by M C Beaton
"The reason I am trying to get you away from Mrs. Barr is this," said Agatha. "I am very bad at housework. Been a career woman all my life. I think people like you, Doris, are worth their weight in gold. I pay good wages because I think cleaning is a very important job. I will also pay your wages when you are sick or on holiday."
"Now that's more than fair," cried Bert. " 'Member when you had your appendix out, Doris? Her never even came nigh the nospital, let alone gave you a penny."
"True," said Doris. "But it's steady money. What if you was to leave, Agatha?"
"Oh, I'm here to stay," said Agatha.
"I'll do it," said Doris suddenly. "In fact, I'll phone her now and get it over with."
She went out to the kitchen to phone. Bert tilted his head on one side and looked at Agatha, his little eyes shrewd. "You know you'll have made an enemy there," he said.
"Pooh," said Agatha Raisin, "she'll just need to get over it."
As Agatha was fumbling for her door key a half-hour later, Mrs. Barr came out of her cottage and stood silently, glaring across at Agatha.
Agatha gave a huge smile. "Lovely evening," she called.
She felt quite like her old self.
TWO
Plumtrees Cottage, where the Cummings-Brownes lived, was opposite the church and vicarage in a row of four ancient stone houses fronting onto a cobbled diamond-shaped area. There were no gardens at the front of these houses, only narrow strips of earth which held a few flowers.
The door was answered late the next morning to Agatha's knock by a woman whom Agatha's beady eyes summed up as being the same sort of species of ex-patriot as Mrs. Barr. Despite the chilliness of the spring day, Mrs. Cummings-Browne was wearing a print sun-dress which showed tanned middle-aged skin. She had a high autocratic voice and pale-blue eyes and a sort of "colonel's lady" manner. "Yes, what can I do for you?"
Agatha introduced herself and said she was interested in entering the quiche competition but as she was new to the village, she did not know how to go about it. "I am Mrs. Cummings-Browne," said the woman, "and really all you have to do is read one of the posters. They're all over the village, you know." She gave a patronizing laugh which made Agatha want to strike her. Instead Agatha said mildly, "As I say, I am new in the village and I would like to get to know some people. Perhaps you and your husband might care to join me for dinner this evening. Do they do meals at the Red Lion?"
Mrs. Cummings-Browne gave that laugh again. "I wouldn't be seen dead in the Red Lion. But they do good food at the Feathers in Ancombe."
"Where on earth is Ancombe?" asked Agatha.
"Only about two miles away. You really don't know your way about very well, do you? We'll drive. Be here at seven-thirty."
The door closed. Well, well, thought Agatha. That was easy. Must be a pair of free-loaders, which means my quiche stands a good chance.
She strolled back through the village, mechanically smiling and answering the greetings of "Mawning" from the passers-by. So there were worms in this charming polished apple, mused Agatha. The majority of the villagers were mainly working- and lower-middle class and extremely civil and friendly. If Mrs. Barr and Mrs. Cummings-Browne were anything to go by, it was the no doubt self-styled upper-class of incomers who were rude. A drift of cherry blossom blew down at Agatha's feet. The golden houses glowed in the sunlight. Prettiness did not necessarily invite pretty people. The incomers had probably bought their dinky cottages when prices were low and had descended to be big fish in this small pool. But there was no impressing the villagers or scoring off them in any way that Agatha could see. The incomers must have a jolly time being restricted to trying to put each other down. Still, she was sure if she won that competition, the village would sit up and take notice.
That evening, Agatha sat in the low-raftered dining-room of the Feathers at Ancombe and covertly studied her guests. Mr. Cummings-Browne—"Well, it's Major for my sins but I don't use my title, haw, haw, haw"— was as tanned as his wife, a sort of orangy tan that led Agatha to think it probably came out of a bottle. He had a balding pointed head with sparse grey hairs carefully combed over the top and odd jug like ears. Mr. Cummings-Browne had been in the British army in Aden, he volunteered. That, Agatha reflected, must have been quite some time ago. Surely the British had left Aden in the sixties. Then it transpired he had done a "Little chicken farming," but he preferred to talk about his army days, a barely comprehensible saga of servants he had had, and "chappies" in the regiment. He was wearing a sports jacket with leather patches at the elbow over an olive-green shirt with a cravat at the neck. His wife was wearing a Laura Ashley gown that reminded Agatha of the bedspreads in her cottage.
