, waiting for someone to say, "Not
that
Mrs. Raisin, not the one who poisoned poor Mr. Cummings-Browne," but all she got was a warm-hearted round of applause. Agatha
felt quite weepy as she stood up and bowed in acknowledgement. Bill Wong was right. Retirement would be highly enjoyable just
so long as she forgot all about Reg Cummings-Browne and that wretched quiche.

EIGHT

In their good-natured way, the Carsely Ladies' Society contributed books, plates, vases and other worn-looking items which
they had bought over the years at other sales and were now recycling. As the day of the auction approached, Agatha began to
receive more and more visitors. Mrs. Mason, the chairwoman of the group, called regularly with several of the other ladies
with their contributions, until Agatha's living-room began to look more and more like a junk shop.

She was so engrossed in all this that she almost forgot about Roy's visit and had to rush to meet the train on the Friday
evening. She wished he were not coming. She was beginning to feel part of this village life and did not want outrageous Roy
to damage her new image of Lady Bountiful.

To her relief, he descended from the train looking as much a businessman as several of the other London commuters. He had
a conventional hair-style, no ear-rings, and wore a business suit. Hanging baskets of flowers were ornamenting Moreton-in-Marsh
Station and roses bloomed in flower-beds on the platform. The sun was blazing down on a perfect evening.

"Like another world," said Roy. "I thought you'd made a ghastly mistake coming here, Aggie, but now I think you're lucky."

"How's the baby-food thing going?" asked Agatha as he got in the car.

"I did what you said and it was a great success, so I've leaped to respectability with the firm. Do you know who the latest
client is?"

Agatha shook her head.

"Handley's nursery chain."

Agatha looked bewildered. "More babies?"

"No, dear. Gardens. They've even given me a dress allowance, tweed sports jacket, cords and brogues, can you believe it? Do
you know, I thought I quite liked flowers, but they've got all these poisonously long latin names, like chemical formulas,
and I never took Latin at school. It's all so
boring;
garden sheds and gnomes and crazy paving as well."

"I might like a gnome," said Agatha. "No, not for me," she added, thinking of Mrs. Simpson.

"We'd better sit in the kitchen," she said when they arrived home. "The living-room is chock-a-block with all the stuff for
the sale."

"Are you cooking?" asked Roy nervously.

"Yes, one of the members of the Carsely Ladies' Society, Mrs. Mason, has been giving me some les­sons."

"What is this ladies' society?"

Agatha told him and then gave him a description of her outing to Mircester and he laughed till he cried.

The dinner consisted of vegetable soup, followed by shepherd's pie and apple crumble. "Keep it sim­ple," Mrs. Mason had said.

"This is remarkably good," said Roy. "You're even wearing a print dress, Aggie."

"It's comfortable," said Agatha defensively. "Besides, I'm battling with a weight problem."

" 'Wider still and wider, shall her bounds be set,'" quoted Roy with a grin.

"I never believed in the middle-aged spread be­fore," said Agatha. "I thought it was just an excuse for indulgence. But the
very air seems to make me fat. I'm tired of bicycling and exercise routines. I feel like giving up and becoming really fat."

"You can't get thin eating like this," said Roy. "You're supposed to snack on lettuce leaves like a rabbit."

After dinner, Agatha showed him the pile of goods in the living-room. "A delivery van is coming first thing in the morning,"
she said, "and then, after they've dropped the whole lot off at the school hall, they'll go to Cheltenham and pick up the
new stuff. Perhaps when you learn about plants you can tell me what to do about the garden."

"Not too late even now to put things in," said Roy, airing his new knowledge. "What you want is instant garden. Go to one
of the nurseries and load up with flowers. A cottage garden. All sorts of old-fashioned things. Climbing roses. Go for it,
Aggie."

"I might. That is, if I really decide to stay."

Roy looked at her sharply. "The murder, you mean. What's been happening?"

"I don't want to talk about it," said Agatha hurriedly. "Best to forget about the whole thing."

In the morning, Agatha stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed the school hall with dismay. All the contents of her
living-room looked sparse now. Hardly an event. Mrs. Bloxby appeared and said in her gentle voice, "Now this looks really
nice."

