Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

by Beaton, M. C.

  Agatha plunged in. ‘I was upset by Mr Cummings-Browne’s death,’ she said.

  ‘As were we all,’ murmured Mrs Josephs.

  ‘I’d hate a mistake like that to happen again,’ said Agatha. ‘Have you a book on poisonous plants?’

  ‘Now, let me see.’ Mrs Josephs extracted a microfiche nervously from a pile and slotted it into the viewing screen. ‘Yes, Jerome on Poisonous Plants of the British Isles. Number K-543. Over to your left by the window, Mrs Raisin.’

  Agatha searched the shelves until she found the book. She opened it at the front and studied the dates stamped there. It had last been taken out a whole ten days before the death. Still . . .

  ‘Could you tell me who was the last to take this out, Mrs Josephs?’

  ‘Why?’ The librarian looked anxious. ‘I hope it wasn’t Mrs Boggle. She will leave the pages stuck together with marmalade.’

  ‘I was thinking of getting up a lecture on local poisonous plants,’ said Agatha, improvising. ‘Whoever had it out before might show equal interest,’ she continued, looking at the illustrations in the book as she spoke.

  ‘Oh, well, let me see. We still have the old-fashioned card system.’ She drew out long drawers and flicked through the listed book cards until she drew out the one on poisonous plants. ‘That was last taken out by card holder number 27. We don’t have many members. I fear this is a television village. Let me see. Number 27. Why, that’s Mrs Cummings-Browne!’ Her mouth fell a little open and she stared through her glasses at Agatha.

  And at that moment, the library door opened and Vera Cummings-Browne walked in. Agatha seized the book and returned it to the shelves and then said brightly to Mrs Josephs, ‘I’ll let you know about the Dick Francis.’

  ‘You’ll need to join the library first, Mrs Raisin. Would you like a card?’

  ‘Later,’ muttered Agatha. She looked over her shoulder. Vera was standing some distance away, looking through the returned books. ‘Not a word,’ hissed Agatha and shot out.

  So she did know about cowbane, thought Agatha triumphantly. And she certainly knew what it looked like. She saw clearly in her mind’s eye the coloured illustration in the book. Then she stopped in the middle of the main street, too shocked to notice that a handsome middle-aged man had come out of the butcher’s and was looking at her curiously.

  She had seen cowbane recently, but in black and white. What? Where? She began to walk home, cudgelling her brains.

  And then, just at her garden gate, she had it. The slide show. Mr Jones’s slide show. Mrs Cummings-Browne getting the prize for the best flower arrangement, an arty thing of wild flowers and garden flowers and, snakes and bastards, with a piece of cowbane right in the middle of it!

  The handsome middle-aged man was turning in at the gate of what had so recently been Mrs Barr’s cottage. He was the new tenant, James Lacey.

  ‘Mr Jones,’ said Agatha aloud. ‘Must find Mr Jones.’

  Batty, thought James Lacey. I don’t know that I like having a neighbour like that.

  Into Harvey’s went Agatha. ‘Where do I find Mr Jones, the one who takes the photographs?’

  ‘That’ll be the second cottage along Mill Pond Edge,’ said the woman behind the till. ‘Do be uncommon hot, Mrs Raisin.’

  ‘Sod the weather,’ said Agatha furiously. ‘Where’s Mill Pond Edge?’

  ‘Second lane on your right as you go out the door.’

  ‘I know the heat’s getting us down,’ said the woman in Harvey’s to Mrs Cummings-Browne later, ‘but there was no need for Mrs Raisin to be so rude. I was only trying to tell her where Mr Jones lives.’

  Agatha was fortunate in finding Mr Jones at home because he was also a keen gardener and liked to spend most of the day touring the local nurseries. He had all his photographs neatly filed and found the one Agatha asked for without any trouble.

  She looked greedily at the flower arrangement. ‘Mind if I keep this for a few days?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Mr Jones.

  And Agatha shot off without warning him not to say anything to Mrs Cummings-Browne.

  She went to the Red Lion, clutching the photo in a brown manila envelope, her brain buzzing with thoughts.

