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fifteen.”
    What’s your name?”
    â€œRoy Silver.”
    â€œWell, Roy, you are now working in Mayfair, so look the part. See Freda and get some money. Take yourself to a hairdresser and get rid of that Mohawk.”
    â€œBut I’m just the office boy.”
    Agatha’s eyes bored into him.
    â€œOkay, boss. I’ll do it now.”
    *   *   *
    One Sunday, Agatha was strolling along the King’s Road. For once, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and low-heeled sandals. She looked uneasily up at the darkening sky and wished she had brought an umbrella. Freda had said something about the good weather being about to break. Near The World’s End, she stopped short in front of a shop with paintings displayed in the window. The one that caught her eye was of a thatched Cotswold cottage with tall hollyhocks at the gate. The sign on the door read CLOSED , but she could see someone moving about inside. Agatha rapped on the door.
    The man approached and shook his head. Agatha pointed to the painting in the window and held up her hands in a praying gesture. He hesitated and then opened the door.
    â€œI really want to buy that painting of the thatched cottage,” said Agatha. “How much is it?”
    â€œOne hundred and fifty pounds. It is not by any known artist, so it is not expensive.”
    â€œI’ll buy it!”
    â€œDon’t you want to examine it?”
    â€œNo, I’ll take it now.”
    â€œBack in a minute.” He went into a back room.
    He swathed it in BubbleWrap and then carefully packaged it up in brown paper and string. There was a knock at the door. “My lunch date,” he said, letting his friend in. “I’m in the back room, Larry.”
    In the back room, Geoffrey whispered, “I’ve sold that ghastly chocolate-box painting of a cottage. You know the one you said would never sell?”
    â€œIs she American?”
    â€œNo. Funny, though. I’ve got this feeling I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
    They both came out and handed Agatha her parcel. She fished out her old credit card, hoping she had enough left in that account, for she could not feel justified in using the business money.
    They all exited the shop together just as the rain poured down. The friend, Larry, unfurled a large golf umbrella and they both walked off without a backward glance.
    Agatha stood in the doorway. “Pigs,” she muttered. “They might at least have tried to find a cab for me.”
    *   *   *
    In a restaurant across the road, Larry slapped his forehead. “I know who she is. That girl. That’s Agatha Raisin, Scary Agatha, the toughest PR in town. How much did you charge her?”
    â€œA hundred and fifty pounds.”
    â€œIt doesn’t do to get on the wrong side of that one. Send her a fifty pound or something refund.”
    *   *   *
    A blinding flash of lightning followed by a crack of thunder sent heavier rain cascading down as Agatha crouched in the doorway. She clutched her precious picture. One day, she would have a cottage just like the one in the painting. One day.
    And holding the dream, she waited for the rain to stop.

Chapter One
    After a dismal grey winter, spring came to the village of Carsely in the Cotswolds, bringing blossom, blue skies and warm breezes.
    But somewhere, in the heart of one private detective, Agatha Raisin, storms were brewing.
    When Agatha had been a member of the now defunct Ladies Society, she had got to know all the incomers to the village. But as most of her time was taken up away from the village, she did not recognise the thin woman who hailed her one Sunday when she was putting out the trash, ready for collection.
    â€œIt is Mrs. Raisin, is it not?” she called out in a reedy voice.
    Agatha came to the fence of her thatched cottage. “I am Victoria Bannister,” said the woman. “I do so admire