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and an ambulance. She then shut herself in the kitchen to await their arrival. It never occurred to her to check if he was really dead or to go out and get immediate help. She sat at the kitchen table, hands tightly clasped as though in prayer, frozen with shock.
    The local policeman was the first to arrive. Police Constable Fred Griggs was a fat, jolly man, unused to coping with much more than looking for stolen cars in the tourist season and charging the odd drunken driver.
    He was bending over the body when the ambulance men arrived.
    In the middle of all the commotion, Mrs Cummings-Browne descended the stairs, holding a quilted dressing-gown tightly about her.
    When it was explained to her that her husband was dead, she clutched hold of the newel-post at the foot of the stairs and said in a stunned voice, ‘But he can’t be. He wasn’t even here when I got home. He had high blood pressure. It must have been a stroke.’
    But Fred Griggs had noticed the pools of dried vomit and the distorted bluish face of the corpse. ‘We can’t touch anything,’ he said to the ambulance men. ‘I’m pretty damn sure it’s poisoning.’
    Agatha Raisin went to church that Sunday morning. She could not remember having been inside a church before, but going to church, she believed, was one of those things one did in a village. The service was early, eight thirty, the vicar having to go on afterwards to preach at two other churches in the neighbourhood of Carsely.
    She saw P.C. Griggs’s car standing outside the Cummings-Brownes’ and an ambulance. ‘I wonder what happened,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Mr Griggs is not saying anything. I hope nothing has happened to poor Mr Cummings-Browne.’
    ‘I hope something has,’ said Agatha. ‘Couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow,’ and she marched on into the gloom of the church of St Jude and left the vicar’s wife staring after her. Agatha collected a prayer-book and a hymn-book and took a pew at the back of the church. She was wearing her new red dress and on her head was a broad-brimmed black straw hat decorated with red poppies. As the congregation began to file in, Agatha realized she was overdressed. Everyone else was in casual clothes.
    During the first hymn, Agatha could hear the wail of approaching police sirens. What on earth had happened? If one of the Cummings-Brownes had just dropped dead, surely it did not require more than an ambulance and the local policeman. The church was small, built in the fourteenth century, with fine stained-glass windows and beautiful flower arrangements. The old Book of Common Prayer was used. There were readings from the Old and New Testaments while Agatha fidgeted in the pew and wondered if she could escape outside to find out what was going on.
    The vicar climbed into the pulpit to begin his sermon and all Agatha’s thoughts of escape disappeared. The Reverend Alfred Bloxby was a small, thin, ascetic-looking man but he had a compelling presence. In a beautifully modulated voice he began to preach and his sermon was ‘Love Thy Neighbour’. To Agatha, it seemed as if the whole sermon was directed at her. We were too weak and powerless to alter world affairs, he said, but if each one behaved to his or her neighbours with charity and courtesy and kindness, then the ripples would spread outwards. Charity began at home. Agatha thought of bribing Mrs Simpson away from Mrs Barr and squirmed. When communion came round, she stayed where she was, not knowing what the ritual involved. Finally, with a feeling of release, she joined in the last hymn, ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee’, and impatiently shuffled out, giving the vicar’s hand a perfunctory shake, not hearing his words of welcome to the village as her eyes fastened on the police cars filling the small space outside the Cummings-Brownes’ house.
    P.C. Griggs was on duty outside, warding off all questions with a placid ‘Can’t say anything now, I’m sure.’
    Agatha went slowly home. She