Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

by Beaton, M. C.

  Agatha looked bewildered. ‘But he died, not her!’

  ‘Maybe she got there first. She hated him.’

  ‘But I had dinner with the pair of them and they seemed a devoted couple; in fact, quite alike.’

  ‘Naw, you could have a laugh with Reg, but Mrs Snobby was always turning her nose up at me. That was no accident. That was murder.’

  ‘But how could she do it? I mean, it was my quiche.’

  ‘Dunno, but I feel it here.’ Mrs Cartwright struck her bosom and another waft of sweat floated across to Agatha’s nostrils.

  ‘Mrs Cummings-Browne called on me this morning,’ said Agatha firmly, ‘and forgave me. But she was broken up about her husband’s death, quite genuinely so.’

  ‘She acts in the Carsely Dramatic Society,’ said Mrs Cartwright cynically, ‘and bloody good she is, too. Right little actress.’

  ‘No,’ said Agatha stubbornly. ‘I know when people are being straight with me, and you are not one of those people, Mrs Cartwright.’

  ‘Told you what I know.’ Mrs Cartwright stared at the twenty-pound note, which Agatha still held in her hand.

  The broken gate outside creaked and Agatha started nervously. She did not want another confrontation with John Cartwright. She thrust the note at Mrs Cartwright. ‘Look,’ she said urgently, ‘you know where to find me. If there’s anything at all you can tell me, let me know.’

  ‘I certainly will,’ said Mrs Cartwright, looking happy now that she had the money in her possession.

  Agatha was just leaving by stepping round the broken garden gate when she saw John Cartwright lumbering down the road. She hurried on, but he had seen her. He caught up with her and roughly seized her arm and swung her round. ‘You’ve been snooping around about Cummings-Browne,’ he snarled. ‘Ella told me. I’m telling you for the last time, you go near her again and I’ll break your neck. That fart Cummings-Browne got what was coming to him and so will you.’

  Agatha wrenched her arm free and hurried on, her face flaming. She went straight home and put the threatening note in an envelope along with a letter and addressed it to Detective Constable Wong at Mircester Police Station. She felt sure now that John Cartwright had written that note.

  As she returned from posting it, she saw a couple arriving at New Delhi, Mrs Barr’s house. They turned and stared at her. They looked vaguely familiar. With a wrench of memory, Agatha realized they had been among the other diners in the Red Huntsman that evening when she had been discussing the ‘murder’ with Roy and Steve.

  She went into her own cottage and stood in her sitting-room, looking about her. She had never furnished anything in her life before, living as she had in a succession of furnished rooms until she made her first real money, and then renting a furnished flat and finally buying one, but that too had been furnished, for she had bought the contents as well.

  She screwed up her eyes and tried to visualize what she would like but no ideas came except that the three-piece suite annoyed her. She wanted something more in the lines of the vicarage living-room. Well, antiques could be bought, and that was as good a reason as any to get out of Carsely for the remainder of the day.

  She drove to Cheltenham Spa and after cruising about that town’s irritating and baffling one-way system until she got her bearings, she stopped a passer-by and asked where she could buy antique furniture. She was directed to a network of streets behind Montpelier Terrace. She drove there and managed to find a parking space in a private parking lot outside someone’s house. Her first good find was in an old cinema now used as a furniture warehouse. She bought an old high-backed wing armchair in soft green leather and a chesterfield sofa with basketwork and soft dull-green cushions. Then, to the increasing delight of the salesman, who had feared it was going to be a slow day, she also bought a wide Victorian fruitwood chair, running her fingers appreciatively over the carving. She paid for the lot without a blink and said she would pick them up after the tenth of June. Agatha now planned to amaze the village by adding her living-room furniture to the sale. Two elegant lamps caught her eye as she was leaving and she purchased them as well. Agatha remembered when she was at school, she had vowed that when she had her first pay cheque, she would walk into a sweet-shop and buy all the chocolate she wanted. But by the time that happened, her desires had focused on a pair of purple high-heeled shoes with bows. She enjoyed having enough money to enable her to buy what she wanted.

  Then, before she left Cheltenham, she went to Marks and Spencer and bought giant prawns in garlic butter and a packet of lasagne, both of which she could cook in the microwave. It was still not her own cooking, but a cut above what she could get at the village shop.

