Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Love to.’

  ‘All right. I’ll meet the train on Friday evening, on the ninth. Wonder you can bear to leave London.’

  ‘London is a sink,’ said Roy bitterly.

  ‘Oh, God, there’s a car outside,’ yelped Agatha. She looked out of the window. ‘It’s all right, it’s only the police.’

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. Bye.’

  Agatha answered the door to Bill Wong. ‘Now what?’ she asked. ‘Or is this just a friendly call?’

  ‘Not quite.’ He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

  ‘You were at the Ancombe Fair, I gather,’ said Bill.

  ‘So?’

  ‘You were seen in the beer tent waving a knife at Miss Barbara James.’

  ‘Self-defence. The woman tried to strangle me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I believe she had been having an affair with Cummings-Browne and she learned my name and saw red.’

  He flipped open a small notebook and consulted it. ‘Photographer Ben Birkin of the Cotswold Courier snapped a picture and lo and behold, his camera case was snatched. No cameras taken but all the rolls of film.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Agatha. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. Then I had a call from Fred Griggs, your local bobby. He had a report that a woman answering to Barbara James’s description threw shit at your windows.’

  ‘She’s mad,’ said Agatha, thumping a cup of instant coffee in front of Bill. ‘Quite mad. And you still claim the death of Cummings-Browne was an accident. I regret that scene in the beer tent. I’m glad that photographer lost his film. I’ve suffered enough without having my photo on the front of some local rag. Oh, God, I suppose they’ll run the story even if they don’t have the picture to go with it.’

  He looked at her speculatively. ‘You are a very lucky woman. The editor was so furious with Ben Birkin that he didn’t want to know about two women fighting in the beer tent. Furthermore, it so happens that John James, Barbara’s father, owns shares in the company which owns the newspaper. The editor’s only interested in cramming as many names and pictures of the locals into his paper as he can. Luckily, there were several amateur photographers at the fair and Bill was able to buy their film. Do you wish to charge Barbara James with assault or with throwing what possibly was dog-do at your window?’

  Agatha shuddered. ‘I never want to see that woman again. No.’

  ‘I’ve been making more inquiries about Cummings-Browne,’ said Bill. ‘Seems he was quite a Lothario. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you? Pointy head and jug ears. Oh, I’ve found the identity of the woman who was glaring at you at Warwick Castle.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Miss Maria Borrow, spinster of the parish, not this parish, Upper Cockburn.’

  ‘And was she having an affair with Cummings-Browne?’

  ‘Seems hardly believable. Retired schoolteacher. Gone a bit batty. Taken up witchcraft. Sixty-two.’

  ‘Oh, well, sixty-two. I mean, even Cummings-Browne could hardly –’

  ‘But for the past three years she has won the jam-making competition at Upper Cockburn, and Mr Cummings-Browne was the judge. Now don’t go near her. Let well alone, Mrs Raisin. Settle down and enjoy your retirement.’

  He rose to his feet, but instead of going to the front door he veered into the living-room and stood looking at the fire. He picked up the long brass poker and shifted the blazing wood. Little black metal film spools rattled through the fire-basket and on to the hearth.

  ‘Yes, you are very lucky, Mrs Raisin,’ said Bill. ‘I happen to detest Ben Birkin.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘I was having a mild flirtation with a married lady and I was giving her a cuddle behind the abbey in Mircester. Ben took a photograph and it was published with the caption: “Safe in the Arms of the Law”. Her husband called on me and I had a job to talk my way out of that one.’

  Agatha rallied. ‘I’m not quite sure what you are getting at. I found a pile of old unused film in my luggage and I was burning it.’

  Bill shook his head in mock amazement. ‘One would think all your years in public relations would have taught you how to lie better. Mind your own business in future, Agatha Raisin, and leave any investigation to the law.’

  The squally rain disappeared and clear blue skies shone over the Cotswolds. Agatha, shaken by the fight with Barbara James, put her bicycle in her car and went off to drive around the Cotswolds, occasionally stopping at some quiet lane to change over to her bicycle. Huge festoons of wisteria hung over cottage doors, hawthorn blossoms fell in snowy drifts beside the road, the golden stone of houses glowed in the warm sun and London seemed very far away.

