by M C Beaton
Then, before she left Cheltenham, she went to Marks and Spencer and bought giant prawns in garlic butter and a packet of lasagne, both of which she could cook in the microwave. It was still not her own cooking, but a cut above what she could get at the village shop.
Later, after a good meal, she settled down to read a detective story, wondering idly whether she should take the television set up to the bedroom. The vicarage living-room did not boast a television set.
It was only when she was preparing for bed that she remembered the Boggles with a sinking heart. With any luck, they would not expect her to drive them about all day.
In the morning, she presented herself at the Boggles' home. Why Culloden? Were they Scottish?
But Mr. Boggle was a small, spry, wrinkled man with a Gloucestershire accent and his wife, an old creaking harridan, was undoubtedly Welsh.
Agatha waited for either of the pair to say it was very kind of her, or to evince any sign of gratitude, but they both climbed into the back seat and Mr. Boggle said, "We're going to Bath."
Bath! Agatha had been hoping for somewhere nearer, like Evesham.
"It's quite a bit away," she protested.
Mrs. Boggle jabbed her in the shoulder with one horny forefinger. "You said you was takin' us out, so take us."
Agatha fished out her road atlas. The easiest would be to get on the Fosse Way to Cirencester and then on to Bath.
She heaved a sigh. It was a glorious day. Summer was edging its way into England. Hawthorn flowers were heavy with scent, pink and white along the winding road out of Carsely. On either side of the Fosse Way, obviously a Roman road, for it runs straight as an arrow up steep hills and down the other side, lay fields of oil seed rape, bright yellow, Van Gogh yellow, looking too vulgarly bright among the gentler colours of the English countryside. Queen Anne's lace frothed along the roadside. There was no sound from the passengers in the back.
Agatha began to feel more cheerful. Perhaps her ancient passengers would be content to go off on their own in Bath.
But in Bath, Agatha's troubles started. The Boggles pointed out that they had no intention of walking from any car-park to the Pump Room where, it appeared, they meant to ' the waters'. It was Agatha's duty to drive them there and then go and park the car herself. She sweated her way round the one-way system, congested with traffic, trying to turn a deaf ear to Mr. Boggle's comments of "Not a very good driver, are you?" "Well?" demanded Mrs. Boggle when they had reached the colonnaded entrance to the Pump Room. "Aren't you going to help a body out?"
Mrs. Boggle was small and round, dressed in a tweed coat and a long scarf that seemed to be inextricably wound around the seat-belt. She smelt very strongly of cheap scent. "Stop pushin' me. You're hurtin' me," she grumbled as Agatha tried to release her from bondage. Her husband elbowed Agatha aside, produced a pair of nail scissors and hacked through the scarf. "Now look what you've done," moaned Mrs. Boggle.
"Quit your frettin', woman," said Mr. Boggle. He jerked a thumb at Agatha. "Her'll buy you another one."
Like hell, thought Agatha when she finally parked near the bus station.
She deliberately took a long time returning to the Pump Room, an hour, in fact. She found the Boggles in the tea-room beside an empty coffee-pot and plates covered in cake crumbs.
"So you've finally decided to show up," said Mr. Boggle, handing her the bill. "You're a fine one."
The trouble is, no one don't care nothing about old folks these days.
All they want is discos and drugs," said Mrs. Boggle. They both stared fiercely at Agatha.
"Have you taken the waters yet?" asked Agatha.
"Going to now," said Mrs. Boggle. "Help me up."
Agatha raised her to her feet, gagging slightly at the wafts of cheap scent and old body. The Boggles drank cups of sulphurous water. "Do you want to see the Roman Baths?" asked Agatha, remembering Mrs. Bloxby and determined to please. "I haven't seen them."
"Well, we've seen them scores of times!" whined Mrs. Boggle. "We wants to go to Polly Perkins' Pantry."
"What's that?"
"That's where we's having dinner."
The Boggles belonged to that generation which still took dinner in the middle of the day.
"It's only ten to twelve," pointed out Agatha, ' you've just had coffee and cakes." "But you've got to go and get the car," said Mr. Boggle. "Pantry's up in Monmouth Road. Can't expect us to walk there. No consideration."
