Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

very good of you. Perhaps you do not know the village very well, but Culloden is number 28, Moreton Road, on the council estate. Shall we say nine o’clock on Thursday, and I shall take it on myself to tell Mr and Mrs Boggle?’
    Agatha nodded.
    ‘Good. They will be so pleased. Now, as you know, next week we are to be hosted by the Mircester Ladies’ Society and they have promised us an exciting time. I will pass around a book and sign your names in it if you wish to go. Retford Bus Company is giving us a bus for the day.’
    The book was passed round. After some hesitation, Agatha signed her name. It would be something to do.
    ‘Right,’ said Mrs Mason. ‘The coach will leave from outside here at eleven in the morning. I am sure we will all be awake by that time.’ Dutiful laughter. ‘And so I will get our secretary, Miss Simms, to read out the minutes of our last meeting in case any of you missed it.’
    To Agatha’s surprise, the young girl next to her rose and went to face the company. In a droning nasal voice she read out the minutes. Agatha stifled a yawn. Then the treasurer gave a lengthy report of money raised at the last fête in aid of Cancer Research.
    Agatha was nearly asleep when she heard her own name. The treasurer had been replaced by Mrs Bloxby. ‘Yes,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘when our new member, Mrs Raisin, came with boxes and boxes of stuff and gave them all away to be sold for charity, I thought I would show you some of the items. I think they warrant a special sale.’
    Agatha felt gratified as oohs and ahs greeted the tobyjugs and bits of burnished farm machinery. ‘Reckon I’d buy some o’ that meself,’ said one of the women.
    ‘I am glad you share my enthusiasm,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I suggest we should take the school hall for the tenth of June, that’s a Saturday, and put these items on display. The week before the sale, we will have a special pricing meeting. That will also give us time to find some extra items. Mrs Mason, can I ask you to run the tea-room as usual?’
    Mrs Mason nodded.
    ‘Mrs Raisin, perhaps you might like to take command of the main stall?’
    ‘Tell you what,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll auction them. I’ll be auctioneer. People always pay more when they are bidding against each other.’
    ‘What a good idea. All in favour?’ Hands were raised.
    ‘Excellent. The money will go to Save the Children. Perhaps, if we are lucky, some of the local papers might put in an item.’
    ‘I’ll see to that,’ said Agatha, feeling better by the minute. This was like old times.
    Her happiness was dimmed when the business was over; the women were gathering up their coats and handbags when Miss Simms nudged her and said, ‘Better you than me.’
    ‘You mean the auction?’
    ‘Naw, them Boggles. Grouchiest old miseries this side o’ Gloucester.’
    But somehow Mrs Bloxby was there and had heard the remark. She smiled into Agatha’s eyes and said, ‘What a good deed to give the Boggles an outing. Old Mrs Boggle has bad arthritis. It will mean so very much to them.’
    Agatha felt weak and childlike before the simple, uncomplicated goodness in Mrs Bloxby’s eyes and filled again with that desire to please.
    And the women as they were leaving spoke to her of this and that and not one mentioned quiche.
    With a feeling of belonging, Agatha walked home. Lilac Lane was beginning to live up to its name. Lilac trees, heavy with blossom, scented the evening air. Wisteria hung in purple profusion over cottage doors.
    Must do something about my own garden, thought Agatha.
    She unlocked and opened her front door and switched on the light. One sheet of paper lay on the doormat, the message scrawled on it staring up at her: ‘Stop nosey-parking, you innerfering old bich.’
    Picking it up with the tips of her fingers, Agatha stared at it in dismay. For the first time she realized how very quiet the village was in the evening. She was surrounded by silence, a silence that seemed ominous, full of threat.
    She dropped the note into the rubbish bin and went up to bed, taking the brass poker with her, propping it up by the bedside where she could reach it easily.
    Old houses creak and sigh as they settle down for the night. For a long time Agatha lay awake, starting at every sound, until she suddenly fell asleep, one hand resting on the knob of the poker.

 
Chapter Six
     
    The next morning, rough winds were shaking the darling buds of May. Sunlight streamed in