Agatha thought grimly that her quiche had better win, for she knew when she was being ripped off and the Feathers was doing just that. A landlord who stood on the wrong side of the bar which ran along the end of the dining room drinking with his cronies, a pretentious and dreadfully expensive menu, and sullen waitresses roused Agatha's anger. The Cummings-Brownes had, predictably, chosen the second-most-expensive wine on the menu, two bottles of it. Agatha let them do most of the talking until the coffee arrived and then she got down to business. She asked what kind of quiche usually won the prize. Mr. Cummings-Browne said it was usually quiche lorraine or mushroom quiche. Agatha said firmly that she would contribute her favourite—spinach quiche.
Mrs. Cummings-Browne laughed. If she laughs like that again, I really will slap her, thought Agatha, particularly as Mrs. Cummings-Browne followed up the laugh by saying that Mrs. Cartwright always won. Agatha was to remember later that there had been a certain stillness about Mr. Cummings-Browne when Mrs. Cartwright's name was mentioned, but for the present, she had the bit between her teeth. Her own quiche, said Agatha, was famous for its delicacy of taste and lightness of pastry. Besides, a spirit of competition was what was needed in the village. Very bad for morale to have the same woman winning year in and year out. Agatha was good at emanating emotional blackmail without precisely saying anything direct. She made jokes about how dreadfully expensive the meal was while all the time her bearlike brown eyes hammered home the message: "You owe me for this dinner."
But journalists as a rule belong to the kind of people who are born feeling guilty. Obviously the Cartwright-Brownes were made of sterner stuff. As Agatha was preparing to pay the bill—notes slowly counted out instead of credit card to emphasize the price—her guests stayed her hand by ordering large brandies for themselves.
Despite all they had drunk, they remained as sober-looking as they had been when the meal started Agatha asked about the villagers. Mrs. Cummings Browne said they were pleasant enough and they did what they could for them, all delivered in a lady-of the- manor tone. They asked Agatha about herself and she replied briefly. Agatha had never trained herself to make social chit-chat. She was only used to selling a product or asking people all about themselves to soften them up so that she could eventually sell that product.
They finally went out into the soft dark night. The wind had died and the air held a promise of summer to come. Mr. Cummings-Browne drove his Range Rover slowly through the green lanes leading back to Carsely. A fox slid across the road in front of the lights, rabbits skittered for safety, and bird cherry, just beginning to blossom, starred the hedgerows. Loneliness again gripped Agatha. It was a night for friends, for pleasant company, not a night to be with such as the Cummings Brownes. He parked outside his own front door and said to Agatha, "Find your way all right from here?"
"No," said Agatha crossly. "The least you could do is to run me home."
"Lose the use of your legs if you go on like this " he said nastily, but after giving an impatient little sigh, he drove her to her cottage.
I must leave a light on in future, thought Agatha as she looked at her dark cottage. A light would be welcoming. Before getting out of the car, she asked him exactly how to go about entering the competition, and after he had told her she climbed down and, without saying good night, went
into her lonely cottage.
The next day, as instructed, she entered her name in the quiche-competition book in the school hall. The voices of the schoolchildren were raised in song in some classroom: "To my hey down-down, to my ho down-down." So they still sang "Among the Leaves So Green-O," thought Agatha. She looked around the barren hall. Trestle-tables were set against one wall and there was a rostrum at the far end. Hardly a setting for ambitious achievement.
She then got out her car and drove straight to London this time, much as she loathed and dreaded the perils of the motorways. She parked in the street at Chelsea's World's End where she had Lived such a short time ago, glad that she had not surrendered her resident's parking card.
There had been a sharp shower of rain. How wonderful London smelled, of wet concrete, diesel fumes, petrol fumes, litter, hot coffee, fruit and fish, all the smells that meant home to Agatha.
