those police cars!"
"Oh, we likes to do things thoroughly in Gloucestershire," said a large beefy man. "Not like Lunnon, where there's people
dropping dead like flies every minute. My shout. What you 'aving, Mrs. Raisin?"
Agatha ordered a gin and tonic. It was all very pleasurable to be in the centre of this cosy group. When the pub finally closed
its doors at two in the afternoon, Agatha felt quite tipsy as she walked home. The heavy Cotswolds air, combined with the
unusually large amount she had drunk, sent her to sleep. When she awoke, she thought that Cummings-Browne had probably had
an accident and it was not worth finding out about anyway. Agatha Christie now seemed much more interesting than anything
that could happen in Carsley, and Agatha read until bedtime.
In the morning, she decided to go for a walk. Walks in the Cotswolds are all neatly signposted. She chose one at the end of
the village beyond the council houses, opening a gate that led into some woods.
Trees with new green leaves arched above her and primroses nestled among their roots. There was a sound of rushing water from
a hidden stream over to her left. The night's frost was slowly melting in shafts of sunlight which struck down through the
trees. High above, a blackbird sang a heart-breaking melody and the air was sweet and fresh. The path led her out of the trees
and along the edge of a field of new corn, bright green and shiny, turning in the breeze like the fur of some huge green cat.
A lark shot up to the heavens, reminding Agatha of her youth, in the days when even the wastelands of Birmingham were full
of larks and butterflies, the days before chemical spraying. She strode out, feeling healthy and well and very much allve.
By following the signs, she walked through fields and more woods, finally emerging onto the road that led down into Carsely.
As she walked down under the green tunnels formed by the branches of the high hedges which met overhead and saw the village
lying below her, all her euphoria caused by healthy walking and fresh air left, to be replaced by an inexplicable sense of
dread. She felt she was walking down into a sort of grave where Agatha Raisin would lie buried alive. Again she was plagued
with restlessness and loneliness.
This could not go on. The dream of her life was not what she had expected. She could sell up, although the market was still
not very good. Perhaps she could travel. She had never travelled extensively before, only venturing each year on one of the
more expensive packaged holidays designed for single people who did not want to mix with the riff-raff: cycling holidays in
France, painting holidays in Spain, that sort of thing.
In the village street, a local woman gave her a broad smile and Agatha wearily waited for that usual greeting of "Mawning,"
wondering what the woman would do or say if she replied, "Get stuffed."
But to her surprise, the woman stopped, resting her shopping basket on one broad hip, and said, "Police be looking for you.
Plain clothes."
"Don't know what they want with me," said Agatha uneasily.
"Better go and find out, m'dear."
Agatha hurried on, her mind in a turmoil. What could they want? Her driving licence was in order. Of course, there were those
books she had never got around to returning to the Chelsea library . .. As she approached her cottage, she saw Mrs. Barr standing in her front garden, staring avidly at a small group of three men
who were waiting outside Agatha's cottage. When she saw Agatha, she scurried indoors and slammed the door but immediately
took up a watching position at the window.
A thin, cadaverous man approached Agatha. "Miss Raisin? I am Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes. May we have a word with you?
Indoors."
THREE
Agatha led them indoors. Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes introduced a dark, silent man beside him as Detective Sergeant Friend,
and a young tubby oriental who looked like a Buddha as