Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

"Oh, but you've plenty of wood," said Polly. "There's a shed at the bottom of the garden full of logs."

"I didn't see it. But it was dark when I arrived. Oh, by the way, I saw these odd lights dancing about at the bottom of the garden."

There was a silence and then Carrie asked, "Is anything missing?"

"I'm just in the middle of checking the inventory, so I don't know. Why?"

There was another silence.

Then Harriet said, "We wondered whether you would like to be an honorary member of our woman's group while you're here. We're quilting."

"What's that?" mumbled Agatha, her mouth full of cake. Why wouldn't they talk about those lights?

"We're making patchwork quilts. You know, we sew squares of coloured cloth onto old blankets."

Competitive as ever, Agatha Raisin would not admit she could not sew. "Sounds like fun," she lied. "Might drop in sometime. It is so very kind of you all to bring me all those presents."

"Tonight," said Harriet. "We meet tonight. I'll come and pick you up at seven o'clock, right after evening service. Are you C of E?"

"Yes," said Agatha, who wasn't really anything but felt that her friendship with Mrs. Bloxby qualified her for membership in the Church of England.

"Oh, in that case, I'll see you in church this evening and we'll go on from there," said Harriet.

Agatha was just about to lie and say she was feeling too poorly to go anywhere, when Polly said abruptly, "Well, go on. Tell us about your broken heart."

Agatha reddened. "What are you talking about?"

"When we heard you were coming," said Harriet, "and that you lived in a village in the Cotswolds, we wondered why you would want to rent in another village and so we decided you had man trouble and wanted to get away."

I'm going off you lot rapidly, thought Agatha. She smiled round at them all, that shark-like smile which meant Agatha Raisin was about to tell a whopping lie.

"Actually I'm writing a book at the moment," she said. "I wanted somewhere to write and have peace and quiet. You see, old friends from London keep dropping down on visits and I don't have enough time for myself. I'll go along with you to-night, but I am afraid I'm going to be a bit of a recluse."

"What are you writing?" asked Amy.

"A detective story."

"What's it called?"

"Death at the Manor," said Agatha, improvising wildly.

"And who's your detective?"

"A baronet."

"You mean you're doing another sort of Lord Peter Wimsey?"

"Do you mind if I don't talk about my work anymore?" said Agatha. "I don't like discussing it."

"Just tell us," said Amy, leaning forward. "Have you had any published?"

"No, this is my first attempt. I am a real-life detective, so I thought I may as well fictionalize some of my adventures."

"You mean you work for the police?" asked Harriet.

"I occasionally work with the police," said Agatha grandly. She proceeded to brag about her cases. To her irritation, just as she had got to the exciting bit of one of them, Harriet rose and said abruptly, "Sorry, we've got to go."

Agatha saw them out. She walked with them down to the garden gate and waved them goodbye. She stayed leaning on the gate, enjoying the sunshine.

Harriet's voice travelled back to her ears. "Of course she was lying."

"Do you think so?" Amy's voice.

"Oh, yes. Not a word of truth in any of it. Woman probably can't write a word."

Agatha clenched her fists. Jealous cow. She would show her. She would write a book. Writing was writing and she had written enough press releases in her days as a public relations officer. She had brought her computer and printer with her. She began to feel quite excited. When her name topped the bestseller list, then James would sit up and take notice.

On her road back to the house, she peered over the hedge at the driveway at the side of the house where her car was parked. What had they meant by asking if anything was missing?

She opened the kitchen door and went down to the bottom of the garden, finding a shed behind a stand of trees. It was full of logs. She returned to the kitchen with the cats scampering at her heels. At least they're happy with the place, she thought. She fed them and returned to checking the inventory, but all the while wondering about her visitors. Did they have husbands? They couldn't all be widows.

After she had finished ticking off everything on the inventory, she scraped out the contents of Genuine Bengali Curry into a pot. She would need to buy a microwave. She ate the hot mess and then decided to get down to writing that book.

She set up the computer on the kitchen table, typed in "Chapter One," and then stared at the screen. She found that instead of writing that book, she was beginning to write down excuses to get out of quilting. "I suffer from migraine." No good. They'd all call around with pills. "Something urgent has come up." What? She decided to spend a useful day unpacking the rest of her stuff.