Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Everyone knows about fingerprints,’ scoffed Agatha.

  ‘And everyone also knows that if you do not have a criminal record, there is no way the police can trace you through your fingerprints. The police are not going to fingerprint a whole village just because of one nasty letter. Then it was, I think, written by someone literate trying to sound semi-literate.’

  ‘How do you come by that?’

  ‘Even in the broadest Gloucestershire dialect, interfering comes out sounding just that, not “innerfering”. Might be interferin’ with the dropped g, but that’s all. Also, strangely enough, everyone appears to know how to spell bitch. Apart from the Cartwrights, who else have you been questioning?’

  ‘No one,’ said Agatha. ‘Except that I was discussing the murder in the Red Huntsman with my friends, and two friends of her next door were there.’

  ‘Not murder,’ he said patiently. ‘Accident. I’ll keep this note. I haven’t found anyone who recognizes the woman in your photograph. The reason I have called is to warn you, Agatha Raisin, not to go messing about in people’s lives, or soon there might be a real-live murder, with you as the corpse!’

  Chapter Seven

  Agatha’s figure, though stocky, had hitherto carried very little surplus fat. As she tried to fasten her skirt in the morning, she realized she had put on about an extra inch and a half around the waistline. In London, she had walked a lot, walking being quicker than sitting in a bus crawling through the traffic. But since she had come to Carsely, she had been using the car to go everywhere apart from short trips along the village. Carsely was not going to make Agatha Raisin let herself go!

  She drove to a bicycle shop in Evesham and purchased a light, collapsible bicycle of the kind she could carry around in the boot of her car. She did not want to experiment cycling near the village until she felt she had remastered the knack. She had not cycled since the age of six.

  She parked off the road next to one of the country walks, took out the little bicycle, and pushed it to the beginning of the grassy path. She mounted and wobbled off very nervously, climbed a small rise, and then, with a feeling of exhilaration, cruised downhill through pretty woods dappled with sunlight. After a few miles, she realized she was approaching the village, and with a groan, she turned back. Her well-shaped legs, although fairly sturdy with London walking, were not up to cycling the whole way back up the hill and so she got off and pushed. Clouds covered the sun very quickly and it began to rain, fine, soft, drenching rain.

  In London, she could have gone into a bar or café and waited for the rain to stop, but there was nothing here but fields and woods and the steady drip of water from the trees above.

  She thankfully reached her car and stowed away the bicycle. She was just moving off when a car passed her. She stared at it in amazement. Surely it was that rusting brown thing she had recently seen trapped in the Cartwrights’ front garden. On impulse, she swung her own car round and set off in pursuit. Her quarry wound through narrow lanes, heading for Ancombe. Agatha tried to keep out of sight, but there were no other cars on the road. She could just make out that Mrs Cartwright was driving the rusty car.

  As Agatha approached Ancombe, she noticed large signs and arrows directing drivers to the ANCOMBE ANNUAL FAIR. Mrs Cartwright appeared to be heading for it. Now there were other cars and Agatha let a Mini get between her and Mrs Cartwright.

  Mrs Cartwright parked her car in a large wet field. Agatha, ignoring a steward’s waving arm, parked a good bit away. As abruptly as it had started, the rain stopped and the sun shone down. Feeling damp and creased, Agatha got out. There was no sign of Mrs Cartwright. Her car, an old brown Ford, Agatha noted as she passed it, was empty.

  Agatha walked towards the fair and paid the ten pence admission charge and an additional ten pence for a programme. She flicked through it until she found the Home Baking Competition tent on the map in the centre.

  Just as she was about to enter the tent, Agatha came face to face with Mrs Cartwright. ‘What you doin’ here?’ demanded Mrs Cartwright suspiciously.

  ‘How did you get your car out of the garden?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Push the fence over, drive off, push the fence up again. Been like that for years, but will my John fix it? Nah. Why are you here?’

  ‘I heard there was a fair on,’ said Agatha vaguely. ‘Are you entering anything?’

  ‘Quiche,’ said Mrs Cartwright laconically. She suddenly grinned. ‘Spinach quiche. Better prizes here than you get at Carsely.’

