walking a Scottish terrier past Lady Waverton. Must be Barbara James, thought Agatha.
It was all so boring, Agatha felt quite glassy-eyed. How nervous and pleading the contestants looked, like parents at prize-giving. Lady Waverton wrote something down on a piece of paper and a messenger ran with it to a platform, where a man seated on a chair was holding a microphone. 'Attention, please,' said the man. The awards for Best of Breed are as follows. Third place, Mr. J.G. Feathers for his Sealyham, Pride of Moreton. Second, Mrs. Comley, for her otter hound, Jamesy Bright Eyes. And the first is ... '
Barbara James picked up her Scottie and cuddled it and looked expectantly towards the two local newspaper photographers. 'The first prize goes to Miss. Sally Gentle for her poodle, Bubbles Daventry of the Fosse.'
Miss. Sally Gentle looked remarkably like her dog, having curly white hair dressed in bows. Barbara James strode from the arena, her face dark with fury.
Agatha rose to her feet and followed her. Barbara went straight to the beer tent. Agatha hovered in the background until the disappointed competitor had got herself a pint of beer. Agatha detested beer but she gamely ordered a half pint and joined Barbara at one of the rickety tables that were set about the beer tent.
Agatha affected surprise. 'Why, it's Miss. James,' she cried. She leaned forward and patted the Scottie, who nipped her hand. 'Playful, isn't he?' said Agatha, casting a look of loathing at the dog. 'Such a good head. I was sure he would win.'
'It's the first time in six years I've lost,' said Barbara. She stretched her jodhpur red legs moodily out in front of her and stared at her toe-caps.
Agatha fetched up a sigh. 'Poor Mr. Cummings-Browne.'
'Reg knew a good dog when he saw one,' said Barbara. 'Here, go on.
Walkies.' She put the dog down. It strolled over to the entrance to the tent and lifted its leg against a rubbish bin. 'Did you know Reg?'
'Only slightly,' said Agatha. 'I had dinner with the Cummings-Brownes shortly before he died.'
'It should never have happened,' said Barbara. 'That's the trouble with these Cotswold villages. Too many people from the cities coming to settle. Do you know how he died? Some bitch of a woman called Raisin bought a quiche and tried to pass it off at the competition as her own.'
Agatha opened her mouth to admit she was that Mrs. Raisin when it started to rain again, suddenly, as if someone had switched on a tap.
It was a long walk to where she had parked her car. A chill wind blew into the tent.
'Terrible,' said Agatha feebly. 'Did you know Mr. Cummings-Browne well?'
'We were very good friends. Always good for a laugh, was Reg.'
'Have you entered anything in the home-baking competition?' asked Agatha.
Barbara's blue eyes were suddenly suspicious. 'Why should I?'
'Most of the ladies seem very talented at these shows.'
'I can't bake, but I know a good dog. Dammit, I should have won. What qualifications does this Lady Muck have for judging a dog show? I'll tell you ... none. The organizers want a judge and so they ask any fool with a title. She couldn't even judge her own arse.'
As Barbara picked up her beer tankard, Agatha noticed the woman's rippling muscles and decided to retreat.
But at that moment, Ella Cartwright looked into the beer tent, saw Agatha and called out, 'Enjoying yourself, Mrs. Raisin?'
Barbara slowly put down her tankard. 'You!' she hissed. She lunged across the table, her hands reaching for Agatha's throat.
Agatha leaped backwards, knocking her flimsy canvas-and-tubular-steel seat over. 'Now, don't get excited,' she said weakly.
But Barbara leaped on her and seized her by the throat. Agatha was dimly aware of the grinning faces of the drinkers in the tent. She got her knee into Barbara's stomach and pushed with all her strength.
Barbara staggered back but then came at her again. She was blocking the way out. Agatha fled behind the serving counter, screaming for help while the men laughed and cheered. She seized a large kitchen knife and held it in front of her. 'Get away,' she said breathlessly.
'Murderer!' shrieked Barbara but she backed off. Then there came a blinding flash and the click of a camera. One of the local photographers had just snapped Agatha brandishing the kitchen knife.
Still holding the knife, Agatha edged around to the exit. 'Don't come near me again or I'll kill you!' shouted Barbara.
Agatha dropped the knife outside the tent and ran. Once in the safety of her car and with the doors locked, she sat panting. She thrust the key in the ignition and then paused, dismay flooding her. That photograph! She could already see it in her mind's eye on the front of some local paper. What if the London papers picked it up? Oh, God.
She was going to have to get that film.
She felt shaken and tired as she reluctantly climbed out again and trekked across the rain-sodden field.
Keeping a sharp eye out for Barbara James, she threaded her way through the booths selling old books, country clothes, dried flowers, local pottery, and, as usual, home-baking. In addition to the usual stands, there was one selling local country wines. The photographer was standing there with a reporter sampling elderberry wine. Agatha's heart beat hard. His camera case was on the ground at his feet, but the camera which had taken the photo of her was still around his neck.
Agatha backed off in case he should see her. He stood there, sampling wine for a long time until the terrier racing was announced. He said something to the reporter and they headed off to the arena. Agatha followed them and waited until they were in the arena. She retreated to a stand and bought herself a waxed coat and a rain-hat. The rain was still drumming down. It was going to be a long day. The terrier racing was followed by show jumping. Agatha lurked at the edge of the thinning crowd, but feeling that the hat and coat she had just put on disguised her somewhat.
At the end of the show jumping, the rain stopped again and a chill yellow sunlight flooded the fair. Heart beating hard, Agatha saw the photographer wind the film from his camera, pop it in his case, and then reload with another. Slowly she took off her coat. The photographer and reporter headed out of the arena and back to the local wine stand. Try the birch wine,' the woman serving was urging them as Agatha crept closer. She dropped her coat over the camera case, mumbled something and bent and seized the handle of the camera case and lifted it up and scurried off round the back of a tent. She opened the case and stared down in dismay at all the rolls of film. Too bad. She took them all out after putting on her coat again so that she could stuff the rolls of film into her pocket.
She heard a faint yell of 'Police!' and hurried off, leaving the camera case on the ground. She felt sure that the woman serving the wine had not noticed her and the photographer and reporter had not even turned round. She felt lucky in that they were not from a national paper, otherwise they would have concentrated on her and Barbara James and would have referred back to the quiche poisoning. But local photographers and reporters knew that their job at these fairs was to get as many faces and prize-winners on their pages as possible so as to boost circulation. But if the picture of her brandishing a knife in the beer tent had turned out well, she knew they would use it, along, no doubt, with quotes from the enraged Barbara James.
She was just driving out of the car-park when a policeman flagged her down. Agatha let down the window and looked at him nervously. 'A photographer has had his camera case stolen,' said the policeman. 'Did you notice anything suspicious?' He peered into the car, his eyes darting this way and that. Agatha was painfully conscious of her coat pockets bulging with film. 'No,' she said. 'What a terrible thing to happen.'
There came a faint cry of 'We've found it.' The police man straightened up. That's that,' he said with a grin. These photographers are always drinking too much. Probably just forgot where he left it.'
He stood back. Agatha let in the clutch and drove off. She did not once relax until she was home and had lit a large fire. When it was blazing, she tipped all the rolls of film on to it and watched them burn merrily. Then she heard a car drawing up.
She looked out of the window. Barbara James!
Agatha dived behind the sofa and lay there, trembling. The knocking at the door, at first mild, became a
