“Why don’t you?” snapped Agatha.

“Because I am doing the teas.”

“I have no talent,” said Agatha.

Mrs. Dairy gave a shrill laugh. “Neither do any of the others, but that doesn’t stop them.”

“Really,” protested Mrs. Bloxby, “that was unkind.”

Miss Simms, who had volunteered to do her impersonation of Cher, glared. “Jealous cow,” she said.

“I’ve a good mind to let you do the teas yourselves,” said Mrs. Dairy.

There was a silence. Then Agatha said, “I’ll do it.”

“Good idea,” said Miss Simms.

Mrs. Dairy got to her feet. “Then if you don’t need my services, I’m going home.”

She stalked out of the garden.

Agatha bit her lip. She didn’t want to be bothered catering for a bunch of women in all this heat.

The depression which had lifted because of her visit to the hairdresser came down around her again like a black cloud. This is your life, Agatha Raisin. Trapped in a Cotswold village, cut off from excitement, cut off from adventure, doing teas for a bunch of boring women.

She trudged home afterwards. There did not seem to be a breath of air.

She opened all the windows. She looked at the silent phone. Could anyone have rung when she was out? She dialled 1571 for the Call Minder. “You have one message,” said the carefully elocuted voice of the computer. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Of course I would, you silly bitch,” growled Agatha.

There was a silence and then the voice said primly, “I did not hear that. Would you like to hear your message?”

“YES.”

There was a click and then the well-modulated tones of Sir Charles Fraith sounded down the line, “Hullo, Aggie. Fancy dinner tomorrow?”

Agatha brightened. Although she had been wary of Charles because of a one-night stand when they had both been in Cyprus, a night of sex which had seemed to mean very little to him, the thought of going out to dinner and showing off her new hair-style appealed greatly.