The Quiche of Death

by M C Beaton

  Mrs. Bloxby was the first with a hug. Then the members of the Carsely Ladies' Society. Then the landlord, Joe Fletcher, and the regulars from the Red Lion.

  Local photographers were busy clicking their cameras, local reporters stood ready.

  "Everyone inside," called Agatha, "and I'll tell you all about it."

  Soon her living-room was crowded, with an overflow stretching into the dining-room and kitchen as she told a rapt audience how she had solved The Case of the Poisoned Quiche. It was highly embroidered. But she did describe in glorious Technicolor how the brave Bill Wong had dragged her from the burning house, "his clothes in flamesand his hands cut to ribbons.

  "Such bravery," said Agatha, "is an example of the fine men we have in the British police force."

  Some reporters scribbled busily; the more up-to-date used tape recorders. Agatha was about to hit the nationals, or rather, Bill Wong was. There had been two nasty stories recently about corrupt policemen, but the newspapers knew there was nothing more the British liked to read about than a brave bobby.

  Next door, James Lacey stood in his front garden, burning with curiosity. The visit from Agatha had been enough. He had called on the vicarage and told Mrs. Bloxby sternly that although he was grateful for the welcome to the village, he now wanted to be left strictly alone. He enjoyed his own company. He had moved to the country for peace and quiet. Mrs. Bloxby had done her work well. So although he had watched the preparations for Agatha's return, he did not know what she had done or what it had all been about. He wanted to walk along and ask someone but felt shy of doing so because he had said he wanted to be alone and he remembered he had added that he had no interest in what went on in the village or in anyone in it.

  One by one Agatha's fan club was leaving. Doris Simpson was among the last to go. She handed Agatha a large brown paper parcel.

  "Why, what's this, Doris?" asked Agatha.

  "Me and Bert got talking about that gnome you gave us," said Doris firmly. "Those things are expensive and we don't really have much interest in our garden and we know you must have liked it because you bought it. So we decided to give it back to you."

  "I couldn't possibly accept it," said Agatha.

  "You must. We haven't felt right about it."

  Agatha, who had long begun to suspect that her cleaning lady had a will of iron, said feebly, "Thank you."

  "Anything else?" called Joe Fletcher from the doorway.

  Agatha made a sudden decision. "Yes, there is," she said. "Take that 'For Sale' sign down."

  At last they had all gone. Agatha sat down, suddenly shivering. The full horror of what had happened to her at Vera's hit her. She went upstairs and took a hot bath and changed into a night-gown and an old shabby blue wool dressing-gown. She peered in the bathroom mirror. There was a bald sore red patch at the front of her hair where Bill had pulled it out. She switched on the central heating and then threw logs on the fire, lit a match and then shuddered and blew the match out. It would be a while before she could bear the sight of a fire.

  There was a tentative knock at the door. Still shivering and holding her dressing-gown tightly about her, she went to open it. James Lacey stood there, holding the kitten in its basket and the litter tray.

  "Bill Wong asked me to look after the cat for you," he said. He eyed her doubtfully. "I could look after it for another day if you're not up to it."

  "No, no," babbled Agatha. "Come in. I wonder how Bill got the cat? Of course, he would have taken the keys out of my bag in the hospital. How very good of you."

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. How awful she looked, and not a scrap of make-up on either!

  She carried the cat into the living-room and stooped and let it out of its basket and then took the litter tray into the kitchen. When she returned, James was sitting in one of her chairs staring thoughtfully at the large gnome which Doris had returned and Agatha had unwrapped. It was standing on the coffee-table leering horribly, like old Arnie on the mini bus.

  "Would you like a gnome?" asked Agatha.

  "No, thank you. It's an unusual living-room ornament."

  "It's not really mine. You see . . ."

  There was a hammering at the door. Agatha swore under her breath and went to answer it. Midlands Television and the BBC. "Can't you come back later?" pleaded Agatha, casting a longing look back towards the living-room. But then she saw the police car driving up as well. Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes had called.