  ‘Think you’ll win?’

  ‘Bound to. Haven’t any competition really.’

  ‘Did Mr Cummings-Browne judge the home-baking here as well?’

  ‘Nah. Dogs. Best of breed and all that. Look . . .’ Mrs Cartwright glanced furtively around. ‘Want a bit of info?’

  ‘I’ve paid you forty pounds to date and I haven’t yet got my money’s worth,’ snapped Agatha. ‘And you can tell that husband of yours to stop threatening me.’

  ‘He’s always threatening people and he thinks you’re a nosy old tart. Still, if you don’t want to know what went on at Ancombe . . .’

  She began to move away.

  ‘Wait,’ said Agatha. ‘What can you tell me?’

  Mrs Cartwright’s dark eyes rested greedily on Agatha’s handbag.

  Agatha clicked it open and took out her wallet. ‘Ten if I think it’s worth it.’

  Mrs Cartwright leaned forward. ‘The dog competition’s always won by a Scottie.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And the woman who shows the Scotties is Barbara James from Combe Farm. At the inquest her were, and crying fit to bust.’

  ‘Are you saying . . .’

  ‘Our Reg had to have a bit before he would favour someone year in and year out.’

  Agatha handed over ten pounds. She studied her programme. The dog judging was due to begin in an arena near the tent. When she looked up from her programme, Mrs Cartwright had gone.

  Agatha sat on a bench just outside the roped-off arena. She opened her programme again. The Best of Breed competition was to be judged by a Lady Waverton. She looked up. A stout woman in tweeds and a deerstalker was sitting on a shooting-stick, her large tweed-encased bottom hanging down on either side of it, studying the dogs as they were paraded past her. A fresh-faced woman of about thirty-five with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks was walking a Scottish terrier past Lady Waverton. Must be Barbara James, thought Agatha.

  It was all so boring, Agatha felt quite glassy-eyed. How nervous and pleading the contestants looked, like parents at prize-giving. Lady Waverton wrote something down on a piece of paper and a messenger ran with it to a platform, where a man seated on a chair was holding a microphone. ‘Attention, please,’ said the man. ‘The awards for Best of Breed are as follows. Third place, Mr J. G. Feathers for his Sealyham, Pride of Moreton. Second, Mrs Comley, for her otter hound, Jamesy Bright Eyes. And the first is . . .’

  Barbara James picked up her Scottie and cuddled it and looked expectantly towards the two local newspaper photographers. ‘The first prize goes to Miss Sally Gentle for her poodle, Bubbles Daventry of the Fosse.’

  Miss Sally Gentle looked remarkably like her dog, having curly white hair dressed in bows. Barbara James strode from the arena, her face dark with fury.

  Agatha rose to her feet and followed her. Barbara went straight to the beer tent. Agatha hovered in the background until the disappointed competitor had got herself a pint of beer. Agatha detested beer but she gamely ordered a half pint and joined Barbara at one of the rickety tables that were set about the beer tent.

  Agatha affected surprise. ‘Why, it’s Miss James,’ she cried. She leaned forward and patted the Scottie, who nipped her hand. ‘Playful, isn’t he?’ said Agatha, casting a look of loathing at the dog. ‘Such a good head. I was sure he would win.’

  ‘It’s the first time in six years I’ve lost,’ said Barbara. She stretched her jodhpurred legs moodily out in front of her and stared at her toe-caps. />
  Agatha fetched up a sigh. ‘Poor Mr Cummings-Browne.’

  ‘Reg knew a good dog when he saw one,’ said Barbara. ‘Here, go on. Walkies.’ She put the dog down. It strolled over to the entrance to the tent and lifted its leg against a rubbish bin. ‘Did you know Reg?’

  ‘Only slightly,’ said Agatha. ‘I had dinner with the Cummings-Brownes shortly before he died.’

  ‘It should never have happened,’ said Barbara. ‘That’s the trouble with these Cotswold villages. Too many people from the cities coming to settle. Do you know how he died? Some bitch of a woman called Raisin bought a quiche and tried to pass it off at the competition as her own.’

