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called Harry.
    Agatha turned back.
    He winked at her, waved the stick she had bought him and swiped it through the air. “Gotcha!” he cried. “Take that!”
    He began to laugh, a horrible wheezing, cackling sound. Then he lost his balance, staggered backwards, his arms flailing and fell down against the tombstone, cracking his head on the edge of it.
    Agatha rushed forward and bent over him. Blood was oozing from his head. The bells from the church tower pealed out deafeningly over the scene.
    His eyes flickered open. “Got your answer,” he mumbled, and then all life drained out of him.

    Two weeks later, Agatha was being interviewed for the local newspaper, the
Mircester Times
. It was the silly season and the editor had decided that an interview with a local detective would fill up the pages. Agatha had agreed to it, on the condition that there should be no mention of the Christmas pudding affair.
    She bragged happily about all her successful cases with a few embellishments. Then she posed for photographs, something she hated to do.
    “A few more questions, Mrs. Raisin,” said the interviewer, a thin, nervous girl with great ambitions but little talent. “Would you consider yourself a feminist?”
    “That is a hard question to reply to,” said Agatha. “If one says ‘yes,’ one is damned as having hairy legs, a bullying attitude, a hatred of men and no bra. If one says ‘no,’ then people think one is old-fashioned and believes that men know better.”
    “So what
are
you?”
    “I am unique,” said Agatha crossly. “Now, if we could just wind this thing up . . .”
    “One more question. Have you ever believed someone to be guilty of a crime but were unable to prove it?”
    Suddenly, Agatha was back in the churchyard. Harry cackled in the sunlight and swung his stick.
    “No,” said Agatha Raisin firmly. “Never.”

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.