Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

grin.
    ‘I never believed in the middle-aged spread before,’ said Agatha. ‘I thought it was just an excuse for indulgence. But the very air seems to make me fat. I’m tired of bicycling and exercise routines. I feel like giving up and becoming really fat.’
    ‘You can’t get thin eating like this,’ said Roy. ‘You’re supposed to snack on lettuce leaves like a rabbit.’
    After dinner, Agatha showed him the pile of goods in the living-room. ‘A delivery van is coming first thing in the morning,’ she said, ‘and then, after they’ve dropped the whole lot off at the school hall, they’ll go to Cheltenham and pick up the new stuff. Perhaps when you learn about plants you can tell me what to do about the garden.’
    ‘Not too late even now to put things in,’ said Roy, airing his new knowledge. ‘What you want is instant garden. Go to one of the nurseries and load up with flowers. A cottage garden. All sorts of old-fashioned things. Climbing roses. Go for it, Aggie.’
    ‘I might. That is, if I really decide to stay.’
    Roy looked at her sharply. ‘The murder, you mean. What’s been happening?’
    ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Agatha hurriedly. ‘Best to forget about the whole thing.’
    In the morning, Agatha stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed the school hall with dismay. The contents of her living-room looked sparse now. Hardly an event. Mrs Bloxby appeared and said in her gentle voice, ‘Now this looks really nice.’
    ‘The hell it does,’ said Agatha. ‘No suggestion of an occasion. Not enough stuff. What about if the ladies put some more stuff in, anything at all? Any old junk.’
    ‘I’ll do what I can.’
    ‘And the band, the village band, should be playing. Give a festive air. What about some morris dancers?’
    ‘You should have thought of this before, Mrs Raisin. How can we organize all that in such a short time?’
    Agatha glanced at her watch. ‘Nine o’clock,’ she said. ‘The auction’s at three.’ She took out a notebook. ‘Where does the bandmaster live? And the leader of the morris dancers?’
    Bewildered, Mrs Bloxby supplied names and addresses. Agatha ran home and roused Roy, who had been sleeping peacefully. ‘You’ve got to paint some signs quick,’ said Agatha. ‘Let me see, the signs for the May Day celebrations are stored at Harvey’s, because I saw them in the back room of the shop. Get them and paint over them. Put, “Bargains, Bargains Bargains. Great Auction. Three o’Clock. Teas. Music. Dancing.” Put the signs up on the A44 where the drivers can see them and have a big arrow pointing down to Carsely, and then you’ll need more signs in the village itself pointing the way.’
    ‘I can’t do that,’ protested Roy sleepily.
    ‘Oh yes, you can,’ growled the old Agatha. ‘Hop to it.’
    She got out the car and drove to the bandmaster’s and ruthlessly told him it was his duty to have the band playing. ‘I want last-night-of-the-prom stuff,’ said Agatha, ‘“Rule, Britannia”, “Land of Hope and Glory”, “Jerusalem”, the lot. All the papers are coming. You wouldn’t want them to know that you wouldn’t do anything for charity.’
    The leader of the morris dancers received similar treatment. Mrs Doris Simpson was next on the list. To Agatha’s relief, she had taken a day off work for the auction. ‘It’s the hall,’ said Agatha feverishly. ‘It looks so drab. It needs flowers.’
    ‘I think I can get the ladies to do that,’ said Doris placidly. ‘Sit down, Agatha, and have a cup of tea. You’ll give yourself a stroke going on like this.’
    But Agatha was off again. Round the village she went, haranguing and bullying, demanding any items for her auction until her car was piled up with, she privately thought, the most dismal load of tat she had ever seen.
    Roy, sweating in the already hot sun, crouched up on the A44, stabbing signs into the turf. The paint was still wet and his draughtsmanship was not of the best, but he had bought two pots of paint from Harvey’s, one red and one white, and he knew the signs were legible. He trudged back down to the village, thinking it was just like Agatha to expect him to walk, and started putting up signs around the village.
    With a happy feeling of duty done, he returned to Agatha’s cottage, meaning to creep back to bed for a few hours’ sleep.
    But Agatha fell on him. ‘Look!’ she cried, holding up a jester’s outfit, cap and bells and all.