Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

When she looked up from her programme, Mrs Cartwright had gone.
    Agatha sat on a bench just outside the roped-off arena. She opened her programme again. The Best of Breed competition was to be judged by a Lady Waverton. She looked up. A stout woman in tweeds and a deerstalker was sitting on a shooting-stick, her large tweed-encased bottom hanging down on either side of it, studying the dogs as they were paraded past her. A fresh-faced woman of about thirty-five with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks was walking a Scottish terrier past Lady Waverton. Must be Barbara James, thought Agatha.
    It was all so boring, Agatha felt quite glassy-eyed. How nervous and pleading the contestants looked, like parents at prize-giving. Lady Waverton wrote something down on a piece of paper and a messenger ran with it to a platform, where a man seated on a chair was holding a microphone. ‘Attention, please,’ said the man. ‘The awards for Best of Breed are as follows. Third place, Mr J. G. Feathers for his Sealyham, Pride of Moreton. Second, Mrs Comley, for her otter hound, Jamesy Bright Eyes. And the first is . . .’
    Barbara James picked up her Scottie and cuddled it and looked expectantly towards the two local newspaper photographers. ‘The first prize goes to Miss Sally Gentle for her poodle, Bubbles Daventry of the Fosse.’
    Miss Sally Gentle looked remarkably like her dog, having curly white hair dressed in bows. Barbara James strode from the arena, her face dark with fury.
    Agatha rose to her feet and followed her. Barbara went straight to the beer tent. Agatha hovered in the background until the disappointed competitor had got herself a pint of beer. Agatha detested beer but she gamely ordered a half pint and joined Barbara at one of the rickety tables that were set about the beer tent.
    Agatha affected surprise. ‘Why, it’s Miss James,’ she cried. She leaned forward and patted the Scottie, who nipped her hand. ‘Playful, isn’t he?’ said Agatha, casting a look of loathing at the dog. ‘Such a good head. I was sure he would win.’
    ‘It’s the first time in six years I’ve lost,’ said Barbara. She stretched her jodhpurred legs moodily out in front of her and stared at her toe-caps.
    Agatha fetched up a sigh. ‘Poor Mr Cummings-Browne.’
    ‘Reg knew a good dog when he saw one,’ said Barbara. ‘Here, go on. Walkies.’ She put the dog down. It strolled over to the entrance to the tent and lifted its leg against a rubbish bin. ‘Did you know Reg?’
    ‘Only slightly,’ said Agatha. ‘I had dinner with the Cummings-Brownes shortly before he died.’
    ‘It should never have happened,’ said Barbara. ‘That’s the trouble with these Cotswold villages. Too many people from the cities coming to settle. Do you know how he died? Some bitch of a woman called Raisin bought a quiche and tried to pass it off at the competition as her own.’
    Agatha opened her mouth to admit she was that Mrs Raisin when it started to rain again, suddenly, as if someone had switched on a tap. It was a long walk to where she had parked her car. A chill wind blew into the tent.
    ‘Terrible,’ said Agatha feebly. ‘Did you know Mr Cummings-Browne well?’
    ‘We were very good friends. Always good for a laugh, was Reg.’
    ‘Have you entered anything in the home-baking competition?’ asked Agatha.
    Barbara’s blue eyes were suddenly suspicious. ‘Why should I?’
    ‘Most of the ladies seem very talented at these shows.’
    ‘I can’t bake, but I know a good dog. Dammit, I should have won. What qualifications does this Lady Muck have for judging a dog show? I’ll tell you . . . none. The organizers want a judge and so they ask any fool with a title. She couldn’t even judge her own arse.’
    As Barbara picked up her beer tankard, Agatha noticed the woman’s rippling muscles and decided to retreat.
    But at that moment, Ella Cartwright looked into the beer tent, saw Agatha and called out, ‘Enjoying yourself, Mrs Raisin?’
    Barbara slowly put down her tankard. ‘You!’ she hissed. She lunged across the table, her hands reaching for Agatha’s throat.
    Agatha leaped backwards, knocking her flimsy canvas-and-tubular-steel seat over. ‘Now, don’t get excited,’ she said weakly.
    But Barbara leaped on her and seized her by the throat. Agatha was dimly aware of the grinning faces of the drinkers in the tent. She got her knee into Barbara’s stomach and pushed with all her strength. Barbara staggered back but