She made her way to The Quicherie, a delicatessen that specialized in quiche. She bought a large spinach quiche, stowed it in the boot of her car, and then took herself off to the Caprice for lunch, where she ate their salmon fish cakes and relaxed among what she considered as "my people," the rich and famous, without it ever crossing her mind that she did not know any of them. Then to Fenwick's in Bond Street to buy a new dress, not print (heaven forbid!) but a smart scarlet wool dress with a white collar.
Back to Carsely in the evening light and into the kitchen. She removed the quiche from its shop wrappings, put her own ready printed label, "Spinach Quiche, Mrs. Raisin," on it, and wrapped it with de Uberate amateurishness in thin clear plastic. She surveyed it with satisfaction. It would be the best there. The Quicherie was famous for its quiches.
She carried it up to the school hall on Friday evening, following a straggling line of women bearing flowers, jam, cakes, quiche and biscuits. The competition entries had to be in the school hall the evening before the day of the competition, for some of the women worked at the weekends. As usual, a few of the women hailed her with "Evening. Bit warmer. Maybe get a bit o' sun." How would they cope with some horror like an earthquake or a hurricane? Agatha wondered. Might shut them up in future as the mild vagaries of the Cotswolds weather rarely threw up anything dramatic—or so Agatha believed.
She found she was quite nervous and excited when she went to bed that night. Ridiculous! It was only a village competition.
The next day dawned blustery and cold, with wind tearing down the last of the cherry blossom from the gardens and throwing the petals like bridal showers over the villagers as they crowded into the school hall. A surprisingly good village band was playing selections from My Fair Lady, ages of the musicians ranging from eight to eighty. The air smelt sweetly from the flower arrangements and from single blooms set proudly in their thin vases for the flower competition: narcissi and daffodils. There was even a tea-room set up in a side-room with dainty sandwiches and home-made cakes.
"Of course Mrs. Cartwright will win the quiche competition," said a voice near Agatha.
Agatha swung round. "Why do you say that?"
"Because Mr. Cummings-Browne is the judge," said the woman and moved off to be lost in the crowd.
Lord Pendlebury, a thin elderly gentleman who looked like an Edwardian ghost, and who had estates on the hill above the village, was to announce the winner of the quiche competition, although Mr. Cummings-Browne was to be the judge.
Agatha's quiche had a thin slice cut out of it, as had the others. She looked at it smugly. Three cheers for The Quicherie. The spinach quiche was undoubtedly the best one there. The fact that she was expected to have cooked it herself did not trouble her conscience at all.
The band fell silent. Lord Pendlebury was helped up to the platform in front of the band.
"The winner of the Great Quiche Competition is ..." quavered Lord Pendlebury. He fumbled with a sheaf of notes, picked them up, tidied them, took out a pair of pincenez, looked again helplessly at the papers, until Mr. Cummings-Browne pointed to the right sheet of paper.
"Bless me. Yes, yes, yes," wittered Lord Pendlebury. "Harrumph! The winner is . . . Mrs. Cartwright."
"Snakes and bastards," muttered Agatha.
Fuming, she watched as Mrs. Cartwright, a gypsy-looking woman, climbed up onto the stage to receive the award. It was a cheque. "How much?" Agatha asked the woman next to her.
"Ten pounds."
"Ten pounds!" exclaimed Agatha, who had not even asked before what the prize was to be but had naively assumed it would be in the form of a silver cup. She had imagined such a cup with her name engraved on it resting on her mantelpiece. "How's she supposed to celebrate by spending that? Dinner at McDonald's?"
"It's the thought that counts," said the woman vaguely. "You are Mrs. Raisin. You have just bought Budgen's cottage. I am Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar's wife. Can we hope to see you at church on Sunday?"
"Why Budgen?" asked Agatha. "I bought the cottage from a Mr. Alder."
"It has always been Budgen's cottage," said the vicar's wife. "He diedfifteen years ago, of course, but to us in the village, it will always be Budgen's cottage. He was a great character. At least you do not have to worry about your dinner tonight, Mrs. Raisin. Your quiche looks delicious."
"Oh, throw it away," snarled Agatha. "Mine was the best. This competition was rigged."
Mrs. Bloxby gave Agatha a look of sad reproach before moving away.