  At Chipping Campden, she forgot her determination to slim and ate steak and kidney pie in the antique cosiness of the Eight Bells before sauntering down the main street of the village with its green verges and houses of golden stone with gables, tall chimneys, archways, pediments, pillars, mullioned or sash windows, and big flat stone steps. Despite the inevitable groups of tourists, it had a serene, retiring air. Full of steak and kidney pie, Agatha began to feel a little sense of peace. In the middle stood the Market Hall of 1627 with its short strong pillars throwing black shadows on to the road. Life could be easy. All she had to do was to forget about Cummings-Browne’s death.

  During the next few days, the sun continued to shine and Agatha continued to tour about, occasionally cycling, occasionally walking, returning every evening with a new feeling of health and well-being. It was with some trepidation that she remembered she was to accompany the Carsely ladies to Mircester.

  But no angry faces glared at her as she climbed aboard the bus. Mrs Doris Simpson was there, to Agatha’s relief and surprise, and so she sat beside the cleaning woman and chatted idly of this and that. The women in the bus were mostly middle-aged. Some had brought their knitting, some squares of tapestry. The old bus creaked and clanked along the lanes. The sun shone. It was all very peaceful.

  Agatha assumed that the entertainment to be provided for them by the ladies of Mircester would take the form of tea and cakes, and meant to indulge herself to the full, feeling all the exercise she had taken in the past few days merited a binge on pastry. But when they alighted at a church hall it was to find that a full-scale lunch with wine had been laid on. The wine had been made by members of the Mircester Ladies’ Society and was extremely potent. Lunch consisted of clear soup, roast chicken with chips and green peas, and sherry trifle, followed by Mrs Rainworth’s apple brandy. Applause for Mrs Rainworth, a gnarled old crone, was loud and appreciative as the brandy went the rounds.

  The chairwoman of the Mircester Ladies’ Society got to her feet. ‘We have a surprise for you.’ She turned to Mrs Bloxby. ‘If your ladies would take their bus to the Malvern Theatre, they will find seats have been booked for them.’

  ‘What is the entertainment?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.

  There were raucous shouts from the Mircester ladies of ‘Secret! You’ll see.’

  ‘I wonder what it is,’ said Agatha to Doris Simpson as they climbed aboard their coach again. It was now Doris and Agatha.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Doris. ‘There was some children’s theatre giving a show. Might be that.’

  ‘I’ve drunk so much,’ said Agatha, ‘I’ll probably sleep through the lot.’

  ‘Now that is a surprise,’ exclaimed Doris when their ancient bus clanked to a halt outside the theatre. ‘It says, “All-American Dance Troupe. The Spanglers.”’

  ‘Probably one of these modern ballet companies,’ groaned Agatha. ‘Everyone in black tights dancing around what looks like a bomb site. Oh, well, I hope the music’s not too loud.’

  Inside, she settled herself comfortably with the other members of the Carsely Ladies’ Society.

  To a roll of drums, the curtain rose. Agatha blinked. It was a show of male strippers. The music beat and pulsat
ed and the strobe lights darted here and there. Agatha sank lower in her seat, her faced scarlet with embarrassment. Mrs Rainworth, the inventor of the apple brandy, stood up on her seat and shouted hysterically, ‘Get ’em orf.’ The women were yelling and cheering. Agatha was dimly glad of the fact that Doris Simpson had taken out some knitting and was working away placidly, seemingly oblivious to what was going on on the stage or in the audience. The strippers were tanned and well-muscled. They did not strip completely. They had an arch teasing manner, more like bimbos than men. Naughty but nice. But most of the women were beside themselves. One middle-aged dyed blonde, one of the Mircester ladies, made a wild rush to the stage and had to be pulled back.

  Agatha suffered in silence. But when the show finished, her agony was not over. Members of the audience who wanted their photographs taken with one of the strippers could do so for a mere fee of ten pounds. And with a few exceptions, the Carsely ladies all wanted photographs taken.

  ‘Did you enjoy the show, Mrs Raisin?’ asked the vicar’s wife, Mrs Bloxby, as Agatha shakily got on board the bus.

  ‘I was shocked,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Oh, it was only a bit of fun,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I’ve seen worse on television.’

