Barbara James, put her bicycle in her car and went off to drive around the Cotswolds, occasionally stopping at some quiet lane to change over to her bicycle.
Huge festoons of wisteria hung over cottage doors, hawthorn blossoms fell in snowy drifts beside the road, the golden stone of houses glowed in the warm sun and London seemed very far away.
At Chipping Campden, she forgot her determination to slim and ate steak and kidney pie in the antique cosiness of the Eight Bells before sauntering down the main street of the village with its green verges and houses of golden stone with gables, tall chimneys, archways, pediments, pillars, mullioned or sash windows, and big flat stone steps. Despite the inevitable groups of tourists, it had a serene, retiring air. Full of steak and kidney pie, Agatha began to feel a little sense of peace. In the middle stood the Market Hall of 1627 with its short strong pillars throwing black shadows on to the road.
Life could be easy. All she had to do was to forget about Cummings-Browne's death.
During the next few days, the sun continued to shine and Agatha continued to tour about, occasionally cycling, occasionally walking, returning every evening with a new feeling of health and well-being. It was with some trepidation that she remembered she was to accompany the Carsely ladies to Mircester.
But no angry faces glared at her as she climbed aboard the bus. Mrs. Doris Simpson was there, to Agatha's relief and surprise, and so she sat beside the cleaning woman and chatted idly of this and that. The women in the bus were mostly middle-aged. Some had brought their knitting, some squares of tapestry. The old bus creaked and clanked along the lanes. The sun shone. It was all very peaceful.
Agatha assumed that the entertainment to be provided for them by the ladies of Mircester would take the form of tea and cakes, and meant to indulge herself to the full, feeling all the exercise she had taken in the past few days merited a hinge on pastry. But when they alighted at a church hall it was to find that a full-scale lunch with wine had been laid on. The wine had been made by members of the Mircester Ladies' Society and was extremely potent. Lunch consisted of clear soup, roast chicken with chips and green peas, and sherry trifle, followed by Mrs. Rain-worth's apple brandy. Applause for Mrs. Rainworth, a gnarled old crone, was loud and appreciative as the brandy went the rounds.
The chairwoman of the Mircester Ladies' Society got to her feet. 'We have a surprise for you.' She turned to Mrs. Bloxby. 'If your ladies would take their bus to the Malvern Theatre, they will find seats have been booked for them.' 'What is the entertainment?' asked Mrs. Bloxby.
There were raucous shouts from the Mircester ladies of 'Secret! You'll see.' 'I wonder what it is,' said Agatha to Doris Simpson as they climbed aboard their coach again. It was now Doris and Agatha.
'I don't know,' said Doris. 'There was some children's theatre giving a show. Might be that.'
'I've drunk so much,' said Agatha, 'I'll probably sleep through the lot.'
'Now that is a surprise!' exclaimed Doris when their ancient bus clanked to a halt outside the theatre. 'It says, 'All-American Dance Troupe. The Spanglers.'
'Probably one of these modern ballet companies,' groaned Agatha.
'Everyone in black tights dancing around what looks like a bomb site.
Oh, well, I hope the music's not too loud.'
Inside, she settled herself comfortably with the other members of the Carsely Ladies' Society.
To a roll of drums, the curtain rose. Agatha blinked. It was a show of male strippers. The music beat and pulsated and the strobe lights darted here and there. Agatha sank lower in her seat, her faced scarlet with embarrassment. Mrs. Rainworth, the inventor of the apple brandy, stood up on her seat and shouted hysterically, 'Get ' orf.'
The women were yelling and cheering. Agatha was dimly glad of the fact that Doris Simpson had taken out some knitting and was working away placidly, seemingly oblivious to what was going on on the stage or in the audience. The strippers were tanned and well-muscled. They did not strip completely. They had an arch teasing manner, more like bimbos than men. Naughty but nice. But most of the women were beside themselves. One middle-aged dyed blonde, one of the Mircester ladies, made a wild rush to the stage and had to be pulled back.
