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 stared 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.'
'He's always threatening people and he thinks you're a nosy old tart.
Still, if you don't want to know what went on at Ancombe ... '
She began to move away.
'Wait,' said Agatha. 'What can you tell me?'
Mrs. Cartwright's dark eyes rested greedily on Agatha's handbag.
Agatha clicked it open and took out her wallet. 'Ten if I think it's worth it.'
Mrs. Cartwright leaned forward. 'The dog competition's always won by a Scottie.'
'So?'
'And the woman who shows the Scotties is Barbara James from Combe Farm.
At the inquest her were, and crying fit to bust.'
'Are you saying ... '
'Our Reg had to have a bit before he would favour someone year in and year out.'
Agatha handed over ten pounds. She studied her programme. The dog judging was due to begin in an arena near the tent. When she looked up from her programme, Mrs. Cartwright had gone.
Agatha sat on a bench just outside the roped-off arena. She opened her programme again. The Best of Breed competition was to be judged by a Lady Waverton. She looked up. A stout woman in tweeds and a deerstalker was sitting on a shooting-stick, her large tweed-encased bottom hanging down on either side of it, studying the dogs as they were paraded past her. A fresh-faced woman of about thirty-five with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks was