The idea of a short break from the Boggles while she got the car prompted Agatha to accept her orders docilely. Again she took her time, returning to pick up the Boggles at one o'clock and ignoring their cries and complaints that Mrs. Boggle's joints were stiffening with all the waiting.
No one could accuse Agatha Raisin of having a delicate or refined palate, but she had a sharp eye for a rip-off and as soon as she sat down with the horrible pair in Polly Perkins' Pantry, she wondered if they were soul mates of the Cummings-Brownes. Waitresses dressed in laced bodices and mob caps flitted about at great speed, therefore being able to ignore all the people trying to get served.
The menu was expensive and written in that twee kind of prose which irritated Agatha immensely. The Boggles wanted Beau Nash cod fritters to start ' and golden, on a bed of fresh, crunchy lettuce' followed by Beau Brummell escalopes of veal ' and mouthwatering, with a white wine sauce and sizzling aubergine sticks, tender new carrots, and succulent green peas'. "And a bottle of champagne," said Mr. Boggle.
"I'm not made of money," protested Agatha hotly.
"Champagne's good for my arthuritis," quavered Mrs. Boggle. "Not often we gets a treat, but if you' going' to count every penny ... "
Agatha caved in. Get them sozzled and they might sleep on the way home.
The waitresses were now grouped in a corner by the till, chatting and laughing. Agatha rose and marched over to them. "I have no intention of waiting for service. Get a move on," she snarled. "I want cheerful and polite and fast service now. And don't give me those looks of dumb insolence. Jump to it!"
A now surly waitress followed Agatha over to her table and took the order. The champagne was warm when it arrived. Agatha cracked. She rose to her feet and glared at the pale, shy English faces of the other diners. "Why do you sit there and put up with this dreadful service?"
she howled. "You're paying for it, dammit."
"You're right," called a meek-looking little man. "I've been here for half an hour and no one's come near this table."
Cries of rage and frustration rose from the other diners. The manager was hurriedly summoned from his office. An ice bucket was produced like lightning. "On the house," muttered the manager, bending over Agatha. Waitresses flew backwards and forwards, serving the customers this time, long skirts swinging, outraged bosoms heaving under laced bodices, mob caps nodding.
"They'll be worn out by the time they get home," said Agatha with a grin. "Never moved so much in all their lives."
Mrs. Boggle speared a cod fritter and popped the whole thing in her mouth. "We've never ' trouble afore," she said through a spray of cod flakes "Have we, Benjamin?" "No, people respect us," said Mr. Boggle.
Agatha opened her mouth to blast the horrible pair when Mr. Boggle added, "Were you one o' his fancy women?"
She looked at him dumbfounded.
"Who?"
"Reg Cummings-Browne, him what you poisoned."
"I didn't poison him!" roared Agatha and then dropped her voice as the other diners stared. "It was an accident. And what the hell makes you think I was having an affair with Cummings-Browne?"
"You was seen up at Ella Cartwright's. Like to like, I all us say."
"You mean Mrs. Cartwright was having an affair with Cummings-Browne?"
"Course. Everybody knew that, ' her husband."
"How long had this been going on?"
"Dunno. Must have gone off her, though, for he was arter some bit in Ancombe, or so I heard."
"So Cummings-Browne was a philanderer," said Agatha.
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Enlivened by champagne, Mr. Boggle suddenly giggled. "Got his leg over half the county, if you ask me."
Agatha's mind raced. She remembered having dinner with the Cummings-Brownes. She remembered Mrs. Cart-wright's name being mentioned and the sudden stillness between the pair. Then there were those sobbing women at the inquest.
"O' course," said Mrs. Boggle suddenly, ' all knew it was you that was meant to be poisoned, if anyone."
"Why would anyone want to poison me?" demanded Agatha.
"Look what you did to Mrs. Barr. Lured Mrs. Simpson away from her with promises of gold. Heard Mrs. Barr down in Harvey's talking about it."
"Don't try to tell me that Mrs. Barr would try to poison me because I took her cleaning woman away."
"Why not? Reckon her has a point. Said you brought down the tone of the village."
"Are you usually so rude to people who give up a day to take you out?" asked Agatha.
