Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

arrow up steep hills and down the other side, lay fields of oilseed rape, bright yellow, Van Gogh yellow, looking too vulgarly bright among the gentler colours of the English countryside. Queen Anne’s lace frothed along the roadside. There was no sound from the passengers in the back. Agatha began to feel more cheerful. Perhaps her ancient passengers would be content to go off on their own in Bath.
    But in Bath, Agatha’s troubles started. The Boggles pointed out that they had no intention of walking from any car-park to the Pump Room where, it appeared, they meant to ‘take the waters’. It was Agatha’s duty to drive them there and then go and park the car herself. She sweated her way round the one-way system, congested with traffic, trying to turn a deaf ear to Mr Boggle’s comments of ‘Not a very good driver, are you?’
    ‘Well?’ demanded Mrs Boggle when they had reached the colonnaded entrance to the Pump Room. ‘Aren’t you going to help a body out?’
    Mrs Boggle was small and round, dressed in a tweed coat and a long scarf that seemed to be inextricably wound around the seat-belt. She smelt very strongly of cheap scent. ‘Stop pushin’ me. You’re hurtin’ me,’ she grumbled as Agatha tried to release her from bondage. Her husband elbowed Agatha aside, produced a pair of nail scissors and hacked through the scarf. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ moaned Mrs Boggle.
    ‘Quit your frettin’, woman,’ said Mr Boggle. He jerked a thumb at Agatha. ‘Her’ll buy you another one.’
    Like hell, thought Agatha when she finally parked near the bus station. She deliberately took a long time returning to the Pump Room, an hour, in fact. She found the Boggles in the tearoom beside an empty coffee-pot and plates covered in cake crumbs.
    ‘So you’ve finally decided to show up,’ said Mr Boggle, handing her the bill. ‘You’re a fine one.’
    ‘The trouble is, no one don’t care nothing about old folks these days. All they want is discos and drugs,’ said Mrs Boggle. They both stared fiercely at Agatha.
    ‘Have you taken the waters yet?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Going to now,’ said Mrs Boggle. ‘Help me up.’
    Agatha raised her to her feet, gagging slightly at the wafts of cheap scent and old body. The Boggles drank cups of sulphurous water. ‘Do you want to see the Roman Baths?’ asked Agatha, remembering Mrs Bloxby and determined to please. ‘I haven’t seen them.’
    ‘Well, we’ve seen them scores of times,’ whined Mrs Boggle. ‘We wants to go to Polly Perkins’ Pantry.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘That’s where we’s having dinner.’
    The Boggles belonged to that generation which still took dinner in the middle of the day.
    ‘It’s only ten to twelve,’ pointed out Agatha, ‘and you’ve just had coffee and cakes.’
    ‘But you’ve got to go and get the car,’ said Mr Boggle. ‘Pantry’s up in Monmouth Road. Can’t expect us to walk there. No consideration.’
    The idea of a short break from the Boggles while she got the car prompted Agatha to accept her orders docilely. Again she took her time, returning to pick up the Boggles at one o’clock and ignoring their cries and complaints that Mrs Boggle’s joints were stiffening with all the waiting.
    No one could accuse Agatha Raisin of having a delicate or refined palate, but she had a sharp eye for a rip-off and as soon as she sat down with the horrible pair in Polly Perkins’ Pantry, she wondered if they were soul mates of the Cummings-Brownes. Waitresses dressed in laced bodices and mob caps flitted about at great speed, therefore being able to ignore all the people trying to get served.
    The menu was expensive and written in that twee kind of prose which irritated Agatha immensely. The Boggles wanted Beau Nash cod fritters to start – ‘sizzling and golden, on a bed of fresh, crunchy lettuce’ – followed by Beau Brummell escalopes of veal – ‘tender and mouthwatering, with a white wine sauce and sizzling aubergine sticks, tender new carrots, and succulent green peas.’ ‘And a bottle of champagne,’ said Mr Boggle.
    ‘I’m not made of money,’ protested Agatha hotly.
    ‘Champagne’s good for my arthuritis,’ quavered Mrs Boggle. ‘Not often we gets a treat, but if you’ goin’ to count every penny . . .’
    Agatha caved in. Get them sozzled and they might sleep on the way home.
    The waitresses were now grouped in a corner by the till, chatting and laughing. Agatha rose and marched over to