Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

white-haired man who struck various members of the audience with a pig’s bladder. ‘Supposed to make you fertile,’ said Steve ponderously and Roy shrieked with laughter and Agatha felt thoroughly ashamed of him.
    They wandered around the stalls set up in the main street. Every one seemed to be selling wares in support of some charity or other. Agatha winced away from the home-baking stand. Roy won a tin of sardines at the tombola and got so carried away, he bought ticket after ticket until he managed to win a bottle of Scotch. There was a game of skittles which they all tried, a rendering of numbers from musicals by the village band, and then the morris dancers again, leaping up into the sunny air, accompanied by fiddle and accordion. ‘Don’t you know you are living in an anachronism?’ said Steve ponderously, scribbling away in his notebook.
    Roy wanted to try his luck at the tombola again and he and Steve went off. Agatha flicked through a pile of second-hand books on a stall and then looked sharply at the woman behind the stall. Mrs Cartwright!
    She was, as Agatha had already noticed, a gypsy-looking woman, swarthy-skinned among all the pink-and-white complexions of the villagers. Her rough hair hung down her back and her strong arms were folded across her generous bosom.
    ‘Mrs Cartwright?’ said Agatha tentatively.
    The woman’s dark eyes focused on her. ‘Oh, you be Mrs Raisin,’ she said. ‘Bad business about the quiche.’
    ‘I can’t understand it,’ said Agatha. ‘I shouldn’t have bought it, but on the other hand, how on earth would cowbane get into a London quiche?’
    ‘London is full of bad things,’ said Mrs Cartwright, straightening a few paperbacks that had tumbled over.
    ‘Well, the result is that I will have to sell up,’ said Agatha. ‘I can’t stay here after what happened.’
    ‘’Twas an accident,’ said Mrs Cartwright placidly. ‘Reckon you can’t go running off after an accident. Besides, I was ever so pleased a London lady should think she had to buy one to compete with me.’
    Agatha gave her an oily smile. ‘I did hear you were the best baker in the Cotswolds. Look, I would really like to talk about it. May I call on you?’
    ‘Any time you like,’ said Mrs Cartwright lazily. ‘Judd’s cottage, beyond the Red Lion on the old Station Road.’
    Roy came prancing up and Agatha moved on quickly, afraid that Roy’s chattering and posturing might put Mrs Cartwright off. Agatha began to feel better. Mrs Cartwright hadn’t accused her of cheating, nor had she been nasty.
    But then, after Steve and Roy had rejoined her and as they were leaving the May Day Fair, they came face to face with Mrs Barr. She stopped in front of Agatha, her eyes blazing. ‘I am surprised you have the nerve to show your face in the daylight,’ she said.
    ‘What’s got your knickers in a twist, sweetie?’ asked Roy.
    ‘This woman’ – Mrs Barr bobbed her head in Agatha’s direction – ‘caused the death of one of our most respected villagers by poisoning him.’
    ‘It was an accident,’ said Roy, before Agatha could speak. ‘Bugger off, you old fright. Come on, Aggie.’
    Mrs Barr stood opening and shutting her mouth in silent outrage as Roy propelled Agatha past her.
    ‘Miserable old cow,’ said Roy as they turned into Lilac Lane. ‘What got up her nose?’
    ‘I lured her cleaning woman away.’
    ‘Oh, that’s a capital crime. Murder has been committed for less. Take us to Bourton-on-the-Water, Aggie. Steve wants to see it and we don’t need to eat yet after that enormous breakfast.’
    Agatha, although she still felt shaken by Mrs Barr, patiently got out the car. ‘Stow-on-the-Wold,’ screamed Roy a quarter of an hour later as Agatha was about to bypass that village. ‘We must see it.’ So Agatha turned round and went into the main square, thrusting her car head first into the one remaining parking place, which a family car had been just about to reverse into.
    She had never seen so many morris dancers. They seemed to be all over the place and of a more energetic type than the ones in Carsely as they waved their handkerchiefs and leaped in the air like so many Nijinskys.
    ‘I think,’ said Roy, ‘that if you’ve seen one lot of morris dancers, you’ve seen the lot. Put away your notebook, Steve, for God’s sake.’
    ‘It is all very interesting,’ said Steve. ‘Some say that morris dancing was originally Moorish dancing. What do you think?’
    ‘I