Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

Birkin of the Cotswold Courier snapped a picture and lo and behold, his camera case was snatched. No cameras taken but all the rolls of film.’
    ‘Odd,’ said Agatha. ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Yes, please. Then I had a call from Fred Griggs, your local bobby. He had a report that a woman answering to Barbara James’s description threw shit at your windows.’
    ‘She’s mad,’ said Agatha, thumping a cup of instant coffee in front of Bill. ‘Quite mad. And you still claim the death of Cummings-Browne was an accident. I regret that scene in the beer tent. I’m glad that photographer lost his film. I’ve suffered enough without having my photo on the front of some local rag. Oh, God, I suppose they’ll run the story even if they don’t have the picture to go with it.’
    He looked at her speculatively. ‘You are a very lucky woman. The editor was so furious with Ben Birkin that he didn’t want to know about two women fighting in the beer tent. Furthermore, it so happens that John James, Barbara’s father, owns shares in the company which owns the newspaper. The editor’s only interested in cramming as many names and pictures of the locals into his paper as he can. Luckily, there were several amateur photographers at the fair and Bill was able to buy their film. Do you wish to charge Barbara James with assault or with throwing what possibly was dog-do at your window?’
    Agatha shuddered. ‘I never want to see that woman again. No.’
    ‘I’ve been making more inquiries about Cummings-Browne,’ said Bill. ‘Seems he was quite a Lothario. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you? Pointy head and jug ears. Oh, I’ve found the identity of the woman who was glaring at you at Warwick Castle.’
    ‘Who is she?’
    ‘Miss Maria Borrow, spinster of the parish, not this parish, Upper Cockburn.’
    ‘And was she having an affair with Cummings-Browne?’
    ‘Seems hardly believable. Retired schoolteacher. Gone a bit batty. Taken up witchcraft. Sixty-two.’
    ‘Oh, well, sixty-two. I mean, even Cummings-Browne could hardly –’
    ‘But for the past three years she has won the jam-making competition at Upper Cockburn, and Mr Cummings-Browne was the judge. Now don’t go near her. Let well alone, Mrs Raisin. Settle down and enjoy your retirement.’
    He rose to his feet, but instead of going to the front door he veered into the living-room and stood looking at the fire. He picked up the long brass poker and shifted the blazing wood. Little black metal film spools rattled through the fire-basket and on to the hearth.
    ‘Yes, you are very lucky, Mrs Raisin,’ said Bill. ‘I happen to detest Ben Birkin.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘I was having a mild flirtation with a married lady and I was giving her a cuddle behind the abbey in Mircester. Ben took a photograph and it was published with the caption: “Safe in the Arms of the Law”. Her husband called on me and I had a job to talk my way out of that one.’
    Agatha rallied. ‘I’m not quite sure what you are getting at. I found a pile of old unused film in my luggage and I was burning it.’
    Bill shook his head in mock amazement. ‘One would think all your years in public relations would have taught you how to lie better. Mind your own business in future, Agatha Raisin, and leave any investigation to the law.’
    The squally rain disappeared and clear blue skies shone over the Cotswolds. Agatha, shaken by the fight with Barbara James, put her bicycle in her car and went off to drive around the Cotswolds, occasionally stopping at some quiet lane to change over to her bicycle. Huge festoons of wisteria hung over cottage doors, hawthorn blossoms fell in snowy drifts beside the road, the golden stone of houses glowed in the warm sun and London seemed very far away.
    At Chipping Campden, she forgot her determination to slim and ate steak and kidney pie in the antique cosiness of the Eight Bells before sauntering down the main street of the village with its green verges and houses of golden stone with gables, tall chimneys, archways, pediments, pillars, mullioned or sash windows, and big flat stone steps. Despite the inevitable groups of tourists, it had a serene, retiring air. Full of steak and kidney pie, Agatha began to feel a little sense of peace. In the middle stood the Market Hall of 1627 with its short strong pillars throwing black shadows on to the road. Life could be easy. All she had to do was to forget about Cummings-Browne’s