"The hell it does," said Agatha. "No suggestion of an occasion. Not enough stuff. What about if the ladies put some more stuff
in, anything at all? Any old junk."

"I'll do what I can."

"And the band, the village band, should be playing. Give a festive air. What about some morris dancers?"

"You should have thought of this before, Mrs. Raisin. How can we organize all that in such a short time?"

Agatha glanced at her watch. "Nine o'clock," she said. 'The auction's at three." She took out a notebook.

"Where does the bandmaster live? And the leader of the morris dancers?"

Bewildered, Mrs. Bloxby supplied names and addresses. Agatha ran home and roused Roy, who had been sleeping peacefully. "You've
got to paint some signs quick," said Agatha. "Let me see, the signs for the May Day celebrations are stored at Harvey's, because
I saw them in the back room of the shop. Get them and paint over them. Put, 'Bargains, Bargains Bargains. Great Auction. Three
o'Clock. Teas. Music. Dancing.' Put the signs up on the A-44 where the drivers can see them and have a big arrow pointing
down to Carsely, and then you'll need more signs in the village itself pointing the way."

"I can't do that," protested Roy sleepily.

"Oh yes, you can," growled the old Agatha. "Hop to it."

She got out the car and drove to the bandmaster's and ruthlessly told him it was his duty to have the band playing. "I want
last-night-of-the-prom stuff," said Agatha, " 'Rule, Britannia,' 'Land of Hope and Glory,' 'Jerusalem,' the lot. All the papers
are coming. You wouldn't want them to know that you wouldn't do anything for charity."

The leader of the morris dancers received similar treatment. Mrs. Doris Simpson was next on the list. To Agatha's relief,
she had taken a day off work for the auction. "It's the hall," said Agatha feverishly. "It looks so drab. It needs flowers."

"I think I can get the ladies to do that," said Doris placidly. "Sit down, Agatha, and have a cup of tea. You'll give yourself
a stroke going on like this."

But Agatha was off again. Round the village she went, haranguing and bullying, demanding any items for her auction until her
car was piled up with, she privately thought, the most dismal load of tat she had ever seen.

Roy, sweating in the already hot sun, crouched up on the A-44, stabbing signs into the turf. The paint was still wet and his
draughtsmanship was not of the best, but he had bought two pots of paint from Harvey's, one red and one white, and he knew
the signs were legible. He trudged back down to the village, thinking it was just like Agatha to expect him to walk, and started
putting up signs around the village.

With a happy feeling of duty done, he returned to Agatha's cottage, meaning to creep back to bed for a few hours' sleep.

But Agatha fell on him. "Look!" she cried, holding up a jester's outfit, cap and bells and all. "Isn't this divine? Miss Simms,
the secretary, wore it in the pantomime last Christmas, and she's as slim as you. Should be a perfect fit. Put it on."

Roy backed off. "What for?"

"You put it on, you stand up on the A-44 beside the signs and you wave people down to the village. You could do a little dance."

"No, absolutely not," said Roy mulishly.

Agatha eyed him speculatively. "If you do it, I'll give you an idea for those nurseries which will put you on the PR map for
life."

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you after the auction."

"Aggie, I
can't.
I'd feel ever such a fool."

"You're meant to look like a fool, man. For heaven's sake, you parade through London in some of the ghastliest outfits I've
ever seen. Do you remember when you had pink hair? I asked you why and you said you liked people staring at you. Well, they'll
all be staring at you. I'll get your photo in the papers and make them describe you as a famous public-relations executive
from London. Look, Roy, I'm not
asking
you to do it. I'm telling you!"

"Oh, all right," mumbled Roy, thinking that at times like this Agatha Raisin reminded him forcefully of his own bullying mother.

"I'll tell you one thing," he said, making a bid for some sort of independence, "I'm not walking all that way back in all
this heat. I'll need your car."

"I might need it. Take my bike."

"Cycle all the way up that hill? You must be mad."

"Do it!" snapped Agatha. "I'll get you the bike while you put on your costume."

