publicity for the auction. Local editors were used to timid,
pleading approaches from ladies of the parish. Never before had they experienced anything like Agatha Raisin on the other
end of the phone. Alternately bullying and wheedling, she left them with a feeling that something only a little short of the
crown jewels was going to be auctioned. All promised to send reporters, knowing they would have to keep their word, for Agatha
threatened each that she would phone on the morning of the auction to see if they had indeed dispatched someone.
That passed the morning happily. But by the afternoon and after a snack of Farmer Giles' Steak and Kidney Pie ("Suitable for
Microwaves"), Agatha found her steps leading her in the direction of the Cartwrights'.
Mrs. Cartwright answered the door herself, her hair back in pink rollers, her body in a pink dressing-gown.
"Come in," she said. "Drink?"
Agatha nodded. Pink gin again. Where had Mrs. Cartwright learned to drink pink gins? she wondered suddenly. Surely Babycham
and brandy, lager and lime, rum and Coke would have been more to her taste.
"How was bingo?" asked Agatha.
"Not a penny," said Mrs. Cartwright bitterly. "But tonight's my lucky night. I saw two magpies in the garden this morning."
Agatha reflected that as magpies were a protected species, one saw the wretched black-and-white things everywhere. Surely
it would have been more of a surprise if Mrs. Cartwright had not seen any magpies at all.
"I wanted to know about Mr. Cummings-Browne," said Agatha.
"What, for example?" Mrs. Cartwright narrowed her eyes against the rising smoke from the cigarette she held in one brown hand.
From the living-room where they sat, Agatha could see through to the cluttered messy kitchen—hardly the kitchen of a dedicated
baker.
"Well, as you won the prize year after year, I thought you might have known him pretty well," she said.
"As much as I know anyone in the village." Mrs. Cartwright took a slug of her gin.
"Do you bake a lot?"
"Naw. Used to. Occasionally do some baking for Mrs. Bloxby. Terrible woman she is. Can't say no to her. Come in the kitchen
and I'll show you."
Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. A tattered calendar showing a picture of a blonde in nothing but a wisp of gauze and
sandals leered down from the wall. But on a cleared corner of the kitchen table beside the half-empty milk bottle, the pat
of butter smeared with marmalade, lay a tray of delicate fairy cakes. They looked exquisite. There was no doubt Mrs. Cartwright
could bake.
"So I'd make a quiche and get a tenner for it," said Mrs. Cartwright. "Silly waste of time if you ask me. My husband doesn't
like quiche. Used to make them for the Harveys and they'd sell them down at the shop for me. Went well, too. But I can't seem
to find the time these days." She tottered back to the living-room in her pink high-heeled mules.
Agatha decided to get down to some hard business. "I paid you twenty pounds for information yesterday," she said bluntly,
"information which I have not yet received."
"I spent it."
"Yes, but how you spent it or what you spent it on is not my affair," snapped Agatha.
Mrs. Cartwright put a finger to her brow. "Now what was it? Dammit, my bloody memory's gone wandering again."
Her eyes gleamed darkly as Agatha fished in her capacious handbag. Agatha held up a twenty. "No, you don't," she said as Mrs.
Cartwright reached for it. "Information first. Is your husband liable to come in?"
"No, he's up at Martin's farm. He works there."
"So what have you got to tell me?"
"I was surprised," said Mrs. Cartwright, "when Mr. Cummings-Browne died."
"Oh, weren't we all," commented Agatha sarcastically.
"I mean, I thought he would've murdered her."
"What, why?"
"He spoke to me a bit. People are always telling me their troubles. It's because I'm the maternal type." Mrs. Cartwright yawned,
reached inside her dressing-gown and scratched one of her generous bosoms. A
pleading approaches from ladies of the parish. Never before had they experienced anything like Agatha Raisin on the other
end of the phone. Alternately bullying and wheedling, she left them with a feeling that something only a little short of the
crown jewels was going to be auctioned. All promised to send reporters, knowing they would have to keep their word, for Agatha
threatened each that she would phone on the morning of the auction to see if they had indeed dispatched someone.
That passed the morning happily. But by the afternoon and after a snack of Farmer Giles' Steak and Kidney Pie ("Suitable for
Microwaves"), Agatha found her steps leading her in the direction of the Cartwrights'.
Mrs. Cartwright answered the door herself, her hair back in pink rollers, her body in a pink dressing-gown.
"Come in," she said. "Drink?"
Agatha nodded. Pink gin again. Where had Mrs. Cartwright learned to drink pink gins? she wondered suddenly. Surely Babycham
and brandy, lager and lime, rum and Coke would have been more to her taste.
"How was bingo?" asked Agatha.
"Not a penny," said Mrs. Cartwright bitterly. "But tonight's my lucky night. I saw two magpies in the garden this morning."
Agatha reflected that as magpies were a protected species, one saw the wretched black-and-white things everywhere. Surely
it would have been more of a surprise if Mrs. Cartwright had not seen any magpies at all.
"I wanted to know about Mr. Cummings-Browne," said Agatha.
"What, for example?" Mrs. Cartwright narrowed her eyes against the rising smoke from the cigarette she held in one brown hand.
From the living-room where they sat, Agatha could see through to the cluttered messy kitchen—hardly the kitchen of a dedicated
baker.
"Well, as you won the prize year after year, I thought you might have known him pretty well," she said.
"As much as I know anyone in the village." Mrs. Cartwright took a slug of her gin.
"Do you bake a lot?"
"Naw. Used to. Occasionally do some baking for Mrs. Bloxby. Terrible woman she is. Can't say no to her. Come in the kitchen
and I'll show you."
Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. A tattered calendar showing a picture of a blonde in nothing but a wisp of gauze and
sandals leered down from the wall. But on a cleared corner of the kitchen table beside the half-empty milk bottle, the pat
of butter smeared with marmalade, lay a tray of delicate fairy cakes. They looked exquisite. There was no doubt Mrs. Cartwright
could bake.
"So I'd make a quiche and get a tenner for it," said Mrs. Cartwright. "Silly waste of time if you ask me. My husband doesn't
like quiche. Used to make them for the Harveys and they'd sell them down at the shop for me. Went well, too. But I can't seem
to find the time these days." She tottered back to the living-room in her pink high-heeled mules.
Agatha decided to get down to some hard business. "I paid you twenty pounds for information yesterday," she said bluntly,
"information which I have not yet received."
"I spent it."
"Yes, but how you spent it or what you spent it on is not my affair," snapped Agatha.
Mrs. Cartwright put a finger to her brow. "Now what was it? Dammit, my bloody memory's gone wandering again."
Her eyes gleamed darkly as Agatha fished in her capacious handbag. Agatha held up a twenty. "No, you don't," she said as Mrs.
Cartwright reached for it. "Information first. Is your husband liable to come in?"
"No, he's up at Martin's farm. He works there."
"So what have you got to tell me?"
"I was surprised," said Mrs. Cartwright, "when Mr. Cummings-Browne died."
"Oh, weren't we all," commented Agatha sarcastically.
"I mean, I thought he would've murdered her."
"What, why?"
"He spoke to me a bit. People are always telling me their troubles. It's because I'm the maternal type." Mrs. Cartwright yawned,
reached inside her dressing-gown and scratched one of her generous bosoms. A
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