Agatha experienced a qualm of unease. She should not have been bitchy about the competition to the vicar's wife. Mrs. Bloxby seemed a nice sort of woman. But Agatha had only been used to three lines of conversation: either ordering her staff about, pressuring the media for publicity, or being oily to clients. A faint idea was stirring somewhere in her brain that Agatha Raisin was not a very lovable person.
That evening, she went down to the Red Lion. It was indeed a beautiful pub, she thought, looking about: low-raftered, dark, smoky; with stone floors, bowls of spring flowers, log fire blazing, comfortable chairs and solid tables at proper drinking and eating height instead of those "cocktail" knee-high tables which meant you had to crouch to get the food to your mouth. Some men were standing at the bar. They smiled and nodded to her and then went on talking. Agatha noticed a slate with meals written on it and ordered lasagne and chips from the landlord's pretty daughter before carrying her drink over to a corner table. She felt as she had done as a child, longing to be part of all this old English country tradition of beauty and safety and yet being on the outside, looking in. But had she, she wondered, ever really been part of anything except the ephemeral world of PR? If she dropped dead, right now, on this pub floor, was there anyone to mourn her? Her parents were dead. God alone knew where her husband was, and he would certainly not mourn her. Shit, this gin's depressing stuff, thought Agatha angrily, and ordered a glass of white wine instead to wash down her lasagne, which she noticed had been microwaved so that it stuck firmly to the bottom of the dish.
But the chips were good. Life did have its small comforts after all.
Mrs. Cummings-Browne was preparing to go out to a rehearsal of Blithe Spirit at the church hall. She was producing it for the Carsely Dramatic Society and trying unsuccessfully to iron out their Gloucester shire accents. "Why can't any of them achieve a proper accent?" she mourned as she collected her handbag. "They sound as if they're mucking out pigs or whatever one does with pigs. Speaking of pigs, I brought home that horrible Raisin woman's quiche. She flounced off in a huff and said we were to throw it away. I thought you might like a piece for supper. I've left a couple of slices on the kitchen counter. I've had a lot of cakes and tea this afternoon. That'll do me."
"I don't think I'll eat anything either," said Mr. Cummings-Browne.
"Well, if you change your mind, pop the quiche in the microwave."
Mr. Cummings-Browne drank a stiff whisky and watched television, regretting that the hour was before nine in the evening, which meant no hope of any full frontal nudity, the powers-that-be having naively thought all children to be in bed by n
ine o'clock, after which time pornography was permissible, although anyone who wrote in to describe it as such was a fuddy-duddy who did not appreciate true art. So he watched a nature programme instead and consoled himself with copulating animals. He had another whisky and felt hungry. He remembered the quiche. It had been fun watching Agatha Raisin's face at the competition. She really had wanted her dinner back, silly woman. People like Agatha Raisin, that sort of middle-aged yuppie, lowered the tone decidedly. He went into the kitchen and put two slices of quiche in the microwave and opened a bottle of claret and poured himself a glass. Then, putting quiche and wine on a tray, he carried the lot through to the living-room and settled down again in front of the television.
It was two hours later and just before the promised gang rape in a movie called Deep in the Heart that his mouth began to burn as if it were on fire. He felt deathly ill. He fell out of his chair and writhed in convulsions on the floor and was dreadfully sick. He lost consciousness as he was fighting his way toward the phone, ending up stretched out behind the sofa.
Mrs. Cummings-Browne arrived home sometime after midnight. She did not see her husband because he was lying behind the sofa, nor did she notice any of the pools of vomit because only one dim lamp was burning. She muttered in irritation to see the lamp still lit and the television still on. She switched both off.
Then she went up to her bedroom—it had been some time since she had shared one with her husband—removed her make-up, undressed and soon was fast asleep.
Mrs. Simpson arrived early the next morning, grumbling under her breath. Her work schedule had been disrupted. First the change-over to cleaning Mrs. Raisin's place, and now Mrs. Cummings-Browne had asked her to clean on Sunday morning because the Cummings-Brownes were going off on holiday to Tuscany on the Monday and Vera Cummings-Browne had wanted the place cleaned before they left. But if she worked hard, she could still make it to her Sunday job in Evesham by ten.