"I tell it like it is," said Mrs. Boggle proudly.
Agatha was about to retort angrily when she remembered herself saying exactly the same thing on several occasions. Instead she said, after they had demolished their main course, "Do you want any pudding?"
Silly question. Of course they wanted pudding. Prince Regent fudge cake with ice cream ' good'.
Agatha's mind returned to the problem of Cummings-Browne's death. Mr. Cummings-Browne had been a judge at competitions in other villages. He had had favourites. Had those favourites been his mistresses? And what of the burning animosity of Mrs. Barr? Was it all because of Mrs. Simpson? Or did Mrs. Barr enter home-baking, jam-making, or flower-arranging in the village competitions?
"Don't want coffee," Mrs. Boggle was saying. "Goes straight for me bowels."
Agatha paid the bill but did not leave a tip, free champagne or no free champagne.
"If you would both like to wait here," she said, "I'll get the car."
Freedom from this precious pair was close at hand. Agatha felt quite cheerful as she brought the car round.
As she was heading out of Bath, Mrs. Boggle poked her in the shoulder.
"Here! Where you going?"
"Home," said Agatha briefly.
"We wants to hear the band in the Parade Gardens," said Mr. Boggle.
"What sort of a day out is it if you can't hear the band?" Only the thought of Mrs. Bloxby's gentle face made Agatha turn the car round. The couple had to be deposited at the gardens while `=-81' Agatha wearily parked the car again, a long way away, and then walked back.
Deck chairs had to be found for the Boggles.
The sun shone, the band played its way through a seemingly endless repertoire as the afternoon wore on. Then the Boggles wanted afternoon tea at the Pump Room. Did they always eat so much? wondered Agatha.
Or were they storing up food inside for some long hibernation before the next outing?
At last they allowed her to take them home. All went well until she reached the Fosse Way and again that horny finger prodded her back. "I have ter pee," said Mrs. Boggle.
"Can't you wait until I reach Bourton-on-the-Water or Stow?" called Agatha over her shoulder. "Bound to be public toilets there."
"I gotta go now," wailed Mrs. Boggle.
Agatha pulled into the side of the road, bumping the car on to the grassy verge.
"You'd best help her," said Mr. Boggle.
Mrs. Boggle had to be led into a field and behind the shelter of some bushes. Mrs. Boggle produced toilet paper from her handbag. Mrs. Boggle needed help getting her knickers down, capacious pink cotton knickers with elastic at the knee.
It was all very stomach-churning for Agatha, who felt quite green when she finally shepherded her charge back to the car. It would be a cold day in hell, thought Agatha, before she ever let herself in for a day like this again.
She felt quite limp and weepy when she arrived outside Culloden. "Why Culloden?" she asked.
"When we bought our council house," said Mr. Boggle, ' went down to the nursery where they sell house signs. I wanted Rose Cottage, but she wanted Culloden."
Agatha got out and heaved Mrs. Boggle on to the pavement beside her husband. Then she fairly leaped back into the driving seat and drove off with a frantic crunching of gears.
Detective Constable Wong was waiting on Agatha's doorstep.
"Out enjoying yourself?" he asked as Agatha let him into the house.
"I've had a hellish time," said Agatha, ' I don't want to talk about it. What brings you here?"
He sat down at the kitchen table and spread out the anonymous letter.
"Have you any idea who sent this?"
Agatha plugged in the electric kettle. "I thought it might be John Cartwright. He's been threatening me."
"And why should John Cartwright threaten you?"
Agatha looked shifty. "I called on his wife. He didn't seem to like it." "And you were asking questions," said Bill.
"Well, do you know that Cummings-Browne was having an affair with Ella Cartwright?"
"Yes."
Agatha's eyes gleamed. "Well, there's a motive ... "
"In desperately trying to prove this a murder, you are going to land into trouble. No one likes anyone poking into their private life. This note, now. It interests me. No fingerprints."
"Everyone knows about fingerprints," scoffed Agatha.
"And everyone also knows that if you do not have a criminal record, there is no way the police can trace you through your fingerprints. The police are not going to fingerprint a whole village just because of one nasty letter. Then it was, I think, written by someone literate trying to sound semiliterate."
