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.
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.
