Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

snarled.
    Agatha stood up. Mrs Cartwright’s large dark eyes flashed a warning. ‘I am collecting for charity,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Then you can bugger off. Haven’t got a penny to spare. She’s seen to that.’
    ‘Sit down, John, and shut up. I’ll see Mrs Raisin out.’
    Agatha nervously edged past John Cartwright. Mrs Cartwright opened the front door. ‘Come tomorrow,’ she whispered. ‘Three in the afternoon.’
    Was there some sinister mystery or had she just been conned out of twenty pounds? Agatha walked thoughtfully down the road.
    When she got back to her cottage, Mrs Simpson was hard at work in the bedrooms. Agatha washed a load of clothes and carried them out to the back garden where there was one of those whirligig devices for hanging clothes. Feeling more relaxed than she had for some time and quite domesticated, Agatha pegged out the clothes. As she moved around to the other side of the whirligig, she saw Mrs Barr. She was leaning on her garden fence, staring straight at Agatha with a look of cold dislike on her face. Agatha finished pegging the clothes, raised two fingers at Mrs Barr and went indoors.
    ‘Post came,’ shouted Mrs Simpson from upstairs. ‘I put it on the kitchen table.’
    Agatha noticed a flat brown envelope for the first time. She tore it open. There was a large print of the woman on the tower at Warwick Castle. Agatha shuddered. Those staring eyes, that hatred reminded her of Mrs Barr. Pinned to the enlargement was a note: ‘Thank you for a splendid weekend, Steve.’
    She put the photograph away in the kitchen drawer, feeling even after she had closed the drawer that those eyes were still staring at her.
    Overcome by the need for some escapist literature, she drove down to Moreton-in-Marsh, swearing under her breath as she remembered it was market day. By driving round and round the car-park, she was able to secure a place when some shopper drove off.
    Walking through the Old Market Place, as the new mini shopping arcade was called, she crossed the road and walked between the crowded stalls to the row of shops on the far side where she knew there was a second-hand bookshop. In the back room were rows and rows of paperbacks. She bought three detective stories – one Ruth Rendell, one Colin Dexter, and one Colin Watson – and then returned to her car. She flipped open the Colin Watson one and was caught by the first page. Oh, the joys of detective fiction. Time rolled past as Agatha sat in the carpark and read steadily. Finally it dawned on her that it was ridiculous to sit reading in a car-park when she had the comfort of her own home and so she drove back to Carsely just in time to meet Bill Wong, who was standing on her doorstep.
    ‘Now what?’ demanded Agatha uneasily.
    Bill smiled. ‘Just called to see how you were.’
    At first Agatha felt gratified as she unlocked the door and let herself in, picking up the other key from the hall floor where it had fallen when Mrs Simpson had popped it through the letterbox. Then she felt a twinge of unease. Could Bill Wong be checking up on her for any reason?
    ‘Coffee?’ she asked.
    ‘Tea will do.’ In the sitting-room, Bill looked slowly around. ‘Where did all the bits and pieces go?’
    ‘I didn’t think they were me ,’ said Agatha, ‘so I gave them to the church to sell for charity.’
    ‘What is you if toby jugs and farm machinery are not?’
    ‘Don’t know,’ mumbled Agatha. ‘Something a bit more homy.’
    ‘The lighting’s wrong,’ said Bill, looking at the spotlights on the beams. ‘Spots are out.’
    ‘You sound like someone talking about acne,’ snapped Agatha. ‘And why is everyone suddenly so arty-farty about interior decoration these days?’
    ‘Ah, your friends who came at the weekend, the prancing one and the one with the cowboy boots?’
    ‘You’ve been spying on me!’
    ‘Not I. I was off duty and took a girlfriend to Bourton-on-the-Water. A great mistake. I’d forgotten about the holiday crowds.’
    ‘I can’t imagine you having a girlfriend.’
    ‘Oh! Why?’
    ‘I don’t know. I always imagine you as never being off duty.’
    ‘In any case,’ said Bill, ‘I hope you haven’t decided to become the Miss Marple of Carsely and are still trying to prove accident as murder.’
    Agatha opened her mouth to tell him about Mrs Cartwright and then decided against it. He would criticize her for interfering and he would point out, probably correctly, that Mrs Cartwright had nothing