  The television interviewers had a more modified version of Agatha's story than the villagers had heard. Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes was interviewed saying sternly that the public should leave police matters to the police, as Mrs. Raisin had nearly been killed and he had nearly lost one of his best officers, Agatha shrewdly guessing that when that appeared on the screens, his comments would be cut down to the simple fact that he had nearly lost one of his best officers. Everyone wanted a hero, and Bill Wong was to be the hero. Somehow in the middle of it all, James Lacey had slipped out. The television teams rushed off tofind Bill Wong in Mircester, a policewoman with a recorder came in from the police car, and Wilkes got down to exhaustive questioning.

  At last they left, but the phone rang and rang as various nationals phoned up to add to the stories sent in by the local men. By eleven o'clock, the phone feU silent. Agatha fed the cat and then carried it up to bed. It lay on her feet, purring gently. I'd better think of a name for it, she thought sleepily.

  The phone rang downstairs. "Now what?" groaned Agatha aloud, gently lifting the cat off her feet and wondering why she had not bothered to get a phone extension put in the bedroom. She went downstairs and picked up the receiver.

  "Aggie!" It was Roy, his voice sharp with excitement. "I thought I'd never get through. I saw you on the telly."

  "Oh, that," said Agatha. She shivered. "Can I call you back tomorrow, Roy?"

  "Look, sweetie, there seems to be more publicity comes out of that little village than out of all the streets of London. The idea is this. Maybe the telly will be back for a follow-up. I'll run down there tomorrow and you can tell them how I helped you to solve the mystery. I phoned Mr. Wilson at home and he thinks it's a great idea."

  "Roy, the story will be dead tomorrow. You know it, I know it. Let me go back to bed. I won't be up to seeing visitors for some time."

  "Well, I must say I thought you might have mentioned me," complained Roy. "Who was it went with you to Ancombe? I've phoned round all the papers but the night-desks say if you want to volunteer a quote about me, fine, but they're not interested in taking it from me, so be a sweetie and phone them, there's a dear."

  "I am going to bed, Roy, and that's that. Finish."

  "Aren't we being just a bit of a selfish bitch hogging all the hmelight?"

  "Good night, Roy," said Agatha and put down the receiver and then turned back and lifted it off the hook.

  "Well, I want to meet this Raisin woman," said James Lacey's sister, Mrs. Harriet Camberwell, a week later. "I know you want to be left alone. But I'm dying of curiosity. They gave a lot of play to that detective, Wong, but she solved it, didn't she?"

  "Yes, I suppose she did, Harriet. But she's very odd. Do you know she keeps a garden gnome on her coffee-table as an ornament? She walks down the street muttering and talking to herself."

  "How sweet. I simply must meet her. Run along and ask her to drop by for a cup of tea."

  "If I do that, will you go back to your husband and leave me alone?"

  "Of course. Go and get her and I'll make the tea and cut some sandwiches."

  Agatha was still recovering from the shock of being nearly burnt to death. She had not bothered about trying to see James, waiting until her cuts healed up and her hair grew back. When that happened, she thought, she would plan a campaign.

  The weather had turned pleasantly warm instead of the furnace heat of the days before the storm. She had the doors and windows open and was lying in her old loose cotton dress on the kitchen floor
, tossing balls of foil into the air to amuse the kitten, when James walked in.

  "I should have knocked," he said awkwardly, "but the door was open." Agatha scrambled to her feet. "I wonder whether you would like to step along for a cup of tea."

  "I must change," said Agatha wildly.

  "I've obviously come at a bad moment. Maybe another time."

  "No! I'll come now," said Agatha, frightened he would escape.

  They walked along to his cottage. No sooner was she seated, no sooner was Agatha admiring his handsome profile, which was turned towards the kitchen door, when an elegant woman walked in carrying a tea-tray.

  "Mrs. Raisin, Mrs. Camberwell. Harriet, darling, this is Mrs. Raisin. Harriet's dying to hear all about your adventures, Mrs. Raisin."

  Agatha felt small and dingy. But then women like Harriet Camberwell always made her feel small and dingy. She was a very tall woman, nearly as tall as James, slim, flat-chested, square hunting shoulders, clever upper-class face, expensive hair-style, tailored cotton dress, cool amused eyes.