  ‘I’m surprised you should find it amusing,’ said Agatha.

  ‘They’re such good boys. Do you know they did a special show for the Kurdish refugees and raised five thousand pounds? And all that money for the photographs goes towards restoring the abbey roof.’

  ‘How clever of them,’ said Agatha, who recognized good PR when she heard it. By donating occasionally to charity, the troupe of male strippers had made themselves respectable and allowed licensed lust to flourish in the breasts of the Cotswold ladies, who would turn up by the busload to cheer them on. Perhaps these Americans had started an English tradition, mused Agatha sourly. Perhaps in five hundred years’ time there would be male strippers performing in the squares of the Cotswold villages while tour guides lectured their clients on the beginnings of this ancient ritual.

  Back to the church hall and down to business. Once more they were a large group of staid worthy women, discussing the arrangements of this fête and that to raise funds for charity. Mrs Bloxby got to her feet and said, ‘Our Mrs Raisin is running an auction on June tenth to raise money for charity. I hope you will all come and help to drive up the bidding. We are very grateful to Mrs Raisin and hope you will all do your best to support her.’ Agatha cringed, waiting for someone to say, ‘Not that Mrs Raisin, not the one who poisoned poor Mr Cummings-Browne,’ but all she got was a warm-hearted round of applause. Agatha felt quite weepy as she stood up and bowed in acknowledgement. Bill Wong was right. Retirement would be highly enjoyable just so long as she forgot all about Reg Cummings-Browne and that wretched quiche.

  Chapter Eight

  Agatha kept to her determination to mind her own business as far as the death of Cummings-Browne was concerned. Instead, she turned her energies again on the local newspapers and dealers, rousing interest in the auction. The editors published paragraphs about the auction just to keep Agatha quiet, as journalists had done in the not so very long ago when she was selling some client or product.

  In their good-natured way, the Carsely Ladies’ Society contributed books, plates, vases and other worn-looking items which they had bought over the years at other sales and were now recycling. As the day of the auction approached, Agatha began to receive more and more visitors. Mrs Mason, the chairwoman of the group, called regularly with several of the other ladies with their contributions, until Agatha’s living-room began to look more and more like a junk shop.

  She was so engrossed in all this that she almost forgot about Roy’s visit and had to rush to meet the train on the Friday evening. She wished he were not coming. She was beginning to feel part of this village life and did not want outrageous Roy to damage her new image of Lady Bountiful.

  To her relief, he descended from the train looking as much a businessman as several of the other London commuters. He had a conventional hair-style, no earrings, and wore a business suit. Hanging baskets of flowers were ornamenting Moreton-in-Marsh station and roses bloomed in flower-beds on the platform. The sun was blazing down on a perfect evening.

  ‘Like another world,’ said Roy. ‘I thought you’d made a ghastly mistake coming here, Aggie, but now I think you’re lucky.’

  ‘How’s the baby-food thing going?’ asked Agatha as he got in the car.

  ‘I did what you said and it was a great success, so I’ve leaped to respectability with the firm. Do you know who the latest client is?’

  Agatha shook her head.

  ‘Handley’s nursery chain.’

  Agatha looked bewildered. ‘More babies?’

  ‘No, dear. Gardens. They’ve even given me a dress allowance, tweed sports jacket, cords and brogues, can you believe it? Do you know, I thought I quite liked flowers, but they’ve got all these poisonously long Latin names, like chemical formulas, and I never took Latin at school. It’s all so boring; garden sheds and gnomes and crazy paving as well.’

  ‘I might like a gnome,’ said Agatha. ‘No, not for me,’ she added, thinking of Mrs Simpson.

  ‘We’d better sit in the kitchen,’ she said when they arrived home. ‘The living-room is chock-a-block with all the stuff for the sale.’

  ‘Are you cooking?’ asked Roy nervously.

  ‘Yes, one of the members of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, Mrs Mason, has been giving me some lessons.’

  ‘What is this ladies’ society?’

  Agatha told him and then gave him a description of her outing to Mircester and he laughed till he cried.

  The dinner consisted of vegetable soup, followed by shepherd’s pie and apple crumble. ‘Keep it simple,’ Mrs Mason had said.