  Later, after a good meal, she settled down to read a detective story, wondering idly whether she should take the television set up to the bedroom. The vicarage living-room did not boast a television set.

  It was only when she was preparing for bed that she remembered the Boggles with a sinking heart. With any luck, they would not expect her to drive them about all day.

  In the morning, she presented herself at the Boggles’ home. Why Culloden? Were they Scottish?

  But Mr Boggle was a small, spry, wrinkled man with a Gloucestershire accent and his wife, an old creaking harridan, was undoubtedly Welsh.

  Agatha waited for either of the pair to say it was very kind of her, or to evince any sign of gratitude, but they both climbed into the back seat and Mr Boggle said, ‘We’re going to Bath.’

  Bath! Agatha had been hoping for somewhere nearer, like Evesham.

  ‘It’s quite a bit away,’ she protested.

  Mrs Boggle jabbed her in the shoulder with one horny forefinger. ‘You said you was takin’ us out, so take us.’

  Agatha fished out her road atlas. The easiest would be to get on the Fosse Way to Cirencester and then on to Bath.

  She heaved a sigh. It was a glorious day. Summer was edging its way into England. Hawthorn flowers were heavy with scent, pink and white along the winding road out of Carsely. On either side of the Fosse Way, obviously a Roman road, for it runs straight as an arrow up steep hills and down the other side, lay fields of oilseed rape, bright yellow, Van Gogh yellow, looking too vulgarly bright among the gentler colours of the English countryside. Queen Anne’s lace frothed along the roadside. There was no sound from the passengers in the back. Agatha began to feel more cheerful. Perhaps her ancient passengers would be content to go off on their own in Bath.

  But in Bath, Agatha’s troubles started. The Boggles pointed out that they had no intention of walking from any car-park to the Pump Room where, it appeared, they meant to ‘take the waters’. It was Agatha’s duty to drive them there and then go and park the car herself. She sweated her way round the one-way system, congested with traffic, trying to turn a deaf ear to Mr Boggle’s comments of ‘Not a very good driver, are you?’

  ‘Well?’ demanded Mrs Boggle when they had reached the colonnaded entrance to the Pump Room. ‘Aren’t you going to help a body out?’

  Mrs Boggle was small and round, dressed in a tweed coat and a long scarf that seemed to be inextricably wound around the seat-belt. She smelt very strongly of cheap scent. ‘Stop pushin’ me. You’re hurtin’ me,’ she grumbled as Agatha tried to release her from bondage. Her husband elbowed Agatha aside, produced a pair of nail scissors and hacked through the scarf. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ moaned Mrs Boggle.

  ‘Quit your frettin’, woman,’ said Mr Boggle. He jerked a thumb at Agatha. ‘Her’ll buy you another one.’

  Like hell, thought Agatha when she finally parked near the bus station. She deliberately took a long time returning to the Pump Room, an hour, in fact. She found the Boggles in the tearoom beside an empty coffee-pot and plates covered in cake crumbs.

  ‘So you’ve finally decided to show up,’ said Mr Boggle, handing her the bill. ‘You’re a fine one.’

  ‘The trouble is, no one don’t care nothing about old folks these days. All they want is discos and drugs,’ sai
d Mrs Boggle. They both stared fiercely at Agatha.

  ‘Have you taken the waters yet?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Going to now,’ said Mrs Boggle. ‘Help me up.’

  Agatha raised her to her feet, gagging slightly at the wafts of cheap scent and old body. The Boggles drank cups of sulphurous water. ‘Do you want to see the Roman Baths?’ asked Agatha, remembering Mrs Bloxby and determined to please. ‘I haven’t seen them.’

  ‘Well, we’ve seen them scores of times,’ whined Mrs Boggle. ‘We wants to go to Polly Perkins’ Pantry.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s where we’s having dinner.’

  The Boggles belonged to that generation which still took dinner in the middle of the day.

  ‘It’s only ten to twelve,’ pointed out Agatha, ‘and you’ve just had coffee and cakes.’

  ‘But you’ve got to go and get the car,’ said Mr Boggle. ‘Pantry’s up in Monmouth Road. Can’t expect us to walk there. No consideration.’