"How do you come by that?"
"Even in the broadest Gloucestershire dialect, interfering comes out sounding just that, not "innerfering". Might be interferin' with the dropped g, but that's all. Also, strangely enough, everyone appears to know how to spell bitch. Apart from the Cartwrights, who else have you been questioning?" "No one," said Agatha. "Except that I was discussing the murder in the Red Huntsman with my friends, and two friends of her next door were there."
"Not murder," he said patiently. "Accident. I'll keep this note. I haven't found anyone who recognizes the woman in your photograph. The reason I have called is to warn you, Agatha Raisin, not to go messing about in people's lives, or soon there might be a real-live murder, with you as the corpse!"
Chapter Seven.
Agatha's figure, though stocky, had hitherto carried very little surplus fat. As she tried to fasten her skirt in the morning, she realized she had put on about an extra inch and a half around the waistline. In London, she had walked a lot, walking being quicker than sitting in a bus crawling through the traffic. But since she had come to Carsely, she had been using the car to go everywhere apart from short trips along the village. Carsely was not going to make Agatha Raisin let herself go!
She drove to a bicycle shop in Evesham and purchased a light, collapsible bicycle of the kind she could carry around in the boot of her car. She did not want to experiment cycling near the village until she felt she had remastered the knack. She had not cycled since the age of six.
She parked off the road next to one of the country walks, took out the little bicycle, and pushed it to the beginning of the grassy path. She mounted and wobbled off very nervously, climbed a small rise, and then, with a feeling of exhilaration, cruised downhill through pretty woods dappled with sunlight. After a few miles, she realized she was approaching the village, and with a groan, she turned back. Her well-shaped legs, although fairly sturdy with London walking, were not up to cycling the whole way back up the hill and so she got off and pushed. Clouds covered the sun very quickly and it began to rain, fine, soft, drenching rain.
In London, she could have gone into a bar or cafe and waited for the rain to stop, but there was nothing here but fields and woods and the steady drip of water from the trees above.
She thankfully reached her car and stowed away the bicycle. She was just moving off when a car passed her. She st
ared at it in amazement.
Surely it was that rusting brown thing she had recently seen trapped in the Cartwrights' front garden. On impulse, she swung her own car round and set off in pursuit. Her quarry wound through narrow lanes, heading for Ancombe. Agatha tried to keep out of sight, but there were no other cars on the road. She could just make out that Mrs. Cartwright was driving the rusty car.
As Agatha approached Ancombe, she noticed large signs and arrows directing drivers to the AN COMBE ANNUAL FAIR. Mrs. Cartwright appeared to be heading for it. Now there were other cars and Agatha let a Mini get between her and Mrs. Cartwright.
Mrs. Cartwright parked her car in a large wet field. Agatha, ignoring a steward's waving arm, parked a good bit away. As abruptly as it had started, the rain stopped and the sun shone down. Feeling damp and creased, Agatha got out. There was no sign of Mrs. Cartwright. Her car, an old brown Ford, Agatha noted as she passed it, was empty.
Agatha walked towards the fair and paid the ten pence admission charge and an additional ten pence for a programme. She flicked through it until she found the Home Baking Competition tent on the map in the centre.
Just as she was about to enter the tent, Agatha came face to face with Mrs. Cartwright. "What you doin' here?" demanded Mrs. Cartwright suspiciously.
"How did you get your car out of the garden?" asked Agatha.
Tush the fence over, drive off, push the fence up again. Been like that for years, but will my John fix it? Nah. Why are you here?"
"I heard there was a fair on," said Agatha vaguely. "Are you entering anything?" "Quiche," said Mrs. Cartwright laconically. She suddenly grinned.
"Spinach quiche. Better prizes here than you get at Carsely."
Think you'll win?"
"Bound to. Haven't any competition really."
"Did Mr. Cummings-Browne judge the home-baking here as well?"
"Nah. Dogs. Best of breed and all that. Look ... " Mrs. Cartwright glanced furtively around. "Want a bit of info?"
"I've paid you forty pounds to date and I haven't yet got my money's worth!" snapped Agatha. "And you can tell that husband of yours to stop threatening me."
