Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

then came at her again. She was blocking the way out. Agatha fled behind the serving counter, screaming for help while the men laughed and cheered. She seized a large kitchen knife and held it in front of her. ‘Get away,’ she said breathlessly.
    ‘Murderer!’ shrieked Barbara but she backed off. Then there came a blinding flash and the click of a camera. One of the local photographers had just snapped Agatha brandishing the kitchen knife.
    Still holding the knife, Agatha edged around to the exit. ‘Don’t come near me again or I’ll kill you,’ shouted Barbara.
    Agatha dropped the knife outside the tent and ran. Once in the safety of her car and with the doors locked, she sat panting. She thrust the key in the ignition and then paused, dismay flooding her. That photograph! She could already see it in her mind’s eye on the front of some local paper. What if the London papers picked it up? Oh, God. She was going to have to get that film.
    She felt shaken and tired as she reluctantly climbed out again and trekked across the rain-sodden field.
    Keeping a sharp eye out for Barbara James, she threaded her way through the booths selling old books, country clothes, dried flowers, local pottery, and, as usual, home-baking. In addition to the usual stands, there was one selling local country wines. The photographer was standing there with a reporter sampling elderberry wine. Agatha’s heart beat hard. His camera case was on the ground at his feet, but the camera which had taken the photo of her was still around his neck. Agatha backed off in case he should see her. He stood there, sampling wine for a long time until the terrier racing was announced. He said something to the reporter and they headed off to the arena. Agatha followed them and waited until they were in the arena. She retreated to a stand and bought herself a waxed coat and a rain-hat. The rain was still drumming down. It was going to be a long day. The terrier racing was followed by show jumping. Agatha lurked at the edge of the thinning crowd, but feeling that the hat and coat she had just put on disguised her somewhat.
    At the end of the show jumping, the rain stopped again and a chill yellow sunlight flooded the fair. Heart beating hard, Agatha saw the photographer wind the film from his camera, pop it in his case, and then reload with another. Slowly she took off her coat. The photographer and reporter headed out of the arena and back to the local wine stand. ‘Try the birch wine,’ the woman serving was urging them as Agatha crept closer. She dropped her coat over the camera case, mumbled something and bent and seized the handle of the camera case and lifted it up and scurried off round the back of a tent. She opened the case and stared down in dismay at all the rolls of film. Too bad. She took them all out after putting on her coat again so that she could stuff the rolls of film into her pocket.
    She heard a faint yell of ‘Police!’ and hurried off, leaving the camera case on the ground. She felt sure that the woman serving the wine had not noticed her and the photographer and reporter had not even turned round. She felt lucky in that they were not from a national paper, otherwise they would have concentrated on her and Barbara James and would have referred back to the quiche poisoning. But local photographers and reporters knew that their job at these fairs was to get as many faces and prizewinners on their pages as possible so as to boost circulation. But if the picture of her brandishing a knife in the beer tent had turned out well, she knew they would use it, along, no doubt, with quotes from the enraged Barbara James.
    She was just driving out of the car-park when a policeman flagged her down. Agatha let down the window and looked at him nervously. ‘A photographer has had his camera case stolen,’ said the policeman. ‘Did you notice anything suspicious?’ He peered into the car, his eyes darting this way and that. Agatha was painfully conscious of her coat pockets bulging with film. ‘No,’ she said. ‘What a terrible thing to happen.’
    There came a faint cry of ‘We’ve found it.’ The police man straightened up. ‘That’s that,’ he said with a grin. ‘These photographers are always drinking too much. Probably just forgot where he left it.’
    He stood back. Agatha let in the clutch and drove off. She did not once relax until she was home and had lit a large fire. When it was blazing, she tipped all the rolls of