Agatha suffered in silence. But when the show finished, her agony was not over. Members of the audience who wanted their photographs taken with one of the strippers could do so for a mere fee of ten pounds. And with a few exceptions, the Carsely ladies all wanted photographs taken.
'Did you enjoy the show, Mrs. Raisin?' asked the vicar's wife, Mrs. Bloxby, as Agatha shakily got on board the bus.
'I was shocked,' said Agatha.
'Oh, it was only a bit of fun,' said Mrs. Bloxby. 'I've seen worse on television.' 'I'm surprised you should find it amusing,' said Agatha.
'They're such good boys. Do you know they did a special show for the Kurdish refugees and raised five thousand pounds? And all that money for the photographs goes towards restoring the abbey roof.' 'How clever of them,' said Agatha, who recognized good PR when she heard it. By donating occasionally to charity, the troupe of male strippers had made themselves respectable and allowed licensed lust to flourish in the breasts of the Cotswold ladies, who would turn up by the busload to cheer them on. Perhaps these Americans had started an English tradition, mused Agatha sourly. Perhaps in five hundred years' time there would be male strippers performing in the squares of the Cotswold villages while tour guides lectured their clients on the beginnings of this ancient ritual.
Back to the church hall and down to business. Once more they were a large group of staid worthy women, discussing the arrangements of this fete and that to raise funds for charity. Mrs. Bloxby got to her feet and said, 'Our Mrs. Raisin is running an auction on June tenth to raise money for charity. I hope you will all come and help to drive up the bidding. We are very grateful to Mrs. Raisin and hope you will all do your best to support her.' Agatha cringed, waiting for someone to say, 'Not that Mrs. Raisin, not the one who poisoned poor Mr. Cummings-Browne,' but all she got was a warm-hearted round of applause.
Agatha felt quite weepy as she stood up and bowed in acknowledgement.
Bill Wong was right. Retirement would be highly enjoyable just so long as she forgot all about Reg Cummings-Browne and that wretched quiche.
Chapter Eight.
Agatha kept to her determination to mind her own business as far as the death of Cummings-Browne was concerned. Instead, she turned her energies again on the local newspapers and dealers, rousing interest in the auction. The editors published paragraphs about the auction just to keep Agatha quiet, as journalists had done in the not so very long ago when she was selling some client or product.
In their good-natured way, the Carsely Ladies' Society contributed books, plates, vases and other worn- looking items which they had bought over the years at other sales and were now recycling. As the day of the auction approached, Agatha began to receive more and more visitors.
Mrs. Mason, the chairwoman of the group, called regularly with several of the other ladies with their contributions, until Agatha's living-room began to look more and more like a junk shop.
She was so engrossed in all this that she almost forgot about Roy's visit and had to rush to meet the train on the Friday evening. She wished he were not coming. She was beginning to feel part of this village life and did not want outrageous Roy to damage her new image of Lady Bountiful.
To her relief, he descended from the train looking as much a businessman as several of the other London commuters. He had a conventional hair-style, no earrings, and wore a business suit. Hanging baskets of flowers were ornamenting Moreton-in-Marsh station and roses bloomed in flower-beds on the platform. The sun was blazing down on a perfect evening.
'Like another world,' said Roy. 'I thought you'd made a ghastly mistake coming here, Aggie, but now I think you're lucky.' 'How's the baby-food thing going?' asked Agatha as he got in the car.
'I did what you said and it was a great success, so I've leaped to respectability with the firm. Do you know who the latest client is?'
Agatha shook her head.
'Handley's nursery chain.'
Agatha looked bewildered. 'More babies?'
'No, dear. Gardens. They've even given me a dress allowance, tweed sports jacket, cords and brogues, can you believe it? Do you know, I thought I quite liked flowers, but they've got all these poisonously long Latin names, like chemical formulas, and I never took Latin at school. It's all so boring; garden sheds and gnomes and crazy