  ‘This is remarkably good,’ said Roy. ‘You’re even wearing a print dress, Aggie.’

  ‘It’s comfortable,’ said Agatha defensively. ‘Besides, I’m battling with a weight problem.’

  ‘“Wider still and wider, shall her bounds be set,”’ quoted Roy with a grin.

  ‘I never believed in the middle-aged spread before,’ said Agatha. ‘I thought it was just an excuse for indulgence. But the very air seems to make me fat. I’m tired of bicycling and exercise routines. I feel like giving up and becoming really fat.’

  ‘You can’t get thin eating like this,’ said Roy. ‘You’re supposed to snack on lettuce leaves like a rabbit.’

  After dinner, Agatha showed him the pile of goods in the living-room. ‘A delivery van is coming first thing in the morning,’ she said, ‘and then, after they’ve dropped the whole lot off at the school hall, they’ll go to Cheltenham and pick up the new stuff. Perhaps when you learn about plants you can tell me what to do about the garden.’

  ‘Not too late even now to put things in,’ said Roy, airing his new knowledge. ‘What you want is instant garden. Go to one of the nurseries and load up with flowers. A cottage garden. All sorts of old-fashioned things. Climbing roses. Go for it, Aggie.’

  ‘I might. That is, if I really decide to stay.’

  Roy looked at her sharply. ‘The murder, you mean. What’s been happening?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Agatha hurriedly. ‘Best to forget about the whole thing.’

  In the morning, Agatha stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed the school hall with dismay. The contents of her living-room looked sparse now. Hardly an event. Mrs Bloxby appeared and said in her gentle voice, ‘Now this looks really nice.’

  ‘The hell it does,’ said Agatha. ‘No suggestion of an occasion. Not enough stuff. What about if the ladies put some more stuff in, anything at all? Any old junk.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘And the band, the village band, should be playing. Give a festive air. What about some morris dancers?’

  ‘You should have thought of this before, Mrs Raisin. How can we organize all that in such a short time?’

  Agath
a glanced at her watch. ‘Nine o’clock,’ she said. ‘The auction’s at three.’ She took out a notebook. ‘Where does the bandmaster live? And the leader of the morris dancers?’

  Bewildered, Mrs Bloxby supplied names and addresses. Agatha ran home and roused Roy, who had been sleeping peacefully. ‘You’ve got to paint some signs quick,’ said Agatha. ‘Let me see, the signs for the May Day celebrations are stored at Harvey’s, because I saw them in the back room of the shop. Get them and paint over them. Put, “Bargains, Bargains Bargains. Great Auction. Three o’Clock. Teas. Music. Dancing.” Put the signs up on the A44 where the drivers can see them and have a big arrow pointing down to Carsely, and then you’ll need more signs in the village itself pointing the way.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ protested Roy sleepily.

  ‘Oh yes, you can,’ growled the old Agatha. ‘Hop to it.’

  She got out the car and drove to the bandmaster’s and ruthlessly told him it was his duty to have the band playing. ‘I want last-night-of-the-prom stuff,’ said Agatha, ‘“Rule, Britannia”, “Land of Hope and Glory”, “Jerusalem”, the lot. All the papers are coming. You wouldn’t want them to know that you wouldn’t do anything for charity.’

  The leader of the morris dancers received similar treatment. Mrs Doris Simpson was next on the list. To Agatha’s relief, she had taken a day off work for the auction. ‘It’s the hall,’ said Agatha feverishly. ‘It looks so drab. It needs flowers.’

  ‘I think I can get the ladies to do that,’ said Doris placidly. ‘Sit down, Agatha, and have a cup of tea. You’ll give yourself a stroke going on like this.’

  But Agatha was off again. Round the village she went, haranguing and bullying, demanding any items for her auction until her car was piled up with, she privately thought, the most dismal load of tat she had ever seen.

  Roy, sweating in the already hot sun, crouched up on the A44, stabbing signs into the turf. The paint was still wet and his draughtsmanship was not of the best, but he had bought two pots of paint from Harvey’s, one red and one white, and he knew the signs were legible. He trudged back down to the village, thinking it was just like Agatha to expect him to walk, and started putting up signs around the village.