on the corner and looked curiously at them as she passed and then made her way to the Red Lion. By midnight, there would be very few people in Carsely who did not know that James Lacey had driven off with Agatha Raisin in a taxi.
Agatha, although she was slowly coming to appreciate good food and yet still was quite happy with junk, nonetheless had a sharp eye for a rip-off and her heart sank a little as they entered the elegant country-house atmosphere of the Game Bird. And yet all was calm and soothing. They had a drink in the small bar, seated in chintz-covered armchairs before a roaring log fire. Perhaps, thought Agatha, it was because the tablecloths in the dining-room were pink, as were the napkins. There was always something suspicious about restaurants which went in for pink tablecloths.
When they sat down at the table, huge menus were handed to them, the kind that are handwritten as if by a doctor, the writing is so nearly indecipherable.
It was very expensive and she blinked at the prices. But she was very hungry after her weeks of dieting and gardening - no fruit diet, just eating less - and decided to splash out. She ordered bouillabaisse, followed by the 'venison special', despite James's murmur that April might not be a good time to order venison.
'You forget,' said Agatha, 'that there is a lot of farm venison around these days.'
They talked about people in the village and James said he, too, would be planting out his seedlings. The bouillabaisse arrived. But it was nothing more than a rather thin fish bisque - no bits of seafood - and served only with one sliver of toast melba, and the soup was served in a very small bowl.
James had a tiny portion of pate, which was beautifully arranged on a small plate.
Determined to be good and not to make a fuss, Agatha drank her soup. She was still hungry when she had finished but then there was the venison to look forward to. The wine, although French vintage, and claiming to be Montrechat, tasted even to Agatha's untutored palate thin and vinegary.
But then her venison arrived. It was a small piece surrounded by carefully sculptured vegetables and covered in a cranberry sauce. No vulgar fattening potatoes. 'That looks good,' said James heartily, a shade too heartily. He had ordered duck in orange sauce.
Agatha attacked her venison. One cut, one mouthful proved her worst fears. Never had she seen a piece of meat with so much gristle. Her stomach let out a baffled rumble of disappointment.
She cracked.
Agatha imperiously summoned the head waiter. 'Yes, madam?' He stooped over the table.
'Can you tell me,' said Agatha in a thin voice, 'which part of the animal this comes from? Its hooves? Its knees? The bit between its eyes?'
'Perhaps madam is not accustomed to venison?'
Deep down inside her, Agatha's working-class soul flinched. Her temper snapped. 'Don't you dare patronize me,' she said. 'This is a lump of gristle. And while we're on the subject, that bouillabaisse was a rip-off, too.'
'Dear me,' said an acidulous-looking woman with a strangled would-be upper-class voice from the table behind Agatha, 'the tourist season is here again.'
Agatha whipped round. 'Screw you,' she said contemptuously. Then she turned her bearlike eyes back to the head waiter. 'I'm telling you this stuff is crap.'
Her voice had been overloud. Everyone had stopped talking and was staring at her. She flushed red.
'I don't know about the venison,' said James mildly, 'but this duck is as tough as old boots and appears to have been microwaved.'
'I will get the owner,' intoned the head waiter.
'I'm sorry, James,' said Agatha miserably.
He leaned across the table and poked at Agatha's venison experimentally with his fork. 'You know, you're right,' he said. 'It is a lump of gristle. And here, unless I am mistaken, comes the owner.'
A huge man bore down on their table. He had a large body and a surprisingly small head. 'I know your sort,' he said in a thick Italian accent. 'Get outta here. You don't wanna pay. So don't pay.'
'We do not mind paying,' said James stiffly, 'just so long as you take this away and bring us some decent food.'
The owner let out a growl of rage like a Klingon at a death ritual and seized the four corners of the tablecloth. He gathered up the lot and strode off to the kitchen with it over his shoulder, wine and gravy dripping down his massive back.
'Time to leave,' said James. He stood up and helped Agatha out of her chair.
Covered in shame, Agatha went outside. It was a clear, starry night. Far above the Fosse they twinkled, cold and remote from the social anguish of one middle-aged lady who felt she had not only blown the evening but destroyed all her hopes of romance. And then she realized James was laughing. He was leaning against the wall of the restaurant, laughing and laughing. At last he looked down at her, his eyes glinting in the streetlights. 'Oh, Agatha Raisin,' he said, 'I do love you when you're angry.'
And suddenly the stars above whirled and the Fosse became a Parisian boulevard and the world was young again and Agatha Raisin was young and pretty and attractive.
She grinned and said, 'Let's go to the pub next door and get some beer and sandwiches.'
Most of the pubs in the Cotswolds are comfortable places, redolent of age and centuries of good living. The sandwiches were delicious and the beer was good. They talked comfortably like old friends, Agatha cautiously determined to be on her best behaviour.
'We must do this again,' he said after he had called for a taxi to take them home. 'A very cheap evening after all.'
And Agatha, a few minutes later sitting beside him in the taxi, reflected that if one is in the grip of an obsession, nothing is ever enough. She had told herself at the beginning of the evening that all she wanted was for them to be friends again, but now she longed for him to put an arm around her shoulders in the darkness of the taxi and kiss her. The longing was so intense that she felt her breathing becoming ragged and was half sad, half relieved when the short journey was over and he refused her offer of coffee, but said he would no doubt see her in the pub on the following day.
Agatha's heart sang as she went to bed. She fell asleep remembering every word and every look.
A visit from Mrs Mason the following day brought her down to earth. 'I saw you driving off with Mr Lacey in a taxi,' said Mrs Mason, settling her large bottom more comfortably in one of Agatha's armchairs.
'Yes, we had a nice evening,' said Agatha.
'Where did you go?'
'That new restaurant in Moreton, the Game Bird.'
'He entertains well when he takes the ladies out,' said Mrs Mason. 'I've heard it's expensive.'
'What do you mean, he entertains well?'
'I know he took Mrs Fortune to the Lygon in Broadway at least a couple of times and once to the Randolph in Oxford.'
Agatha felt bleak. What was one disastrous dinner compared to what appeared to be a chain of good and expensive dinners he had enjoyed with Mary Fortune? She imagined them together on a long drive to Oxford. All the glory of the previous evening was tarnished. Agatha also found to her surprise that she actually liked Mary. Mary had become a good friend. Perhaps the most graceful thing to do would be to give up trying. On the other hand, James had shown no particular interest in Mary of late.
With only half her mind on what Mrs Mason was saying, Mrs Mason having gone on to talk about parish matters, Agatha wrestled with the problem of whether to go to the Red Lion that evening or not. Perhaps she should give up this village life and return to work in London. She still had not said no to Wilson's offer. He had phoned her again and been most persuasive. But, she thought, looking at the motherly bulk of Mrs Mason, friends had not dropped round to her flat for a chat in London. In fact, she had had no friends at all.
After Mrs Mason left, she went out into her garden, which was cleared and ready for planting. It was a balmy day with big castles of white clouds floating over the Cotswold hills. Yes, she would go to the pub, but not to see James Lacey, just to meet people and have a chat.
But that evening she dressed with special care. She did not want to look