  She ordered a double gin and tonic. ‘Someone said as how he’d seen that detective, the Chinese one, heading your way with a basket,’ said the landlord.

  Agatha frowned. She did not want to tell Bill anything. Not now. Not until she had it all worked out.

  Bill Wong turned away from Agatha’s cottage, disappointed. He glared up at the ‘For Sale’ sign. He felt sure she was making a mistake. A faint miaow came from inside the basket. ‘Shh,’ he said gently. He had brought Agatha a cat. His mother’s cat had produced a litter and Bill, as usual, could not bear to see the little creatures drowned, so had started to inflict them on his friends as presents.

  He was walking past the cottage next door when he saw James Lacey. ‘Good morning,’ said Bill. He eyed the newcomer to Carsely shrewdly and wondered what Agatha thought of him. James Lacey was surely handsome enough to strike any middle-aged woman all of a heap. He was over six feet tall, with a strong tanned face and bright blue eyes. His thick black hair, fashionably cut, had only a trace of grey. ‘I was looking for your neighbour, Mrs Raisin,’ said Bill.

  ‘I think the heat’s got to her,’ said James in a clear upper-class voice. ‘She went past me muttering, “Mr Jones, Mr Jones.” Whoever Mr Jones is, I feel sorry for him.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve brought her this cat,’ said Bill, ‘as a present, and a litter tray. It’s house-trained. Would you be so good as to give it to her when she returns? My name is Bill Wong.’

  ‘All right. Do you know when that will be?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be long,’ said Bill. ‘Her car’s outside.’

  He handed over the cat in its carrying basket and the litter tray and went off. Jones, he thought. What’s she up to now?’

  He went into Harvey’s to buy a bar of chocolate and asked the woman behind the till, ‘Who’s Mr Jones?’

  ‘Not you too,’ she said crossly. ‘Mrs Raisin was in here to find out, and quite rude she was. We’re all suffering from this heat, but there’s no call to behave like that.’

  Bill waited patiently until the complaints were over and he could find out about Mr Jones. He didn’t really know why he was bothering except that Agatha Raisin had a way of stirring things up.

  Agatha was quite depressed as she walked home. She thought she had solved the case, as she had begun to call it in her mind, but while in the pub, that great stumbling block had risen up in front of her again. There was no way Vera Cummings-Browne could have cooked a poisoned quiche in her kitchen without the police forensic team finding a trace of it.

  She let herself wearily into her hot house. Better put the whole business to the back of her mind and go down to Moreton and buy a fan of some kind.

  There was a knock at the door. She looked through the new spyhole installed by the security people and found herself looking at the middle of a man’s checked shirt. She opened the door on the chain.

  ‘Mrs Raisin,’ said the man. ‘I am your new neighbour, James Lacey.’

  ‘Oh.’ Agatha took in the full glory of James Lacey and her mouth dropped open.

  ‘A Mr Wong called but you were out.’

  ‘What do the police want now?’ demanded Agatha.

  ‘I did not know he was from the police. He was plain clothes. He asked me to give you this cat.’

  ‘Cat!’ echoed Agatha, amazed.

  ‘Yes, cat,’ he said patiently, thinking, She really is nuts.

  Agatha dropped the chain and opened the door. ‘Come in,’ she said, suddenly aware of her loose print dress and her bare, unshaven legs.

  They walked into the kitchen. Agatha knelt down and opened the basket. A small tabby kitten strolled out, looked around and yawned. ‘That’s a sweet little fellow,’ he said, edging towards the door. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs Raisin . . .’
r />   ‘Won’t you stay? Have a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No, I really must go. Oh, there’s someone at your door.’

  ‘Could you wait just for a moment,’ said Agatha, ‘and watch the kitten until I see who that is?’

  She left the kitchen before he could reply. She opened the door. A woman stood there, looking as fresh as a spring day despite the heat. She was wearing a white cotton dress with a red leather belt around her slender waist. Her legs were tanned and unhairy. Her expensively dyed blonde hair shone in the sunlight. She was about forty, with a clever face and hazel eyes. She was exactly the sort of woman, Agatha thought, who would be bound to catch the eye of this glamorous new neighbour.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Agatha.

