Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

the Cotswold sky was pale blue and cloudless. Going to be another hose-pipe ban soon, thought the practical side of Agatha.
    She was nearly at the pub when she realized she had forgotten to feed her two cats, Hodge and Boswell. She groaned. They would be all right until she got back. She was not going to turn into one of those drivelling women who were sentimental about animals.
    Nevertheless, she walked back to her cottage, fed her cats, let them out in the garden, and feeling she had endured enough exercise and fresh air for one day, got into her car and drove the short distance to the pub, plunging happily into its beer-smelling, smoky gloom.
    The barman, John Fletcher, gave her a gin and tonic and then the locals clustered around, anxious for news. Always happy to be the centre of attention, Agatha described in gruesome detail the finding of the body. ‘It may not be murder,’ she finished. ‘He could just have fallen.’
    ‘Bound to be murder,’ said Miss Simms, secretary of the Carsely Ladies’ Society and the village’s best-known unmarried mother. ‘And I know who done it!’
    ‘Who?’ asked Agatha.
    Miss Simms cradled her half-pint of beer against her chest. ‘It was that Mary Owen.’
    ‘Go on with you,’ said Fred Griggs, the local policeman, lumbering up to join the group. ‘Mary Owen is a nice old lady who wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
    ‘How old?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Sixty-five.’
    Agatha winced. She was in her middle fifties and did not like to think of anyone in their sixties being considered old.
    ‘She may have been nice one time,’ said Miss Simms defiantly, ‘but ever since this water company’s come on the scene, she’s been hollering and yelling about it. People can go batty when they get as old as that.’
    ‘We don’t know yet it was murder,’ said Fred. ‘Is anyone going to buy me a drink?’
    ‘I will,’ said Agatha. ‘Drinking on duty?’
    ‘Day off. I’ll have a pint of Hook Norton.’
    ‘I didn’t think you could get a day off with there being this death.’
    ‘The detectives are handling it.’
    Mrs Darry came up and joined them. Agatha turned her back on her, trying to exclude her from the group, but Mrs Darry pushed past her.
    ‘Are you talking about the murder?’ she asked eagerly.
    ‘We have other things to talk about,’ said Agatha huffily as she paid for the policeman’s drink.
    ‘I was saying as how Mary Owen did it,’ said Miss Simms.
    ‘I’m surprised to find you here, Mrs Raisin,’ said Mrs Darry. ‘I’ll have a Dubonnet, John.’ She looked at Agatha. ‘I mean, I thought they would have been grilling you at police headquarters.’
    ‘Why?’ Agatha stared at her belligerently.
    Mrs Darry gave a malicious little titter. ‘Surely the person who is found with the body is always chief suspect?’
    ‘That’s rubbish,’ said Fred. ‘Mrs Raisin just happened to come across the body.’
    ‘It’s amazing how many bodies Mrs Raisin seems to have come across.’ Mrs Darry took a birdlike sip of her drink. ‘And gained a certain notoriety for it, too. Life has been quite quiet for you recently, has it not?’
    Agatha’s face flamed red with anger. ‘Are you saying I go around murdering people so as to get in the newspapers?’
    Mrs Darry gave a shrill laugh. ‘Just my little joke.’
    ‘Then you can take your joke and shove it up your scrawny arse,’ raged Agatha, as the whole full force of the shock of finding the body hit her. Her eyes filled with tears.
    ‘Come on, now,’ said Miss Simms, unhitching herself from the bar-stool. ‘We’ll find a quiet corner away from this bitch.’
    Agatha sat down with her, her knees trembling.
    ‘Sorry about the scene,’ she mumbled. ‘I did get a bit of a fright.’
    ‘Have the press been bothering you?’
    ‘No,’ said Agatha, surprised. ‘I wonder why.’
    ‘All it said in the Gloucester Echo was that the body had been found by a local woman.’
    Despite her distress, Agatha felt peeved. The police could have said something like, ‘The body was found by Mrs Agatha Raisin, who has been of great help to us in solving murders in the past.’
    ‘That Mrs Darry is an awful cat,’ said Miss Simms.
    ‘There’s one in every village,’ said Agatha gloomily. ‘I shouldn’t have risen to her remarks.’
    ‘Look, Mrs Raisin . . .’
    ‘Call me Agatha. Why is it we always seem to call each other by our second names?’
    ‘I like that,’ said Miss Simms. ‘More genteel, like. Are you