  Agatha began to talk. The villagers would have been amazed to hear her dull rendering of her adventures. She stayed only long enough to briefly recount her story, drink one cup of tea, eat one sandwich, and then she firmly took her leave.

  At least Bill Wong was coming for dinner. Be thankful for small comforts, Agatha, she told herself sternly. But she had thought of James Lacey a lot and her days had taken on life and colour. Still, there was no need to look a fright simply because her guest was only Bill.

  She changed and did her hair and put on make-up and put on the dress she had worn for the auction. Dinner—taught this time by Mrs. Bloxby—was to be simple: grilled steaks, baked potatoes, fresh asparagus, fresh fruit salad and cream. Champagne on ice for the celebration, for Bill Wong had been elevated to detective sergeant.

  It was a new, slimmer Bill who walked in the door at seven o'clock. He had been keeping in shape rigorously ever since he had seen his rather chubby features on television.

  He talked of this and that, noticing that Agatha's bearlike eyes were rather sad and she seemed to have lost a great deal of animation. He reflected that the attempt on her life must have hit her harder than he would have expected.

  She was not contributing much to the conversation and so he searched around for another topic to amuse her. "Oh, by the way," he said as she slid the steaks under the grill, "your neighbour has given breaking up hearts in the village. He told Mrs. Bloxby he wanted to be left alone and was quite sharpish about it. Then, when the ladies of Carsely back off, he is visited by an elegant woman whom he introduces to all and sundry in Harvey's as Mrs. Camberwell. He calls her 'darling.' They make a nice pair. Mrs. Mason was heard to remark crossly that she had always thought him an odd sort of man anyway and that she had only taken around a cake to be friendly.

  "And guess what?"

  "What?" said Agatha testily.

  "Your old persecutor, Mrs. Boggle, ups and asks him point-blank in the middle of Harvey's if he means to marry Mrs. Camberwell, everyone thinking her a widow. And he replies in surprise, 'Why the devil should I marry my own sister?' So I gather the ladies of Carsely are now thinking that although they cannot really call on him after what he said to Mrs. Bloxby, perhaps they can get up a little party or dinner and lure him into one of their homes." Bill laughed heartily.

  Agatha turned around, her face suddenly radiant. "We haven't opened the champagne and we must celebrate!"

  "Celebrate what?" asked Bill in sudden suspicion.

  "Why, your promotion. Dinner won't be long."

  Bill opened the champagne and poured them a glass each.

  "Is there anything you would like me to do, Mrs. Raisin, before dinner? Lay the table?"

  "No, that's done. But you could start off by calling me Agatha, and there is something else. There's a sign in the front garden and a sledge hammer beside it. Could you hammer it into the ground?"

  "Of course. Not selling again, are you?"

  "No, I'm naming this cottage. I'm tired of everyone still calling it Budgen's cottage. It belongs to me.

  He went out into the garden and picked up the sign and hammered its pole into the ground and then stood back to admire the effect.

  Brown lettering on white, it proclaimed boldly: RAISIN'S COTTAGE.

  Bill grinned. Agatha was in Carsely to stay.

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  Everyone in the village of Carsely in the English Cotswolds was agreed on one thing—no one had ever seen such a spring before.

  Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar's wife, stepped out into her garden and took a deep breath of fresh-scented air. Never had there been so much blossom. The Ulac trees were bent down under the weight of purple and white blooms. White hawthorn hedges formed bridal alleys out of the country lanes. Clematis spilled over walls like flowery waterfalls, and wisteria decorated the golden stone of the cottages with showers of delicate purple blooms. AU the trees were covered in bright, fresh green. It was as if the countryside were clothed like an animal in a deep, rich pelt of leaves and flowers.

  The few misery-guts in the village shook their heads and said it heralded a harsh winter to come. Nature moved in a mysterious way to protect itself.

  The vicarage doorbell rang and Mrs. Bloxby went to answer it. Agatha Raisin stood there, stocky and truculent, a line of worry between her eyes.

  "Come in," said Mrs. Bloxby. "Why aren't you at the office? No cases to solve?"

  Agatha ran her own detective agency in Mircester. She was well dressed, as she usually was these days, in a linen trouser suit, and her glossy brown hair was cut in a fashionable crop. But her small brown eyes looked worried.

