Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

crawling through the traffic. But since she had come to Carsely, she had been using the car to go everywhere apart from short trips along the village. Carsely was not going to make Agatha Raisin let herself go!
    She drove to a bicycle shop in Evesham and purchased a light, collapsible bicycle of the kind she could carry around in the boot of her car. She did not want to experiment cycling near the village until she felt she had remastered the knack. She had not cycled since the age of six.
    She parked off the road next to one of the country walks, took out the little bicycle, and pushed it to the beginning of the grassy path. She mounted and wobbled off very nervously, climbed a small rise, and then, with a feeling of exhilaration, cruised downhill through pretty woods dappled with sunlight. After a few miles, she realized she was approaching the village, and with a groan, she turned back. Her well-shaped legs, although fairly sturdy with London walking, were not up to cycling the whole way back up the hill and so she got off and pushed. Clouds covered the sun very quickly and it began to rain, fine, soft, drenching rain.
    In London, she could have gone into a bar or café and waited for the rain to stop, but there was nothing here but fields and woods and the steady drip of water from the trees above.
    She thankfully reached her car and stowed away the bicycle. She was just moving off when a car passed her. She stared at it in amazement. Surely it was that rusting brown thing she had recently seen trapped in the Cartwrights’ front garden. On impulse, she swung her own car round and set off in pursuit. Her quarry wound through narrow lanes, heading for Ancombe. Agatha tried to keep out of sight, but there were no other cars on the road. She could just make out that Mrs Cartwright was driving the rusty car.
    As Agatha approached Ancombe, she noticed large signs and arrows directing drivers to the ANCOMBE ANNUAL FAIR. Mrs Cartwright appeared to be heading for it. Now there were other cars and Agatha let a Mini get between her and Mrs Cartwright.
    Mrs Cartwright parked her car in a large wet field. Agatha, ignoring a steward’s waving arm, parked a good bit away. As abruptly as it had started, the rain stopped and the sun shone down. Feeling damp and creased, Agatha got out. There was no sign of Mrs Cartwright. Her car, an old brown Ford, Agatha noted as she passed it, was empty.
    Agatha walked towards the fair and paid the ten pence admission charge and an additional ten pence for a programme. She flicked through it until she found the Home Baking Competition tent on the map in the centre.
    Just as she was about to enter the tent, Agatha came face to face with Mrs Cartwright. ‘What you doin’ here?’ demanded Mrs Cartwright suspiciously.
    ‘How did you get your car out of the garden?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Push the fence over, drive off, push the fence up again. Been like that for years, but will my John fix it? Nah. Why are you here?’
    ‘I heard there was a fair on,’ said Agatha vaguely. ‘Are you entering anything?’
    ‘Quiche,’ said Mrs Cartwright laconically. She suddenly grinned. ‘Spinach quiche. Better prizes here than you get at Carsely.’
    ‘Think you’ll win?’
    ‘Bound to. Haven’t any competition really.’
    ‘Did Mr Cummings-Browne judge the home-baking here as well?’
    ‘Nah. Dogs. Best of breed and all that. Look . . .’ Mrs Cartwright glanced furtively around. ‘Want a bit of info?’
    ‘I’ve paid you forty pounds to date and I haven’t yet got my money’s worth,’ snapped Agatha. ‘And you can tell that husband of yours to stop threatening me.’
    ‘He’s always threatening people and he thinks you’re a nosy old tart. Still, if you don’t want to know what went on at Ancombe . . .’
    She began to move away.
    ‘Wait,’ said Agatha. ‘What can you tell me?’
    Mrs Cartwright’s dark eyes rested greedily on Agatha’s handbag.
    Agatha clicked it open and took out her wallet. ‘Ten if I think it’s worth it.’
    Mrs Cartwright leaned forward. ‘The dog competition’s always won by a Scottie.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘And the woman who shows the Scotties is Barbara James from Combe Farm. At the inquest her were, and crying fit to bust.’
    ‘Are you saying . . .’
    ‘Our Reg had to have a bit before he would favour someone year in and year out.’
    Agatha handed over ten pounds. She studied her programme. The dog judging was due to begin in an arena near the tent.