  ‘I’ve come to view the house.’

  ‘It’s sold. Goodbye.’ Agatha slammed the door.

  ‘If your house is sold,’ said James Lacey when she returned to the kitchen, feeling more of a frump than ever, ‘you should get the estate agents to put a “Sold” sign up.’

  ‘I didn’t like the look of her,’ muttered Agatha.

  ‘Indeed? I thought she looked very pleasant.’

  Agatha looked at the wide-open kitchen door, which gave a perfect view of whoever was standing at the front door, and blushed.

  ‘Now you really must excuse me,’ he said, and before Agatha could protest, he had made his escape.

  The cat made a faint pleading sound. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ demanded Agatha, exasperated. ‘What is Bill Wong thinking of?’

  She poured the cat some milk in a saucer and watched it lapping it up. Well, she would need to feed it until she decided how to get rid of it. She went back into the heat. Her neighbour was working in his front garden. He saw her coming, smiled vaguely, and retreated into his cottage.

  Damn, thought Agatha angrily. No wonder all these women were crawling on to his doorstep with gifts. She went to Harvey’s, where the woman behind the till gave her a hurt look, and bought cat food, extra milk, and cat litter for the tray.

  She returned home and fed the kitten and then took a cup of coffee into the garden. Her handsome neighbour had knocked all thoughts of murder out of her head. If only she had been properly dressed. If only he hadn’t heard her being so rude to that woman who wanted to see the house.

  The kitten was rolling over in the sun. She watched it moodily. She, too, could have taken along a cake. In fact, she still could. She scooped up the kitten and carried it inside and then went back to Harvey’s to find that it was early-closing day.

  She could go down to Moreton and buy a cake, but one should really take home-baking along. Then she remembered the freezer in the school hall. That was where the ladies of Carsely stored their home-baking for fêtes to come. There would be no harm in just borrowing something. Then she could go home and put on something really pretty and take along the cake.

  The school hall was fortunately empty. She went through into the kitchen and gingerly lifted the lid of the freezer. There were all sorts of goodies: tarts, angel cakes, chocolates cakes, sponges and – she shuddered – even quiches.

  She took out a large chocolate cake, feeling every bit the thief she was, looking about her, expecting any moment to be surprised. She gently lowered the lid and slipped the frozen cake into a plastic bag she had brought with her for the purpose. Back home again.

  She took a shower and washed her hair, dried it and brushed it until it shone. She put on a red linen dress with a white collar and tan high-heeled sandals. Then she gave the kitten some more milk and defrosted the cake in the microwave after taking it out of its cellophane wrapper. She arranged it on a plate and marched along to James Lacey’s cottage.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Raisin,’ he said when he opened the door and reluctantly accepted the cake. ‘How good of you. Perhaps you would like to come in, or,’ he added hopefully, ‘perhaps you are too busy.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Agatha cheerfully.

  He led the way into his living-room and Agatha’s curious eyes darted from side to side. There were books everywhere, some already on banks of shelves, some in open boxes on the floor, waiting to be stored away.

  ‘It’s like a library,’ said Agatha. ‘I thought you were an army man.’

  ‘Ex. I am settling down in my retirement to write military history.’ He waved a hand to a desk in the corner which held a computer. ‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll make some coffee to go with that delicious cake. You ladies are certainly champion bakers.’

  Agatha settled herself carefully in a battered old leather armchair, hitching her skirt up slightly to show her legs to advantage.

  It had been years since Agatha Raisin had been interested in any man. In fact, up until she had set eyes on James Lacey, she would have sworn that all her hormones had lain down and died. She felt excited, like a schoolgirl on her first date.

  She hoped the cake was a good one. How fortunate she had remembered that kitchen in the school hall.

  And then she froze and clutched tightly at the leather arms of the chair. The kitchen. Did it have a cooker? It had a microwave oven, for that was where they defrosted the goodies when they were setting up the tea-room for one of their endless charity drives.

  She had to go back. She shot out of her chair and out of the door of the cottage just as James Lacey entered his living-room, carrying a tray with a coffee-pot and two mugs.

  He carefully set down the tray and walked to his front door and looked out.

