outing. Old Mrs. Boggle has bad arthritis. It will mean so very much to them."
Agatha felt weak and childlike before the simple, uncomplicated goodness in Mrs. Bloxby's eyes and filled again with that
desire to please.
And the women as they were leaving spoke to her of this and that and not one mentioned quiche.
With a feeling of belonging, Agatha walked home. Lilac Lane was beginning to live up to its name. Lilac trees, heavy with
blossom, scented the evening air. Wisteria hung in purple profusion over cottage doors.
Must do something about my own garden, thought Agatha.
She unlocked and opened her front door and switched on the light. One sheet of paper lay on the doormat, the message scrawled
on it staring up at her: "Stop nosey-parking, you innerfering old bich."
Picking it up with the tips of her fingers, Agatha stared at it in dismay. For the first time she realized how very quiet
the village was in the evening. She was surrounded by silence, a silence that seemed ominous, full of threat.
She dropped the note into the rubbish bin and went up to bed, taking the brass poker with her, propping it up by the bedside
where she could reach it easily.
Old houses creak and sigh as they settle down for the night. For a long time Agatha lay awake, starting at every sound, until
she suddenly fell asleep, one hand resting on the knob of the poker.
SIX
The next morning, the rough winds were shaking the darling buds of May. Sunlight streamed in Agatha's windows. It was a day
of movement and bright, sharp, glittering colour. She took the threatening note out of the rubbish. Why not show this to Bill
Wong? What did it mean? She had not been doing any investigating to speak of. But he would ask a lot of questions and she
might slip up and tell him of her visit to Mrs. Cartwright and that Mrs. Cartwright had told her to call again.
She smoothed out the note and tucked it in with the cookery books. Perhaps she should keep it just in case.
After breakfast, there was a knock at her door. She had a little scared feeling it might be Mrs. Barr. Damn the woman! She
was nothing but a warped middle-aged frump, and such should not cause a stalwart such as Agatha Raisin any trouble at all.
But it was Mrs. Bloxby who stood there, and behind her, to Agatha's dismay, Vera CummingsBrowne.
"May we come in?" asked Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha led the way into the kitchen, bracing herself for tears and recriminations. Mrs. Bloxby refused Agatha's offer of
coffee and said, "Mrs. CummingsBrowne has something to say to you."
Vera Cummings-Browne addressed the table-top rather than Agatha. "I have been most distressed, most upset about the death
of my husband, Mrs. Raisin. But I am now in a calmer frame of mind. I do not blame you for anything. It was an accident, a
strange and unfortunate accident." She raised her eyes. "You see, I have always believed that when one dies, it is meant. It could have been a car driven by a drunken driver which mounted the pavement. It could have been a piece of fallen masonry.
The police pathologist felt that Reg could have survived the accidental poisoning had he been stronger. But he had high blood
pressure and his heart was bad. So be it."
"I am so very sorry," said Agatha weakly. "How very generous of you to call on me."
"It was my Christian duty," said Mrs. CummingsBrowne.
Behind the mask of her face, which Agatha hoped was registering sorrow, sympathy, and concern, her mind was rattling away
at a great rate. "So be i t . . . Christian duty?" How very stagy. But then Mrs. Cummings-Browne buried her face in her hands and wept, gasping through her sobs, "Oh, Reg, I do miss you so.
Oh, Reg!"
Mrs. Bloxby led the weeping Mrs. CummingsBrowne out. No, thought Agatha, the woman was genuinely broken up. Mrs. Cummings-Browne
had forgiven her. All Agatha had to do was to get on with life and forget about the whole thing.
She set about phoning up the editors of local newspapers to raise
Agatha felt weak and childlike before the simple, uncomplicated goodness in Mrs. Bloxby's eyes and filled again with that
desire to please.
And the women as they were leaving spoke to her of this and that and not one mentioned quiche.
With a feeling of belonging, Agatha walked home. Lilac Lane was beginning to live up to its name. Lilac trees, heavy with
blossom, scented the evening air. Wisteria hung in purple profusion over cottage doors.
Must do something about my own garden, thought Agatha.
She unlocked and opened her front door and switched on the light. One sheet of paper lay on the doormat, the message scrawled
on it staring up at her: "Stop nosey-parking, you innerfering old bich."
Picking it up with the tips of her fingers, Agatha stared at it in dismay. For the first time she realized how very quiet
the village was in the evening. She was surrounded by silence, a silence that seemed ominous, full of threat.
She dropped the note into the rubbish bin and went up to bed, taking the brass poker with her, propping it up by the bedside
where she could reach it easily.
Old houses creak and sigh as they settle down for the night. For a long time Agatha lay awake, starting at every sound, until
she suddenly fell asleep, one hand resting on the knob of the poker.
SIX
The next morning, the rough winds were shaking the darling buds of May. Sunlight streamed in Agatha's windows. It was a day
of movement and bright, sharp, glittering colour. She took the threatening note out of the rubbish. Why not show this to Bill
Wong? What did it mean? She had not been doing any investigating to speak of. But he would ask a lot of questions and she
might slip up and tell him of her visit to Mrs. Cartwright and that Mrs. Cartwright had told her to call again.
She smoothed out the note and tucked it in with the cookery books. Perhaps she should keep it just in case.
After breakfast, there was a knock at her door. She had a little scared feeling it might be Mrs. Barr. Damn the woman! She
was nothing but a warped middle-aged frump, and such should not cause a stalwart such as Agatha Raisin any trouble at all.
But it was Mrs. Bloxby who stood there, and behind her, to Agatha's dismay, Vera CummingsBrowne.
"May we come in?" asked Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha led the way into the kitchen, bracing herself for tears and recriminations. Mrs. Bloxby refused Agatha's offer of
coffee and said, "Mrs. CummingsBrowne has something to say to you."
Vera Cummings-Browne addressed the table-top rather than Agatha. "I have been most distressed, most upset about the death
of my husband, Mrs. Raisin. But I am now in a calmer frame of mind. I do not blame you for anything. It was an accident, a
strange and unfortunate accident." She raised her eyes. "You see, I have always believed that when one dies, it is meant. It could have been a car driven by a drunken driver which mounted the pavement. It could have been a piece of fallen masonry.
The police pathologist felt that Reg could have survived the accidental poisoning had he been stronger. But he had high blood
pressure and his heart was bad. So be it."
"I am so very sorry," said Agatha weakly. "How very generous of you to call on me."
"It was my Christian duty," said Mrs. CummingsBrowne.
Behind the mask of her face, which Agatha hoped was registering sorrow, sympathy, and concern, her mind was rattling away
at a great rate. "So be i t . . . Christian duty?" How very stagy. But then Mrs. Cummings-Browne buried her face in her hands and wept, gasping through her sobs, "Oh, Reg, I do miss you so.
Oh, Reg!"
Mrs. Bloxby led the weeping Mrs. CummingsBrowne out. No, thought Agatha, the woman was genuinely broken up. Mrs. Cummings-Browne
had forgiven her. All Agatha had to do was to get on with life and forget about the whole thing.
She set about phoning up the editors of local newspapers to raise
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