Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

them. ‘I have no intention of waiting for service. Get a move on,’ she snarled. ‘I want cheerful and polite and fast service now . And don’t give me those looks of dumb insolence. Jump to it!’
    A now surly waitress followed Agatha over to her table and took the order. The champagne was warm when it arrived. Agatha cracked. She rose to her feet and glared at the pale, shy English faces of the other diners. ‘Why do you sit there and put up with this dreadful service?’ she howled. ‘You’re paying for it, dammit.’
    ‘You’re right,’ called a meek-looking little man. ‘I’ve been here for half an hour and no one’s come near this table.’
    Cries of rage and frustration rose from the other diners. The manager was hurriedly summoned from his office. An ice bucket was produced like lightning. ‘On the house,’ muttered the manager, bending over Agatha. Waitresses flew backwards and forwards, serving the customers this time, long skirts swinging, outraged bosoms heaving under laced bodices, mob caps nodding.
    ‘They’ll be worn out by the time they get home,’ said Agatha with a grin. ‘Never moved so much in all their lives.’
    Mrs Boggle speared a cod fritter and popped the whole thing in her mouth. ‘We’ve never ’ad trouble afore,’ she said through a spray of cod-flakes. ‘Have we, Benjamin?’
    ‘No, people respect us ,’ said Mr Boggle.
    Agatha opened her mouth to blast the horrible pair when Mr Boggle added, ‘Were you one o’ his fancy women?’
    She looked at him dumbfounded.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Reg Cummings-Browne, him what you poisoned.’
    ‘I didn’t poison him,’ roared Agatha and then dropped her voice as the other diners stared. ‘It was an accident. And what the hell makes you think I was having an affair with Cummings-Browne?’
    ‘You was seen up at Ella Cartwright’s. Like to like, I allus say.’
    ‘You mean Mrs Cartwright was having an affair with Cummings-Browne?’
    ‘Course. Everybody knew that, ’cept her husband.’
    ‘How long had this been going on?’
    ‘Dunno. Must have gone off her, though, for he was arter some bit in Ancombe, or so I heard.’
    ‘So Cummings-Browne was a philanderer,’ said Agatha.
    Enlivened by champagne, Mr Boggle suddenly giggled. ‘Got his leg over half the county, if you ask me.’
    Agatha’s mind raced. She remembered having dinner with the Cummings-Brownes. She remembered Mrs Cartwright’s name being mentioned and the sudden stillness between the pair. Then there were those sobbing women at the inquest.
    ‘O’ course,’ said Mrs Boggle suddenly, ‘we all knew it was you that was meant to be poisoned, if anyone.’
    ‘Why would anyone want to poison me?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘Look what you did to Mrs Barr. Lured Mrs Simpson away from her with promises of gold. Heard Mrs Barr down in Harvey’s talking about it.’
    ‘Don’t try to tell me that Mrs Barr would try to poison me because I took her cleaning woman away.’
    ‘Why not? Reckon her has a point. Said you brought down the tone of the village.’
    ‘Are you usually so rude to people who give up a day to take you out?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘I tell it like it is,’ said Mrs Boggle proudly.
    Agatha was about to retort angrily when she remembered herself saying exactly the same thing on several occasions. Instead she said, after they had demolished their main course, ‘Do you want any pudding?’
    Silly question. Of course they wanted pudding. Prince Regent fudge cake with ice cream – ‘devilishly good’.
    Agatha’s mind returned to the problem of Cummings-Browne’s death. Mr Cummings-Browne had been a judge at competitions in other villages. He had had favourites. Had those favourites been his mistresses? And what of the burning animosity of Mrs Barr? Was it all because of Mrs Simpson? Or did Mrs Barr enter home-baking, jam-making, or flower-arranging in the village competitions?
    ‘Don’t want coffee,’ Mrs Boggle was saying. ‘Goes straight for me bowels.’
    Agatha paid the bill but did not leave a tip, free champagne or no free champagne.
    ‘If you would both like to wait here,’ she said, ‘I’ll get the car.’ Freedom from this precious pair was close at hand. Agatha felt quite cheerful as she brought the car round.
    As she was heading out of Bath, Mrs Boggle poked her in the shoulder. ‘Here! Where you going?’
    ‘Home,’ said Agatha briefly.
    ‘We wants to hear the band in the Parade Gardens,’ said Mr Boggle. ‘What sort