Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

enough to give courage.
    A skinny waitress with dead-white Return of the Mutant Women make-up came up with a notebook.
    ‘Watyerwant?’ she asked laconically.
    Agatha, who would normally have told her to buzz off and give her time to choose something had, that evening, decided to play the feminine and submissive woman, so she batted her false eyelashes at Paul and said, ‘You choose for me.’
    The dish was supposed to be stuffed vine leaves. Agatha, poking at it after it had arrived at their table with depressing speed, decided the vine leaves were cabbage and the filling was watery rice.
    She found that by dint of breaking the little packets open and spreading them about her plate she could actually make it look as if she had at least eaten some of it.
    Paul Bladen talked all the while about his hopes to supply Carsely with a really good veterinary service and ordered another large carafe of retsina, as Agatha was making up in drink what she was not getting in the way of food.
    ‘Now,’ he said, smiling into her eyes, ‘tell me all about yourself. How is it that such a sophisticated lady ends up in a Cotswold village?’
    A sober Agatha might have remembered that the Cotswolds, being fashionable, abound in quite a lot of interesting people, but the tipsy Agatha was flattered and told him all about her childhood dream of owning a cottage in the country, how she had built up a successful business, sold it and retired early. ‘ Very early,’ said Agatha.
    He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘You haven’t mentioned your husband.’
    Agatha shrugged. ‘I left him years and years ago. I suppose he’s dead.’ Agatha had never even bothered to get a divorce. Paul’s hand was warm and dry and firm. She felt fluttery and breathless, almost as if she were on a first date.
    ‘I’m doing all the talking,’ she said. ‘What about you?’
    ‘I am working on a dream,’ he said. He released her hand as the waitress came up and put two Levantine sticky cakes, oozing watery honey, in front of them and two cups of black sludge masquerading under the name of Greek coffee.
    ‘I plan to create a really good veterinary hospital,’ he said, ‘but that takes money.’
    ‘You should ask the Carsely Ladies’ Society,’ said Agatha. ‘They’re terribly good at fund-raising.’
    ‘Unlike you, I think they are all too provincial to grasp such a grand concept.’
    ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Agatha thought of Mrs Bloxby. ‘They’re really dedicated workers . . . I tell you what. I’ll give you a contribution to start your fund off.’
    Twenty pounds, thought Agatha charitably. After all, he is paying for this quite hideous dinner.
    He seized her hand again. ‘You don’t seem to like your coffee.’
    ‘I like filter coffee.’
    ‘Then let’s go to my place and have some.’ He stroked his thumb over the palm of her hand.
    Well, this is it, thought Agatha, as she drove after his car through the dark winding streets of the old town, this is what I got all dressed up for. But the euphoria induced by all she had drunk was leaving her.
    Paul, in the car in front, stopped outside a small Victorian villa on the outskirts of the town.
    As Agatha followed him into a gloomy hall, she was suddenly seized with panic as he turned and smiled slowly and intimately at her. Sex! Here it was and here were all the fears. She hadn’t shaved her armpits. What if she wasn’t . . . er . . . gymnastic enough? The house was cold. One of her false eyelashes was beginning to slip. She could feel it. What if she had to undress in front of him and he saw her trying to get out of that body stocking?
    ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said suddenly. ‘I forgot to leave the cats any water.’
    ‘Agatha, Agatha, they’ll be all right. Come here.’
    ‘And I’m expecting an important phone call from New York and . . . I mean, thanks for the dinner. My treat next time. Honestly, got to rush.’
    Agatha fled down the garden path, stumbling on her high heels.
    She unlocked her car and dived into the driving seat and then drove off, not feeling the panic ebb until she was safely back out of the town and on her road home. Along the Fosse, a police car loomed up in her rear-view mirror. She thought of all she had drunk and prayed they would not stop her and breathalyse her. She dropped her speed to thirty and the police car moved out and passed her.
    She felt bewildered by her reactions to the handsome vet. She had not had an affair