Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

‘Isn’t this divine? Miss Simms, the secretary, wore it in the pantomime last Christmas, and she’s as slim as you. Should be a perfect fit. Put it on.’
    Roy backed off. ‘What for?’
    ‘You put it on, you stand up on the A44 beside the signs and you wave people down to the village. You could do a little dance.’
    ‘No, absolutely not,’ said Roy mulishly.
    Agatha eyed him speculatively. ‘If you do it, I’ll give you an idea for those nurseries which will put you on the PR map for life.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘I’ll tell you after the auction.’
    ‘Aggie, I can’t . I’d feel ever such a fool.’
    ‘You’re meant to look like a fool, man. For heaven’s sake, you parade through London in some of the ghastliest outfits I’ve ever seen. Do you remember when you had pink hair? I asked you why and you said you liked people staring at you. Well, they’ll all be staring at you. I’ll get your photo in the papers and make them describe you as a famous public relations executive from London. Look, Roy, I’m not asking you to do it. I’m telling you!’
    ‘Oh, all right,’ mumbled Roy, thinking that at times like this Agatha Raisin reminded him forcefully of his own bullying mother.
    ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ he said, making a bid for some sort of independence, ‘I’m not walking all that way back in all this heat. I’ll need your car.’
    ‘I might need it. Take my bike.’
    ‘Cycle all the way up that hill? You must be mad.’
    ‘Do it!’ snapped Agatha. ‘I’ll get you the bike while you put on your costume.’
    Well, it wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t too bad at all, thought Roy later as he capered beside the road and waved his jester’s sceptre in the direction of Carsely. Motorists were honking and cheering, a busload of American tourists had stopped to ask him about it, and hearing the auction was ‘chockful of rare antiques’, they urged their tour guide to take them to it.
    At ten minutes to three, he got on Agatha’s bike and free-wheeled down the long winding road to the village. He had meant to remove his outfit, but everyone was looking at him and he liked that, so he kept it on. Outside, the morris dancers were leaping high in the sunny air. Inside, the village band was giving ‘Rule, Britannia’ their best effort, and lo and behold, a sturdy woman dressed as Britannia was belting out the lyric. The school hall was jammed with people.
    Then the band fell silent and Agatha, in a Royal Garden Party sort of hat, white straw embellished with blue asters, and wearing a black dress with a smart blue collar, stood at the microphone.
    Agatha planned to start with the least important items and work up.
    She sensed that the crowd had a slightly inebriated air, no doubt thanks to old Mrs Rainworth from Mircester, who had set up a stand outside the auction and was selling her apple brandy at fifty pence a glass.
    Mrs Mason handed Agatha the first lot. Agatha looked down at it. It was a box of second-hand books, mostly paperback romances. There was one old hardback book on top.
    Agatha picked it up and looked at it. It was Ways of the Horse , by John Fitzgerald, Esquire, and all the S ’s looked like F ’s, so Agatha knew it was probably eighteenth-century but still worthless. She opened it up and looked at the title page and affected startled surprise. Then she put the book back hurriedly and said, ‘Nothing here. Perhaps we should start with something more interesting.’
    She looked across the hall at Roy, who instinctively picked up his cue. ‘No, you don’t,’ he shouted. ‘Start with that one. I’ll bid ten pounds.’
    There was a murmur of surprise. Mrs Simpson, who, along with others, had been asked to do her best to force up the bidding, cheerfully called, ‘Fifteen pounds.’ A small man who looked like a dealer looked up sharply. ‘Who’ll offer me twenty?’ said Agatha. ‘All in a good cause. Going, going . . .’ Mrs Simpson groaned audibly. The little man flapped his newspaper. ‘Twenty,’ said Agatha gleefully. ‘Who’ll give me twenty-five?’
    The Carsely ladies sat silent, clutching their handbags Another man raised his hand. ‘Twenty-five it is,’ said Agatha. The box of worthless books was finally knocked down for fifty pounds. Agatha was unrepentant. All in a good cause, she told herself firmly.
    The bidding went on. The tourists joined in. More people began to force their way in. Villagers began to bid. It was such a big event that