Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

service, Roy. Early tomorrow.’
    ‘I’ll be glad to get back to the quiet life of London,’ said Roy with feeling. ‘Oh, what about the idea for my nurseries?’
    ‘Oh, that! Well, what about this. Get some new plant or flower and name it after Prince William.’
    ‘Isn’t there a rose or something already?’
    ‘There’s a Charles, I think. I don’t know if there’s a William.’
    ‘And they usually do things like that at the Chelsea Flower Show.’
    ‘Don’t be so defeatist. Get them to find some new plant of any kind. They’re always inventing new things. Fake it if necessary.’
    ‘Can’t give gardeners fakes.’
    ‘Then don’t. Find something, call it the Prince William, hold a party in one of the nurseries. Anything to do with Prince William gets in the papers.’
    ‘Wouldn’t I need permission?’
    ‘I don’t know. Find out. Phone up the press office at the Palace and put it to them. Take it from me, they’re not going to object. It’s a flower, for God’s sake, not a Rottweiler.’
    His eyes gleamed. ‘Might work. When does Harvey’s open in the morning to sell newspapers?’
    ‘They open for one hour on Sundays. Eight till nine. But you won’t find anything, Roy. The nationals weren’t at the auction.’
    ‘But if the locals have a good photo, they send it to the nationals.’
    Agatha stifled a yawn. ‘Dream on. I’m going to bed.’
    When they walked to church the next morning, Agatha felt she ought to tie Roy down before he floated away. A picture of him had appeared in the Sunday Times . He was dancing with the morris men. Three old village worthies with highly photographable wizened faces were watching the dancing. It was a very good photo. It looked like a dream of rural England. The caption read, ‘London PR executive, Roy Silver, 25, entertaining the villagers of Carsely, Gloucestershire, after running a successful auction which raised £25,000 for charity.’
    It was all my work, thought Agatha, regretting bitterly having given Roy the credit.
    But at the morning service, the vicar gave credit where credit was due and offered a vote of thanks to Mrs Agatha Raisin for all her hard work. Roy looked sulky and clutched the Sunday Times to his thin chest.
    After the service, Mrs Bloxby when appealed to said she had an old bicycle in the garden shed which Roy could use. ‘The least I can do for you, Mrs Raisin,’ said Mrs Bloxby gently. ‘Not only did you do sterling work but you let your young friend here take all the credit.’
    Roy was about to protest that he had stood for hours on the main road looking like an idiot in the name of charity, but something in Mrs Bloxby’s gentle gaze silenced him.
    Upper Cockburn was six miles away and they pedalled off together under the hot sun. ‘Going to be a scorcher of a summer,’ said Roy. ‘London seems thousands of miles away from all this.’ He took one hand off the handlebars and waved around at the green fields and trees stretched out on either side.
    Agatha suddenly wished they were not going to Upper Cockburn. She wanted to forget about the whole thing now. There had been no further attacks on her, no nasty notes.
    The tall steeple of Upper Cockburn church came into view, rising over the fields. They cycled into the sun-washed peace of the main street. ‘There’s a pub,’ said Roy, pointing to the Farmers Arms. ‘Let’s have a bite to eat and ask a few questions. Did this Miss Borrow go in for village competitions?’
    ‘Yes, jam-making,’ said Agatha curtly. ‘Look, Roy, let’s just have lunch and go home.’
    ‘Think about it.’
    The pub was low and dark, smelling of beer, with a flagged floor and wooden settles dark with age. They sat in the lounge bar. From the public bar Tina Turner was belting something out on the juke-box and there came the click of billiard balls. A waitress, in a very short skirt and with long, long legs and a deep bosom revealed by the low neck of her skimpy dress, bent over them to take their orders. Roy surveyed her with a frankly lecherous look. Agatha gazed at him in dawning surprise.
    ‘What’s made your friend, Steve, moody?’ she asked.
    ‘What? Oh, woman trouble. Got involved with a married woman who’s decided that hubby is better after all.’
    Well, thought Agatha, these days, with women looking more like men and men looking more like women, you never can tell. Perhaps in thousands of years’ time there would be a unisex face and people would have to go