  Mrs. Bloxby led the way into the garden. "Coffee?"

  "No," said Agatha. "I've been drinking gallons of the stuff. Just wanted a chat."

  "Chat away."

  Agatha felt a sense of comfort stealing over her. Mrs. Bloxby with her mild eyes and grey hair always had a tranquillizing effect on her.

  "I could do with a really big case. Everything seems to be itty-bitty things like lost cats and dogs. I don't want to run into the red. Miss Simms, who was acting as secretary, has gone off with my full-time detective, Patrick Mulligan. He's retired and doesn't want to be bothered any more with work. Sammy Allen did the photo work, and Douglas Ballantyne the technical stuff. But I had to let them go. There just wasn't enough work. Then Sally Fleming, who replaced Patrick, got lured away by a London detective agency, and my treasure of a secretary, Mrs. Edie Frint, got married again.

  "Maybe the trouble was that I gave up taking divorce cases. The lawyers used to put a good bit of business my way."

  Mrs. Bloxby was well aware that Agatha was divorced from the love of her Ufe, James Lacey, and thought that was probably why Agatha did not want to handle divorce cases.

  She said, "Maybe you should take on a few divorce cases just to get the money rolling again. You surely don't want any murders."

  "I'd rather have a murder than a divorce," muttered Agatha.

  "Perhaps you have been working too hard. Maybe you should take a few days off. I mean, it is a glorious spring."

  "Is it?" Agatha gazed around the glory of the garden with city eyes which had never become used to the countryside. She had sold up a successful public relations company in London and had taken early retirement. Living in the Cotswolds had been a dream since childhood, but Agatha still carried the city, with all its bustle and hectic pace, inside herself.

  "Who have you got to replace Patrick and Miss Simms? Are you sure you wouldn't like anything? I have some home-made scones."

  Agatha was tempted, but the waistband of her trousers was already tight. She shook her head. "Let me s e e . . . staff. Well, there's a Mrs. Helen Freedman from Evesham as secretary. Middle-aged, competent, quite a treasure. I do
all the detecting myself."

  "And for the technical and photographic stuff?"

  "I'm looking for someone. Experts charge so much."

  "There's Mr. Witherspoon in the village. He's an expert cameraman and so good with computers and things."

  "I know Mr. Witherspoon. He must be about a hundred."

  "Come now. He's only seventy-six and that's quite young these days."

  "It's not young. Come on. Seventy-six is creaking."

  "Why not go and see him? He lives in Rose Cottage by the school."

  "No."

  Mrs. Bloxby's normally mild eyes hardened a fraction. Agatha said hurriedly, "On the other hand, it wouldn't hurt me to go along for a chat." Agatha Raisin, who could face up to most of the world, crumpled before the slightest suggestion of the vicar's wife's displeasure.

  Rose Cottage, despite its name, did not boast any roses. The front garden had been covered in tarmac to allow Mr. Witherspoon to park his old Ford off the road. His cottage was one of the few modern ones in Carsely, an ugly redbrick two-storeyed affair. Agatha, who knew Mr. Witherspoon only by sight, was prepared to dislike someone who appeared to have so little taste.

  She raised her hand to ring the doorbeU but it was opened and Mr. Witherspoon stood there. "Come to offer me a job?" he said cheerfully.

  Much as she loved Mrs. Bloxby, in that moment Agatha felt she could have strangled her. She hated being manipulated and Mrs. Bloxby appeared to have done just that.

  "I don't know," said Agatha gruffly. "Can I come in?"

  "By all means. I've just made coffee."

  She telephoned him as soon as I left. That's it, thought Agatha. She followed him into a room made into an office.

  It was impeccably clean and ordered. A computer desk stood at the window flanked on either side with shelves of files. A small round table and two chairs dominated the centre of the room. On the wall opposite the window were ranks of shelves containing a collection of cameras and lenses.

  "Sit down, please," said Mr. Witherspoon. "I'll bring coffee."

  He was an average-sized man with thick grey hair. His face was not so much lined as crumpled, as if one only had to take a hot iron to it to restore it to its former youth. He was slim.