  The idea of a short break from the Boggles while she got the car prompted Agatha to accept her orders docilely. Again she took her time, returning to pick up the Boggles at one o’clock and ignoring their cries and complaints that Mrs Boggle’s joints were stiffening with all the waiting.

  No one could accuse Agatha Raisin of having a delicate or refined palate, but she had a sharp eye for a rip-off and as soon as she sat down with the horrible pair in Polly Perkins’ Pantry, she wondered if they were soul mates of the Cummings-Brownes. Waitresses dressed in laced bodices and mob caps flitted about at great speed, therefore being able to ignore all the people trying to get served.

  The menu was expensive and written in that twee kind of prose which irritated Agatha immensely. The Boggles wanted Beau Nash cod fritters to start – ‘sizzling and golden, on a bed of fresh, crunchy lettuce’ – followed by Beau Brummell escalopes of veal – ‘tender and mouthwatering, with a white wine sauce and sizzling aubergine sticks, tender new carrots, and succulent green peas.’ ‘And a bottle of champagne,’ said Mr Boggle.

  ‘I’m not made of money,’ protested Agatha hotly.

  ‘Champagne’s good for my arthuritis,’ quavered Mrs Boggle. ‘Not often we gets a treat, but if you’ goin’ to count every penny . . .’

  Agatha caved in. Get them sozzled and they might sleep on the way home.

  The waitresses were now grouped in a corner by the till, chatting and laughing. Agatha rose and marched over to them. ‘I have no intention of waiting for service. Get a move on,’ she snarled. ‘I want cheerful and polite and fast service now. And don’t give me those looks of dumb insolence. Jump to it!’

  A now surly waitress followed Agatha over to her table and took the order. The champagne was warm when it arrived. Agatha cracked. She rose to her feet and glared at the pale, shy English faces of the other diners. ‘Why do you sit there and put up with this dreadful service?’ she howled. ‘You’re paying for it, dammit.’

  ‘You’re right,’ called a meek-looking little man. ‘I’ve been here for half an hour and no one’s come near this table.’

  Cries of rage and frustration rose from the other diners. The manager was hurriedly summoned from his office. An ice bucket was produced like lightning. ‘On the house,’ muttered the manager, bending over Agatha. Waitresses flew backwards and forwards, serving the customers this time, long skirts swinging, outraged bosoms heaving under laced bodices, mob caps nodding.

  ‘They’ll be worn out by the time they get home,’ said Agatha with a grin. ‘Never moved so much in all their lives.’

  Mrs Boggle speared a cod fritter and popped the whole thing in her mouth. ‘We’ve never ’ad trouble afore,’ she said through a spray of cod-flakes. ‘Have we, Benjamin?’

  ‘No, people respect us,’ said Mr Boggle.

  Agatha opened her mouth to blast the horrible pair when Mr Boggle added, ‘Were you one o’ his fancy women?’

  She looked at him dumbfounded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Reg Cummings-Browne, him what you poisoned.’

  ‘I didn’t poison him,’ roared Agatha and then dropped her voice as the other diners stared. ‘It was an accident. And what the hell makes you think I was having an affair with Cummings-Browne?’

  ‘You was seen up at Ella Cartwright’s. Like to like, I allus say.’

  ‘You mean Mrs Cartwright was having an affair with Cummings-Browne?’

  ‘Course. Everybody knew that, ’cept her husband.’

  ‘How long had this been going on?’

  ‘Dunno. Must have gone off her, though, for he was arter some bit in Ancombe, or so I heard.’

  ‘So Cummings-Browne was a philanderer,’ said Agatha.

  Enlivened by champagne, Mr Boggle suddenly giggled. ‘Got his leg over half the county, if you ask me.’

  Agatha’s mind raced. She remembered having dinner with the Cummings-Brownes. She remembered Mrs Cartwright’s name being mentioned and the sudden stillness between the pair. Then there were those sobbing women at the inquest.

  ‘O’ course,’ said Mrs Boggle suddenly, ‘we all knew it was you that was meant to be poisoned, if anyone.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to poison me?’ demanded Agatha.

  ‘Look what you did to Mrs Barr. Lured Mrs Simpson away from her with promises of gold. Heard Mrs Barr down in Harvey’s talking about it.’

  ‘Don’t try to tell me that Mrs Barr would try to poison me because I took her cleaning woman away.’