  Agatha opened her mouth to admit she was that Mrs Raisin when it started to rain again, suddenly, as if someone had switched on a tap. It was a long walk to where she had parked her car. A chill wind blew into the tent.

  ‘Terrible,’ said Agatha feebly. ‘Did you know Mr Cummings-Browne well?’

  ‘We were very good friends. Always good for a laugh, was Reg.’

  ‘Have you entered anything in the home-baking competition?’ asked Agatha.

  Barbara’s blue eyes were suddenly suspicious. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Most of the ladies seem very talented at these shows.’

  ‘I can’t bake, but I know a good dog. Dammit, I should have won. What qualifications does this Lady Muck have for judging a dog show? I’ll tell you . . . none. The organizers want a judge and so they ask any fool with a title. She couldn’t even judge her own arse.’

  As Barbara picked up her beer tankard, Agatha noticed the woman’s rippling muscles and decided to retreat.

  But at that moment, Ella Cartwright looked into the beer tent, saw Agatha and called out, ‘Enjoying yourself, Mrs Raisin?’

  Barbara slowly put down her tankard. ‘You!’ she hissed. She lunged across the table, her hands reaching for Agatha’s throat.

  Agatha leaped backwards, knocking her flimsy canvas-and-tubular-steel seat over. ‘Now, don’t get excited,’ she said weakly.

  But Barbara leaped on her and seized her by the throat. Agatha was dimly aware of the grinning faces of the drinkers in the tent. She got her knee into Barbara’s stomach and pushed with all her strength. Barbara staggered back but then came at her again. She was blocking the way out. Agatha fled behind the serving counter, screaming for help while the men laughed and cheered. She seized a large kitchen knife and held it in front of her. ‘Get away,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Murderer!’ shrieked Barbara but she backed off. Then there came a blinding flash and the click of a camera. One of the local photographers had just snapped Agatha brandishing the kitchen knife.

  Still holding the knife, Agatha edged around to the exit. ‘Don’t come near me again or I’ll kill you,’ shouted Barbara.

  Agatha dropped the knife outside the tent and ran. Once in the safety of her car and with the doors locked, she sat panting. She thrust the key in the ignition and then paused, dismay flooding her. That photograph! She could already see it in her mind’s eye on the front of some local paper. What if the London papers picked it up? Oh, God. She was going to have to get that film.

  She felt shaken and tired as she reluctantly climbed out again and trekked across the rain-sodden field.

  Keeping a sharp eye out for Barbara James, she threaded her way through the booths selling old books, country clothes, dried flowers, local pottery, and, as usual, home-baking. In addition to the usual stands, there was one selling local country wines. The photographer was standing there with a reporter sampling elderberry wine. Agatha’s heart beat hard. His camera case was on the ground at his feet, but the camera which had taken the photo of her was still around his neck. Agatha backed off in case he should see her. He stood there, sampling wine for a long time until the terrier racing was announced. He said something to the reporter and they headed off to the arena. Agatha followed them and waited until they were in the arena. She retreated to a stand and bought herself a waxed coat and a rain-hat. The rain was still drumming down. It was going to be a long day. The terrier racing was followed by show jumping. Agatha lurked at the edge of the thinning crowd, but feeling that the hat and coat she had just put on disguised her somewhat.

  At the end of the show jumping, the rain stopped again and a chill yellow sunlight flooded the fair. Heart beating hard, Agatha saw the photographer wind the film from his camera, pop it in his case, and then reload with another. Slowly she took off her coat. The photographer and reporter headed out of the arena and back to the local wine stand. ‘Try the birch wine,’ the woman serving was urging them as Agatha crept closer. She dropped her coat over the camera case, mumbled something and bent and seized the handle of the camera case and lifted it up and scurried off round the back of a tent. She opened the case and stared down in dismay at all the rolls of film. Too bad. She took them all out after putting on her coat again so that she could stuff the rolls of film into her pocket.

  She heard a faint yell of ‘Police!’ and hurried off, leaving the camera case on the ground. She felt sure that the woman serving the wine had not noticed her and the photographer and reporter had not even turned round. She felt lucky in that they were not from a national paper, otherwise they would have concentrated on her and Barbara James and would have referred back to the quiche poisoning. But local photographers and reporters knew that their job at these fairs was to get as many faces and prizewinners on their pages as possible so as to boost circulation. But if the picture of her brandishing a knife in the beer tent had turned out well, she knew they would use it, along, no doubt, with quotes from the enraged Barbara James.

