Mrs. Mason handed Agatha the first lot. Agatha looked down at it. It was a box of second-hand books, mostly paperback romances. There was one old hardback book on top.
Agatha picked it up and looked at it. It was Ways of the Horse, by John Fitzgerald, Esquire, and all the S's looked like F's, so Agatha knew it was probably eighteenth-century but still worthless. She opened it up and looked at the title page and affected startled surprise. Then she put the book back hurriedly and said, 'Nothing here. Perhaps we should start with something more interesting.'
She looked across the hall at Roy, who instinctively picked up his cue.
'No, you don't,' he shouted. 'Start with that one. I'll bid ten pounds.'
There was a murmur of surprise. Mrs. Simpson, who, along with others, had been asked to do her best to force up the bidding, cheerfully called, 'Fifteen pounds.' A small man who looked like a dealer looked up sharply. 'Who'll offer me twenty?' said Agatha. 'All in a good cause. Going, going ... ' Mrs. Simpson groaned audibly. The little man flapped his newspaper. 'Twenty,' said Agatha gleefully. 'Who'll give me twenty-five?'
The Carsely ladies sat silent, clutching their handbags Another man raised his hand. Twenty-five it is,' said Agatha. The box of worthless books was finally knocked down for fifty pounds. Agatha was unrepentant. All in a good cause, she told herself firmly.
The bidding went on. The tourists joined in. More people began to force their way in. Villagers began to bid. It was such a big event that they all wanted now to say they had contributed. The sun beat down through the windows of the school hall. Occasionally from outside came the sound of fiddle and accordion as the morris dancers danced on, accompanied by the occasional raucous cry of old Mrs. Rainworm, 'Apple brandy. Real old Cotswold recipe.'
Midlands Television turned up and Agatha spurred herself to greater efforts. The bidding was running wild. One by one, all the junk began to disappear. Her sofa and chairs went to a Gloucestershire dealer, even the fake horse brasses were snapped up and the Americans bid hotly for the farm machinery, recognizing genuine antiques in their usual irritatingly sharp way.
When the auction was over, Agatha Raisin had made 25,000 for Save the Children. But she knew that she now had to soothe the savage breasts of those who felt they had been cheated.
'I must thank you all,' she said with a well-manufactured break in her voice. 'Some of you may feel you have paid more than you should. But remember, you are helping charity. We of Carsely thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Now, if you will all join me in singing 'Jerusalem'.'
The famous hymn was followed by Mrs. Mason leading the audience in 'Land of Hope and Glory'. The vicar then said a prayer, and everyone beamed happily in a euphoric state.
Agatha was surrounded by reporters. No nationals, she noticed, but what did it matter? She said to them, facing the Midlands Television camera, 'I cannot take the credit for all this. The success of this venture is thanks to the freely given services of a London public relations executive, Roy Silver. Roy, take a bow.'
Flushed with delight, Roy leaped nimbly up on to the stage and cavorted in his cap and bells for the camera. The band then played selections from Mary Poppins as the crowds dispersed, some to the tea-room, some back to the apple-brandy stall, the rest to watch the morris dancing.
Agatha felt a pang of regret and half wished she had not given Roy the credit. He was beside himself with joy and, followed by the television camera, had gone out to join the morris dancers, where he was turning cartwheels and showing off to his heart's content.
'Pity it won't make the nationals,' mourned Roy as he and Agatha sat later on Agatha's new furniture.
'If you make the locals, you'll be lucky,' said Agatha, made waspish by fatigue. 'We'll need to wait now until Monday. I don't think there's a local Sunday paper, and then there's hardly any news coverage on television at the weekends.' 'Put on the telly,' said Roy. They do the Midlands news for a few minutes after the national.'
'They only do about three minutes in all,' said Agatha, ' they're hardly going to cover a local auction.'
Roy switched on the television. The local news covered another murder in Birmingham, a missing child in Stroud, a pile-up on the M6, and then, 'On a lighter note, the picturesque village of Carsely raised a record sum ... ' And there was Roy on the road waving down motorists and then a shot of Agatha running the auction, the singing of 'Jerusalem' and then a quick shot of Roy with the morris dancers, 'Roy Silver, a London executive and Roy stopping his cavorting to say seriously, 'One does what one can for charity.'
'Well,' said Agatha, ' I'm surprised.'
'There's another news later,' said Roy, searching through the newspaper. 'Must video it and show it to old Wilson.' 'I looked fat,' said Agatha dismally.
'It's the cameras, love, they always put pounds on. By the way, did you ever discover who that woman was, the one on the tower of Warwick Castle?'
'Oh, her. Miss. Maria Borrow of Upper Cockburn.'
'And?'
'And nothing. I've decided to let the whole thing rest. Bill Wong, a detective constable, seems to think that the attacks on me have been caused by my Nosy-Parkering.'
Roy looked at her curiously. 'You'd better tell me about it.' Wearily, Agatha told him what had been happening since she had last seen him.
'I wouldn't just let it go,' said Roy. Tell you what, if you can borrow a bicycle for me, we could both cycle over to this village, Upper Cockburn, and take a look-see. Get exercise at the same time.'
'I don't know ... '
'I mean, we could just ask around, casual like.'
'I'll think about it after church,' said Agatha.
'Church!'
'Yes, church service, Roy. Early tomorrow.'
'I'll be glad to get back to the quiet life of London,' said Roy with feeling. 'Oh, what about the idea for my nurseries?'
'Oh, that! Well, what about this. Get some new plant or flower and name it after Prince William.'
'Isn't there a rose or something already?'
'There's a Charles, I think. I don't know if there's a William.'
'And they usually do things like that at the Chelsea Flower Show.'
'Don't be so defeatist. Get them to find some new plant of any kind.
They're always inventing new things. Fake it if necessary.'
'Can't give gardeners fakes.'
Then don't. Find something, call it the Prince William, hold a party in one of the nurseries. Anything to do with Prince William gets in the papers.'
'Wouldn't I need permission?'
'I don't know. Find out. Phone up the press office at the Palace and put it to them. Take it from me, they're not going to object. It's a flower, for God's sake, not a Rottweiler.'
His eyes gleamed. 'Might work. When does Harvey's open in the morning to sell newspapers?'
They open for one hour on Sundays. Eight till nine. But you won't find anything, Roy. The nationals weren't at the auction.'
'But if the locals have a good photo, they send it to the nationals.'
Agatha stifled a yawn. 'Dream on. I'm going to bed.'
When they walked to church the next morning, Agatha felt she ought to tie Roy down before he floated away. A picture of him had appeared in the Sunday Times. He was dancing with the morris men. Three old village worthies with highly photographable wizened faces were watching the dancing. It was a very good photo. It looked like a dream of rural England. The caption read, 'London PR executive, Roy Silver, 25, entertaining the villagers of Carsely, Gloucestershire, after running a successful auction which raised 25,000 for charity.' It was all my work, thought Agatha, regretting bitterly having given Roy the credit.
But at the morning service, the vicar gave credit where credit was due and offered a vote of thanks to Mrs. Agatha Raisin for all her hard work. Roy looked sulky and clutched the Sunday Times to his thin chest.
After the service, Mrs. Bloxby when appealed to said she had an old bicycle in the garden shed which Roy could use. The least I can do for you, Mrs. Raisin,' said Mrs. Bloxby gently. 'Not only did you do sterling work but you let your young friend here take all the credit.'
Roy was about to protest that he had stood for hours on the main road looking like an idiot in the name of
