Free The Quiche of Death by M. C. Beaton Page B

tired,
     but the thought of Carsely and Mrs. Ban* made her meekly walk with them to the car-park and set out for Stratford.
    She parked in the multi-storey Birthplace CarPark and plunged into the crowds of Stratford with Roy and Steve. So many, many
     people, all nationalities this time. They shuffled along with the crowds through Shakespeare's home, a strangely soulless
     place, thought Agatha again. It had been so restored, so sanitized that she could not help feeling that some of the old pubs in the Cotswolds had more of an air of antiquity.
    Then down to look at the River Avon. Then a search by Steve for tickets to the evening's showing of King Lear by the Royal Shakespeare Company which, to Agatha's dismay, he managed to get.
    In the darkness of the theatre with her stomach rumbling, for she had had nothing to eat since breakfast, Agatha's mind turned
     back to the . . . murder? It would surely do no harm to find out a little more about Mr. Cummings-Browne. Then Mrs. Simpson
     had found the body. How had Mrs. CummingsBrowne reacted? The first act passed unheeded before Agatha's eyes. Two large gins
     at the interval made her feel quite tipsy. Once more, she imagined solving the case and earning the respect of the villagers.
     By the last act, she was fast asleep and all the glory of Shakespeare fell on her deaf ears.
    It was only as they were walking out—crowds, more crowds—that Agatha realized she had nothing at home for them to eat and
     it was too late to find a restaurant. But Steve, who had, at one point of the day, been lugging a carrier bag, said he had
     planned to cook them dinner and had bought fresh trout at Birdland.
    "You really ought to dig in your heels and stay here," said Roy, as he got out of the car in front of Agatha's cottage. "No
     people. Quiet. Calm. You're lucky you don't live in a tourist village. Do any tourists come at all?"
    "The Red Lion's got rooms, I believe," said Agatha. "A few let out their cottages. But not many come."
    "Let's have a drink while Steve does the cooking," said Roy. He looked around Agatha's living-room. "If I were you, I would
     junk all those cutesy mugs and fake horse brasses and farm machinery, and get some paintings and bowls of flowers. It's not
     the thing to have a fire-basket, particularly a fake medieval one. You're supposed to burn the logs on the stone hearth."
    "I dig my heels in over the fire-basket," said Agatha, "but I might get rid of the other stuff." She thought, They collect
     a lot for charity in this village. I could load up the car with the stuff on Tuesday and take it along to the vicarage. Ingratiate
     myself a bit there.
    Dinner was excellent. I must learn to cook, thought Agatha. I've got little else to do. Steve opened his notebook. "Tomorrow,
     if you do not think it too much, Agatha, I would like to visit Warwick Castle."
    Agatha groaned. "Warwick Castle's like Bourton-on-the-Water, wall-to-wall tourists from one year's end to the other."
    "But it says here," said Steve, fishing out a guidebook, "that it is one of the finest medieval castles in England."
    "Well, I suppose that's true but—"
    "I would very much like to go."
    "All right! But be prepared for an early start. See if we can get in there before the crowds."
    Warwick Castle is a tourist's dream. It has everything from battlements and towers to a torture chamber and dungeon. It has
     rooms peopled by Madame Tussaud's waxworks depicting a Victorian house party. It has signs in the drive saying: DRIVE SLOWLY,
     PEACOCKS CROSSING. It has a rose garden and a peacock garden. It takes a considerable amount of time to see everything and
     Steve wanted to see everything. With unflagging energy and interest, he climbed up the towers and along the battlements and
     down to the dungeons. Oblivious to the tourists crowding behind, he lingered in the staterooms, writing busily in his notebook.
     "Are you going to write about all this?" asked Agatha impatiently.
    Steve said only in letters. He