  Agatha Raisin, with her skirts hitched up, was running down Lilac Lane as if all the fiends of hell were after her.

  Might be inbreeding, he thought. He sat down and cut a slice of cake.

  Agatha ran into the school-hall kitchen and looked feverishly about. There it was, what she had been hoping to see – a large gas cooker. She opened the low cupboards next to the sink. They were full of cups and saucers, mixing bowls, pie dishes, pots and pans.

  She sat down suddenly. That’s how it could have been done. That’s how it must have been done.

  She racked her memory. Mrs Mason had been in the kitchen on the day of the auction, for example, beating up a fresh batch of cakes. The kitchen was also used for cooking. But wouldn’t people remember if Vera Cummings-Browne had been in there on the day of the quiche competition, cooking a quiche?

  But she didn’t have to be, thought Agatha. All she had to do was cook it any time before and put it in the freezer and keep an eye on it to make sure it was not used until she needed it. The remains of her, Agatha’s, quiche would have been dumped with all the other rubbish left over from the tea-room. All Vera had to do was take out her poisoned quiche, carry it home, pop it in the microwave, cut a slice out of it to match the missing slice that had been taken out at the competition, wrap it up and take it with her when she went out and dump it somewhere. Agatha was willing to bet the forensic men hadn’t gone through the widow’s clothes looking for poisoned crumbs.

  How to prove it?

  Confront her with it, thought Agatha, and get myself wired for sound. Trap her into a confession.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr James Lacey looked uneasily out of his window. There was that Agatha Raisin woman, hurrying back. Her lips were moving soundlessly. He shrank back behind the curtains, but to his relief she went on, and shortly afterwards he heard her front door slam.

  He thought she would be back at his door, but the day wore on and there was no sign of her. Early in the evening, when he was weeding the front garden, he heard her car starting up and soon he saw her drive past. She did not look at him or wave.

  He continued to work steadily, straightening up as he heard someone hurrying down the road. He looked over the hedge. And there came Agatha, on foot this time. He ducked below the hedge. On she went and again he heard her door slam.

  An hour later, just as he was about to go inside for the night, a police car raced past and stopped outside Agatha’s door and three men got out, one of whom he recognized as Bill Wong. Th
ey hammered at the door but for some reason the mysterious Mrs Raisin did not answer it. He heard Bill Wong say, ‘Her car’s gone. Maybe she’s gone to London.’

  All very odd. He wondered if Agatha was wanted for some crime or had simply been discovered missing from a lunatic asylum.

  Inside her cottage, Agatha crouched down until the police car had gone. She had deliberately hidden her car off one of the side roads at the top of the hill out of Carsely in case Bill Wong came calling. She had no intention of seeing him until she presented him with full proof that Vera Cummings-Browne was a murderess. She was slightly thrown when she looked out of her bedroom window to see the three of them, but assumed that it was because John Cartwright had been found. All that could wait. Agatha Raisin, detective, was going to solve The Great Quiche Mystery all by herself.

  The next morning James Lacey found he was persuading himself that his front garden needed more attention, although he had already pulled up every single weed. He did find, however, that the small patch of grass needed edging and got out the necessary tools, all the while keeping a curious eye on the cottage next door.

  Soon he was rewarded. Out came Agatha and walked along the road. This time he leaned over the garden gate.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Raisin,’ he called.

  Agatha focused on him, gave him a brief ‘Good morning,’ and walked on. Love could wait, thought Agatha.

  She located her car and drove to Oxford through Moreton-in-Marsh, Chipping Norton, and Woodstock while the brassy sun glared down. She parked the car in St Giles and walked along Cornmarket and down to the Westgate Shopping Centre until she found the shop she wanted. She bought a small but expensive tape recorder which she could wear strapped to her body and which could be activated by switches concealed in her pockets. She then bought a loose man’s blouson with inside pockets.

  ‘Now for it,’ she muttered as she drove back to Carsely. ‘I hope the bitch hasn’t gone back to Tuscany.’

  As she topped a rise on the road after leaving Chipping Norton, she saw that black clouds were piling up on the horizon. She decided to drive straight home and run the risk of being visited by the police.