  ‘Why not? Reckon her has a point. Said you brought down the tone of the village.’

  ‘Are you usually so rude to people who give up a day to take you out?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘I tell it like it is,’ said Mrs Boggle proudly.

  Agatha was about to retort angrily when she remembered herself saying exactly the same thing on several occasions. Instead she said, after they had demolished their main course, ‘Do you want any pudding?’

  Silly question. Of course they wanted pudding. Prince Regent fudge cake with ice cream – ‘devilishly good’.

  Agatha’s mind returned to the problem of Cummings-Browne’s death. Mr Cummings-Browne had been a judge at competitions in other villages. He had had favourites. Had those favourites been his mistresses? And what of the burning animosity of Mrs Barr? Was it all because of Mrs Simpson? Or did Mrs Barr enter home-baking, jam-making, or flower-arranging in the village competitions?

  ‘Don’t want coffee,’ Mrs Boggle was saying. ‘Goes straight for me bowels.’

  Agatha paid the bill but did not leave a tip, free champagne or no free champagne.

  ‘If you would both like to wait here,’ she said, ‘I’ll get the car.’ Freedom from this precious pair was close at hand. Agatha felt quite cheerful as she brought the car round.

  As she was heading out of Bath, Mrs Boggle poked her in the shoulder. ‘Here! Where you going?’

  ‘Home,’ said Agatha briefly.

  ‘We wants to hear the band in the Parade Gardens,’ said Mr Boggle. ‘What sort of a day out is it if you can’t hear the band?’

  Only the thought of Mrs Bloxby’s gentle face made Agatha turn the car round. The couple had to be deposited at the gardens while Agatha wearily parked the car again, a long way away, and then walked back. Deck chairs had to be found for the Boggles.

  The sun shone, the band played its way through a seemingly endless repertoire as the afternoon wore on. Then the Boggles wanted afternoon tea at the Pump Room. Did they always eat so much? wondered Agatha. Or were they storing up food inside for some long hibernation before the next outing?

  At last they allowed her to take them home. All went well until she reached the Fosse Way and again that horny finger prodded her back. ‘I have ter pee,’ said Mrs Boggle.

  ‘Can’t you wait until I reach Bourton-on-the-Water or Stow?’ called Agatha over her shoulder. ‘Bound to be public toilets there.’

  ‘I gotta go now,’ wailed Mrs Boggle.

  Agatha pulled into the side of th
e road, bumping the car on to the grassy verge.

  ‘You’d best help her,’ said Mr Boggle.

  Mrs Boggle had to be led into a field and behind the shelter of some bushes. Mrs Boggle produced toilet paper from her handbag. Mrs Boggle needed help getting her knickers down, capacious pink cotton knickers with elastic at the knee.

  It was all very stomach-churning for Agatha, who felt quite green when she finally shepherded her charge back to the car. It would be a cold day in hell, thought Agatha, before she ever let herself in for a day like this again.

  She felt quite limp and weepy when she arrived outside Culloden. ‘Why Culloden?’ she asked.

  ‘When we bought our council house,’ said Mr Boggle, ‘we went down to the nursery where they sell house signs. I wanted Rose Cottage, but she wanted Culloden.’

  Agatha got out and heaved Mrs Boggle on to the pavement beside her husband. Then she fairly leaped back into the driving seat and drove off with a frantic crunching of gears.

  Detective Constable Wong was waiting on Agatha’s doorstep.

  ‘Out enjoying yourself?’ he asked as Agatha let him into the house.

  ‘I’ve had a hellish time,’ said Agatha, ‘and I don’t want to talk about it. What brings you here?’

  He sat down at the kitchen table and spread out the anonymous letter. ‘Have you any idea who sent this?’

  Agatha plugged in the electric kettle. ‘I thought it might be John Cartwright. He’s been threatening me.’

  ‘And why should John Cartwright threaten you?’

  Agatha looked shifty. ‘I called on his wife. He didn’t seem to like it.’

  ‘And you were asking questions,’ said Bill.

  ‘Well, do you know that Cummings-Browne was having an affair with Ella Cartwright?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Agatha’s eyes gleamed. ‘Well, there’s a motive . . .’

  ‘In desperately trying to prove this a murder, you are going to land into trouble. No one likes anyone poking into their private life. This note, now. It interests me. No fingerprints.’