  She was just driving out of the car-park when a policeman flagged her down. Agatha let down the window and looked at him nervously. ‘A photographer has had his camera case stolen,’ said the policeman. ‘Did you notice anything suspicious?’ He peered into the car, his eyes darting this way and that. Agatha was painfully conscious of her coat pockets bulging with film. ‘No,’ she said. ‘What a terrible thing to happen.’

  There came a faint cry of ‘We’ve found it.’ The police man straightened up. ‘That’s that,’ he said with a grin. ‘These photographers are always drinking too much. Probably just forgot where he left it.’

  He stood back. Agatha let in the clutch and drove off. She did not once relax until she was home and had lit a large fire. When it was blazing, she tipped all the rolls of film on to it and watched them burn merrily. Then she heard a car drawing up.

  She looked out of the window. Barbara James!

  Agatha dived behind the sofa and lay there, trembling. The knocking at the door, at first mild, became a fusillade of knocks and kicks. Agatha let out a whimper. Then there was silence. She was just about to get up when something struck her living-room window and she crouched down again. She heard what she hoped was Barbara’s car driving off. Still she waited.

  After ten minutes, she got up slowly. She looked at the window. Brown excrement was stuck to it, along with wisps of kitchen paper. Barbara must have thrown a wrapper full of the stuff.

  She went through to the kitchen and got a bucket of water and took it outside and threw it at the window, returning to get more water until the window was clean. She was going back inside when she saw Mrs Barr standing at her garden gate, watching her, her pale eyes alight with malice.

  Her rumbling stomach reminded Agatha that she had not eaten. But she did not have the courage to go out again. At least she had bread and butter. She made herself some toast.

  The phone rang shrilly. She approached it and gingerly picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ came Roy’s mincing voice. ‘That you, Aggie?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Agatha, weak with relief. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Bit fed up.’

  ‘How’s Steve?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him. Gone all moody on me.’

  ‘Buy him a book on village customs. That’ll make his eyes light up.’

  ‘The only way to make that one’s eyes
light up,’ said Steve waspishly, ‘is to shine a torch in his ear. I’ve been given the Tolly Baby Food account.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘On what?’ Roy’s voice was shrill. ‘Baby food’s not my scene, ducky. They’re doing it deliberately. Hoping I’ll fail. More your line.’

  ‘Wait a bit. Isn’t Tolly Baby Food the stuff that some maniac’s been putting glass in and then blackmailing the company?’

  ‘They’ve arrested someone, but now Tolly wants to restore their image.’

  ‘Try going green,’ suggested Agatha. ‘Suggest to the advertising people a line of healthy baby food, no additives, and with a special safety cap. Get a cartoon figure to promote it. Throw a press party to show off the new vandal-proof top. “Only Tolly Baby Food keeps baby safe,” that sort of thing. And don’t drink yourself. Take any journalist who has a baby out for lunch separately.’

  ‘They don’t have babies,’ complained Roy. ‘They give birth to bile.’

  ‘There are a few fertile ones.’ Agatha searched her memory. ‘There’s Jean Hammond, she’s got a baby, and Jeffrey Constable’s wife has just had one. You’ll find out more if you try. Anyway, women journalists feel obliged to write about babies to show they’re normal. They have to keep trying to identify with the housewives they secretly despise. You know Jill Stamp who’s always rambling on about her godson? Hasn’t got one. All part of the image.’

  ‘I wish you were doing it,’ said Roy. ‘It was fun working for you, Aggie. How’s things in Rural Land?’

  Agatha hesitated and then said, ‘Fine.’

  This was greeted by a long silence. It suddenly struck Agatha with some amazement that Roy might possibly want an invitation.

  ‘You know all that tat in my living-room?’

  ‘What, the fake horse brasses and things?’

  ‘Yes, I’m auctioning them all off in the name of charity. On the tenth of June, a Saturday. Like to come down and see me in action?’