Well, it wasn't too bad. It wasn't too bad at all, thought Roy later as he capered beside the road and waved his jester's
sceptre in the direction of Carsely. Motorists were honking and cheering, a busload of American tourists had stopped to ask
him about it, and hearing the auction was "chockful of rare an­tiques," they urged their tour guide to take them to it.At
ten minutes to three, he got on Agatha's bike and free-wheeled down the long winding road to the village. He had meant to
remove his outfit, but everyone was looking at him and he liked that, so he kept it on. Outside, the morris dancers were leaping
high in the sunny air. Inside, the village band was giving "Rule, Britannia" their best effort, and lo and

behold, a sturdy woman dressed as Britannia was belting out the lyric. The school hall was jammed with people.

Then the band fell silent and Agatha, in a Royal Garden Party sort of hat, white straw embellished with blue asters, and wearing
a black dress with a smart blue collar, stood at the microphone.

Agatha planned to start with the least important items and work up.

She sensed that the crowd had a slightly inebriated air, no doubt thanks to old Mrs. Rainworth from Mircester, who had set
up a stand outside the auction and was selling her apple brandy at fifty pence a glass.

Mrs. Mason handed Agatha the first lot. Agatha looked down at it. It was a box of second-hand books, mostly paperback romances.
There was one old hardback book on top. Agatha picked it up and looked at it. It was
Ways of the Horse,
by John Fitzgerald, Esquire, and all the S's looked like F's, so Agatha knew it was probably eighteenth century but still
worthless. She opened it up and looked at the title page and affected startled surprise. Then she put the book back hurriedly
and said, "Nothing here. Perhaps we should start with something more inter­esting."

She looked across the hall at Roy, who instinctively picked up his cue. "No, you don't," he shouted. "Start with that one.
I'll bid ten pounds."

There was a murmur of surprise. Mrs. Simpson, who, along with others, had been asked to do her best to force up the bidding,
cheerfully called, "Fifteen pounds." A small man who looked like a dealer looked up sharply. "Who'll offer me twenty?" said
Agatha. "All in a good cause. Going, going . . . " Mrs. Simpson groaned audibly. The little man flapped his newspaper. "Twenty,"
said Agatha gleefully. "Who'll give me twenty-five?"

The Carsely ladies sat silent, clutching their handbags. Another man raised his hand. "Twenty-five it is," said Agatha. The
box of worthless books was finally knocked down for fifty pounds. Agatha was unrepentant. All in a good cause, she told herself
firmly.

The bidding went on. The tourists joined in. More people began to force their way in. Villagers began to bid. It was such
a big event that they all wanted now to say they had contributed. The sun beat down through the windows of the school hall.
Occasionally from outside came the sound of fiddle and accordion as the morris dancers danced on, accompanied by the occasional
raucous cry of old Mrs. Rainworth, "Apple brandy. Real old Cotswold recipe."

Midlands Television turned up and Agatha spurred herself to greater efforts. The bidding was running wild. One by one, all
the junk began to disappear. Her sofa and chairs went to a Gloucestershire dealer, even the fake horse brasses disappeared
and the Americans bid hotly for the farm machinery, recognizing genuine antiques in their usual irritatingly sharp way.

When the auction was over, Agatha Raisin had made £25,000 for Save the Children. But she knew that she now had to soothe the
savage breasts of those who felt they had been cheated.

"I must thank you all," she said with a well-manufactured break in her voice. "Some of you may feel you have paid more than
you should. But remember, you are helping charity. We of Carsely thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Now, if you will
all join me in singing 'Jerusalem.' "

The famous hymn was followed by Mrs. Mason leading the audience in "Land of Hope and Glory." The vicar then said a prayer,
and everyone beamed happily in a euphoric state.

Agatha was surrounded by reporters. No nationals, she noticed, but what did it matter? She said to them, facing the Midlands
Television camera, "I cannot take the credit for all this. The success of this venture is thanks to the freely given services
of a London public-relations executive, Roy Silver. Roy, take a bow."

Flushed with delight, Roy leaped nimbly up onto the stage and cavorted in his cap and bells for the camera. The band then
played selections from
Mary
Poppins
as the crowds dispersed, some to the tearoom, some back to the apple-brandy stall, the rest to watch the morris dancing.

Agatha felt a pang of regret and half wished she had not given Roy the credit. He was beside himself with joy and, followed
by the television camera, had gone out to join the morris dancers, where he was turning cartwheels and showing off to his
heart's content.