Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

of a day out is it if you can’t hear the band?’
    Only the thought of Mrs Bloxby’s gentle face made Agatha turn the car round. The couple had to be deposited at the gardens while Agatha wearily parked the car again, a long way away, and then walked back. Deck chairs had to be found for the Boggles.
    The sun shone, the band played its way through a seemingly endless repertoire as the afternoon wore on. Then the Boggles wanted afternoon tea at the Pump Room. Did they always eat so much? wondered Agatha. Or were they storing up food inside for some long hibernation before the next outing?
    At last they allowed her to take them home. All went well until she reached the Fosse Way and again that horny finger prodded her back. ‘I have ter pee,’ said Mrs Boggle.
    ‘Can’t you wait until I reach Bourton-on-the-Water or Stow?’ called Agatha over her shoulder. ‘Bound to be public toilets there.’
    ‘I gotta go now ,’ wailed Mrs Boggle.
    Agatha pulled into the side of the road, bumping the car on to the grassy verge.
    ‘You’d best help her,’ said Mr Boggle.
    Mrs Boggle had to be led into a field and behind the shelter of some bushes. Mrs Boggle produced toilet paper from her handbag. Mrs Boggle needed help getting her knickers down, capacious pink cotton knickers with elastic at the knee.
    It was all very stomach-churning for Agatha, who felt quite green when she finally shepherded her charge back to the car. It would be a cold day in hell, thought Agatha, before she ever let herself in for a day like this again.
    She felt quite limp and weepy when she arrived outside Culloden. ‘Why Culloden?’ she asked.
    ‘When we bought our council house,’ said Mr Boggle, ‘we went down to the nursery where they sell house signs. I wanted Rose Cottage, but she wanted Culloden.’
    Agatha got out and heaved Mrs Boggle on to the pavement beside her husband. Then she fairly leaped back into the driving seat and drove off with a frantic crunching of gears.
    Detective Constable Wong was waiting on Agatha’s doorstep.
    ‘Out enjoying yourself?’ he asked as Agatha let him into the house.
    ‘I’ve had a hellish time,’ said Agatha, ‘and I don’t want to talk about it. What brings you here?’
    He sat down at the kitchen table and spread out the anonymous letter. ‘Have you any idea who sent this?’
    Agatha plugged in the electric kettle. ‘I thought it might be John Cartwright. He’s been threatening me.’
    ‘And why should John Cartwright threaten you?’
    Agatha looked shifty. ‘I called on his wife. He didn’t seem to like it.’
    ‘And you were asking questions,’ said Bill.
    ‘Well, do you know that Cummings-Browne was having an affair with Ella Cartwright?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Agatha’s eyes gleamed. ‘Well, there’s a motive . . .’
    ‘In desperately trying to prove this a murder, you are going to land into trouble. No one likes anyone poking into their private life. This note, now. It interests me. No fingerprints.’
    ‘Everyone knows about fingerprints,’ scoffed Agatha.
    ‘And everyone also knows that if you do not have a criminal record, there is no way the police can trace you through your fingerprints. The police are not going to fingerprint a whole village just because of one nasty letter. Then it was, I think, written by someone literate trying to sound semi-literate.’
    ‘How do you come by that?’
    ‘Even in the broadest Gloucestershire dialect, interfering comes out sounding just that, not “innerfering”. Might be interferin’ with the dropped g , but that’s all. Also, strangely enough, everyone appears to know how to spell bitch. Apart from the Cartwrights, who else have you been questioning?’
    ‘No one,’ said Agatha. ‘Except that I was discussing the murder in the Red Huntsman with my friends, and two friends of her next door were there.’
    ‘Not murder,’ he said patiently. ‘Accident. I’ll keep this note. I haven’t found anyone who recognizes the woman in your photograph. The reason I have called is to warn you, Agatha Raisin, not to go messing about in people’s lives, or soon there might be a real-live murder, with you as the corpse!’

 
Chapter Seven
     
    Agatha’s figure, though stocky, had hitherto carried very little surplus fat. As she tried to fasten her skirt in the morning, she realized she had put on about an extra inch and a half around the waistline. In London, she had walked a lot, walking being quicker than sitting in a bus