Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

death.
    During the next few days, the sun continued to shine and Agatha continued to tour about, occasionally cycling, occasionally walking, returning every evening with a new feeling of health and well-being. It was with some trepidation that she remembered she was to accompany the Carsely ladies to Mircester.
    But no angry faces glared at her as she climbed aboard the bus. Mrs Doris Simpson was there, to Agatha’s relief and surprise, and so she sat beside the cleaning woman and chatted idly of this and that. The women in the bus were mostly middle-aged. Some had brought their knitting, some squares of tapestry. The old bus creaked and clanked along the lanes. The sun shone. It was all very peaceful.
    Agatha assumed that the entertainment to be provided for them by the ladies of Mircester would take the form of tea and cakes, and meant to indulge herself to the full, feeling all the exercise she had taken in the past few days merited a binge on pastry. But when they alighted at a church hall it was to find that a full-scale lunch with wine had been laid on. The wine had been made by members of the Mircester Ladies’ Society and was extremely potent. Lunch consisted of clear soup, roast chicken with chips and green peas, and sherry trifle, followed by Mrs Rainworth’s apple brandy. Applause for Mrs Rainworth, a gnarled old crone, was loud and appreciative as the brandy went the rounds.
    The chairwoman of the Mircester Ladies’ Society got to her feet. ‘We have a surprise for you.’ She turned to Mrs Bloxby. ‘If your ladies would take their bus to the Malvern Theatre, they will find seats have been booked for them.’
    ‘What is the entertainment?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.
    There were raucous shouts from the Mircester ladies of ‘Secret! You’ll see.’
    ‘I wonder what it is,’ said Agatha to Doris Simpson as they climbed aboard their coach again. It was now Doris and Agatha.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Doris. ‘There was some children’s theatre giving a show. Might be that.’
    ‘I’ve drunk so much,’ said Agatha, ‘I’ll probably sleep through the lot.’
    ‘Now that is a surprise,’ exclaimed Doris when their ancient bus clanked to a halt outside the theatre. ‘It says, “All-American Dance Troupe. The Spanglers.”’
    ‘Probably one of these modern ballet companies,’ groaned Agatha. ‘Everyone in black tights dancing around what looks like a bomb site. Oh, well, I hope the music’s not too loud.’
    Inside, she settled herself comfortably with the other members of the Carsely Ladies’ Society.
    To a roll of drums, the curtain rose. Agatha blinked. It was a show of male strippers. The music beat and pulsated and the strobe lights darted here and there. Agatha sank lower in her seat, her faced scarlet with embarrassment. Mrs Rainworth, the inventor of the apple brandy, stood up on her seat and shouted hysterically, ‘Get ’em orf.’ The women were yelling and cheering. Agatha was dimly glad of the fact that Doris Simpson had taken out some knitting and was working away placidly, seemingly oblivious to what was going on on the stage or in the audience. The strippers were tanned and well-muscled. They did not strip completely. They had an arch teasing manner, more like bimbos than men. Naughty but nice. But most of the women were beside themselves. One middle-aged dyed blonde, one of the Mircester ladies, made a wild rush to the stage and had to be pulled back.
    Agatha suffered in silence. But when the show finished, her agony was not over. Members of the audience who wanted their photographs taken with one of the strippers could do so for a mere fee of ten pounds. And with a few exceptions, the Carsely ladies all wanted photographs taken.
    ‘Did you enjoy the show, Mrs Raisin?’ asked the vicar’s wife, Mrs Bloxby, as Agatha shakily got on board the bus.
    ‘I was shocked,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Oh, it was only a bit of fun,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I’ve seen worse on television.’
    ‘I’m surprised you should find it amusing,’ said Agatha.
    ‘They’re such good boys. Do you know they did a special show for the Kurdish refugees and raised five thousand pounds? And all that money for the photographs goes towards restoring the abbey roof.’
    ‘How clever of them,’ said Agatha, who recognized good PR when she heard it. By donating occasionally to charity, the troupe of male strippers had made themselves respectable and allowed licensed lust to flourish in the breasts of the