Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

tea-tray.
    ‘Mrs Raisin, Mrs Camberwell. Harriet, darling, this is Mrs Raisin. Harriet’s dying to hear all about your adventures, Mrs Raisin.’
    Agatha felt small and dingy. But then women like Harriet Camberwell always made her feel small and dingy. She was a very tall woman, nearly as tall as James, slim, flat-chested, square hunting shoulders, clever upper-class face, expensive hair-style, tailored cotton dress, cool amused eyes.
    Agatha began to talk. The villagers would have been amazed to hear her dull rendering of her adventures. She stayed only long enough to briefly recount her story, drink one cup of tea, eat one sandwich, and then she firmly took her leave.
    At least Bill Wong was coming for dinner. Be thankful for small comforts, Agatha, she told herself sternly. But she had thought of James Lacey a lot and her days had taken on life and colour. Still, there was no need to look a fright simply because her guest was only Bill.
    She did her hair and put on make-up and changed into the dress she had worn for the auction. Dinner – taught this time by Mrs Bloxby – was to be simple: grilled steaks, baked potatoes, fresh asparagus, fresh fruit salad and cream. Champagne on ice for the celebration, for Bill Wong had been elevated to detective sergeant.
    It was a new, slimmer Bill who walked in the door at seven o’clock. He had been keeping in shape rigorously ever since he had seen his rather chubby features on television.
    He talked of this and that, noticing that Agatha’s bearlike eyes were rather sad and she seemed to have lost a great deal of animation. He reflected that the attempt on her life must have hit her harder than he would have expected.
    She was not contributing much to the conversation and so he searched around for another topic to amuse her. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said as she slid the steaks under the grill, ‘your neighbour has given up breaking hearts in the village. He told Mrs Bloxby he wanted to be left alone and was quite sharpish about it. Then, when the ladies of Carsely back off, he is visited by an elegant woman whom he introduces to all and sundry in Harvey’s as Mrs Camberwell. He calls her “darling”. They make a nice pair. Mrs Mason was heard to remark crossly that she had always thought him an odd sort of man anyway and that she had only taken around a cake to be friendly.
    ‘And guess what?’
    ‘What?’ said Agatha testily.
    ‘Your old persecutor, Mrs Boggle, ups and asks him point-blank in the middle of Harvey’s if he means to marry Mrs Camberwell, everyone thinking her a widow. And he replies in surprise, “Why the devil should I marry my own sister?” So I gather the ladies of Carsely are now thinking that although they cannot really call on him after what he said to Mrs Bloxby, perhaps they can get up a little party or dinner and lure him into one of their homes.’ Bill laughed heartily.
    Agatha turned around, her face suddenly radiant. ‘We haven’t opened the champagne and we must celebrate!’
    ‘Celebrate what?’ asked Bill in sudden suspicion.
    ‘Why, your promotion. Dinner won’t be long.’
    Bill opened the champagne and poured them a glass each.
    ‘Is there anything you would like me to do, Mrs Raisin, before dinner? Lay the table?’
    ‘No, that’s done. But you could start off by calling me Agatha, and there is something else. There’s a sign in the front garden and a sledge hammer beside it. Could you hammer it into the ground?’
    ‘Of course. Not selling again, are you?’
    ‘No, I’m naming this cottage. I’m tired of everyone still calling it Budgen’s cottage. It belongs to me.’
    He went out into the garden and picked up the sign and hammered its pole into the ground and then stood back to admire the effect.
    Brown lettering on white, it proclaimed boldly: RAISIN’S COTTAGE.
    Bill grinned. Agatha was in Carsely to stay.

 
Extract from
Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet out in paperback
published by Robinson, £5.99
     
    At the end of a week, she headed back to Carsely, carrying two cat baskets this time.
    For the first time, she had an odd feeling of coming home. It was a sunny day, with a faint hint of warmth in the air. Snowdrops were fluttering shyly at village doorsteps.
    She thought of the vet, Paul Bladen, again. Now she had a new cat, she had every excuse to take it to the vet for a check-up. On the other hand, if Bill Wong was to be believed, Paul Bladen did not like cats. She decided to go along and say