Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

to tell and was simply out for money.
    Instead she said, ‘An odd thing happened at Warwick Castle. Steve, the young man with the cowboy boots, took a video film of me and Roy, that’s the other young man, on the top of one of the towers. He showed the video on television in the evening and there on the tower was this woman glaring at me with hatred.’
    ‘Interesting. But you could have jostled her on the stairs or trodden on her foot.’
    ‘He took a photograph from the television set and it’s quite clear, and we were talking about the death when he filmed. Would you like to see it?’
    ‘Yes, might be someone I know.’
    Agatha brought in the print and handed it to him. He studied it carefully. ‘No one I’ve seen before,’ he said, ‘but if you took that nasty look off her face, she would look like hundreds of other women in the Cotswold villages: thin, spinsterish, wispy hair, indeterminate features, false teeth . . .’
    ‘How do you know about the false teeth, Sherlock?’
    ‘You can always tell by the drooping corners of the mouth and by the way the jaw sags. Mind if I keep this?’
    ‘Why?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘Because I might find out who it is and do you a favour by revealing to you that Miss Prim here was merely offended by your friends or perhaps you reminded her of someone she hated in her past, and then you can be easy.’
    ‘That is kind of you,’ said Agatha gruffly. ‘I’m beginning to get edgy what with her next door glaring at me over the garden fence because I took her char away.’
    ‘I wouldn’t worry about her. Taking someone’s cleaning woman away is like mugging them. The trouble with businesswomen like yourself, Mrs Raisin, is that your normally very active brain has nothing left to feed on but trivia. After a few months, believe me, you will settle down and get involved in good works.’
    ‘Heaven forbid,’ said Agatha with a shudder.
    ‘Why? Had I suggested bad works, would you have been pleased?’
    ‘I’m going to a meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society at the vicarage tonight,’ said Agatha.
    ‘That should be fun,’ said Bill with his eyes twinkling. ‘And now I’d better go. I’m on late duty.’
    After a meal at the Red Lion – giant sausage and chips liberally doused with ketchup – Agatha walked to the vicarage and rang the bell. From inside came the hum of voices. She felt suddenly nervous and yes, a little timid.
    Mrs Bloxby answered the door. ‘Come in, Mrs Raisin. Most people have arrived.’ She led Agatha into the sitting-room, where about fifteen women were seated. They stopped talking and looked curiously at Agatha. ‘I’ll introduce you,’ said Mrs Bloxby. Agatha tried to remember the names but they kept sliding out of her mind as soon as each was announced. Mrs Bloxby offered Agatha tea, cakes and sandwiches. Agatha helped herself to a cucumber sandwich.
    ‘Now, if we are all ready,’ said Mrs Bloxby, ‘our chairwoman, Mrs Mason, will begin. The floor is yours, Mrs Mason.’
    Mrs Mason, a large woman in a purple nylon dress and big white shoes like canoes, surveyed the room. ‘As you know, ladies, our old people in the village do not get out much. I am appealing to any of you with cars to step in and volunteer to take some of them on an outing when you can manage it. I will read out the names of the old people and volunteer if you can manage some free time.’
    There seemed to be no shortage of volunteers as Mrs Mason went through a list in her hand. Agatha looked around at the other women. There was something strangely old-fashioned about them with their earnest desire to help. All were middle-aged apart from a thin, pale-looking girl in her twenties who was seated next to Agatha. ‘Ain’t got no car,’ she whispered to Agatha. ‘Can hardly take them on me bike.’
    ‘And now,’ said Mrs Mason, ‘last but not least, we have old Mr and Mrs Boggle at Culloden.’
    There was a long silence. The fire behind Mrs Mason’s ample figure crackled cheerfully, spoons clinked against tea cups, jaws munched. No volunteers.
    ‘Come now, ladies. Mr and Mrs Boggle would love a trip somewhere. Needn’t be too far. Even just into Evesham and around the shops.’
    Agatha thought she felt the vicar’s wife’s eyes resting on her. Her voice sounded odd in her own ears as she heard herself saying, ‘I’ll take them. Would Thursday be all right?’
    Did she sense a feeling of relief in the room? ‘Why, thank you, Mrs Raisin. How