Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

by Beaton, M. C.

  She sat there for a long time before slowly rising and switching on the house lights, moving from room to room, switching them all on as she had done before when she was frightened.

  Agatha wondered whether to call Mrs Bloxby. It was probably one of the young men of the village, or someone walking a dog. Slowly her fear left her, but when she went up to bed, she left all the lights burning.

  In the morning she was heartened to see a huge removal van outside New Delhi and the removal men hard at work. Obviously Mrs Barr did not see anything wrong in moving house on the Sabbath. Agatha was just wondering whether to go to church or not when the phone rang. It was Roy.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you, love.’

  Agatha felt a sudden surge of hope. ‘You’ve decided to leave Pedmans?’

  ‘No, I’ve bought a car, a Morris Minor. Got it for a song. Thought I’d drive down and bring the girlfriend to see you.

  ‘Girlfriend? You haven’t got one.’

  ‘I have now. Can we come?’

  ‘Of course. What’s her name?’

  ‘Tracy Butterworth.’

  ‘And what does she do?’

  ‘She’s one of the typists in the pool at Pedmans.’

  ‘When will you get here?’

  ‘We’re leaving now. Hour and a half if the roads aren’t bad. Maybe two.’

  Agatha looked in the fridge after she had rung off. She hadn’t even any milk. She went to a supermarket in Stow-on-the-Wold which opened on Sundays and bought milk, lettuce and tomatoes for salad, minced meat and potatoes to make shepherd’s pie, onions and carrots, peas, a frozen apple pie and some cream.

  There was no need to do any cleaning when she returned. Doris had been in while she had been in London and the place was impeccable. As she drove down into Carsely, the removal van passed her, followed by Mrs Barr in her car. They must have been at it since six in the morning, thought Agatha, making a mental note of the removal firm.

  She put away her groceries when she got home, found a pair of scissors, edged through the hedge at the back into Mrs Barr’s garden, and cut bunches of flowers to decorate her cottage.

  She prepared the shepherd’s pie after she had arranged the flowers, thinking that she really must do something about the garden. It would look lovely in the spring if she put in a lot of bulbs – but, of course, she would not be in Carsely in the spring.

  As she was still an inexperienced cook, the simple shepherd’s pie took quite a long time and she was just putting it in the oven when she heard a car draw up.

  Tracy Butterworth was all Agatha had expected. She was thin and pallid, with limp brown hair. She was wearing a white cotton suit with a pink frilly blouse and very high-heeled white shoes. She had a limp handshake and said, ‘Please ter meet you,’ in a shy whisper and then looked at Roy with devotion.

  ‘I see a removal van outside that awful woman’s cottage,’ said Roy.

  ‘What!’ Agatha cast an anguished look at the vases of flowers. ‘I thought she’d gone.’

  ‘Relax. Someone’s moving in, not out. Say something, Tracy. She won’t eat you.’

  ‘You’ve got ever such a lovely cottage,’ volunteered Tracy. She dabbed at her forehead with a scrap of lace-edged handkerchief.

  ‘It’s too hot to be dressed up,’ said Agatha. Tracy winced and Agatha said with new kindness, ‘Not that you don’t look very smart and pretty. But make yourself at home. Kick off your shoes and take off your jacket.’

  Tracy looked nervously at Roy.

  ‘Do as she says,’ he ordered.

  Tracy had very long thin feet, which she wriggled in an embarrassed way once her shoes were off. Poor thing, thought Agatha. He’ll marry her and turn her into the complete Essex woman. Two children called Wayne and Kylie at minor public schools, house in some twee builder’s close called Loam End or something, table-mats from the Costa Brava, ruched curtains, jacuzzi, giant television set, boredom, out on Saturday night to some road-house for scampi and chips washed down with Beaujolais nouveau and followed by tiramisu. Yes, Essex it would be and not the Cotswolds. Roy would be happier with his own kind. He too would change and take up weight-lifting and squash and walk around with a mobile glued to his ear, speaking very loudly into it in restaurants.

  ‘Let’s go along to the pub for a drink,’ said Agatha, after Roy had been talking about the days when he worked for her, elaborating every small incident for Tracy’s benefit. Agatha wondered whether to offer Tracy a loose dress to wear but decided against it. The girl would take it as a criticism of what she was wearing.

  In the pub, Agatha introduced them to her new-found friends and Tracy blossomed in the undemanding company which only expected her to talk about the weather.

  The heat was certainly bad enough to be exciting. The sun beat down fiercely outside. One man volunteered that a temperature of 129 degrees Fahrenheit had been recorded at Cheltenham.

  Back at the cottage Tracy helped with the lunch, her high heels stabbing little holes into the kitchen linoleum until Agatha begged her to take them off. There was some shade in the garden after lunch and so they moved there, drinking coffee and listening idly to the sounds of the new neighbour moving in.

  ‘Don’t you even want to peek over the hedge or take a cake along or something?’ asked Roy. ‘Aren’t you curious?’

  Agatha shook her head. ‘I’ve seen the estate agent and this house goes up for sale next week.’

  ‘You’re selling?’ Tracy looked at her in amazement. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m going back to London.’

  Tracy looked around the sunny garden and then up to the Cotswold Hills above the village, shimmering in a heat haze. She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Leave all this? I’ve never seen anywhere more beautiful in all me life.’ She looked back at the cottage and struggled to express her thoughts. ‘It’s so old, so settled. There’s somethink peaceful about it, know what I mean? Of course, I s’pose it’s diff’rent for you, Mrs Raisin. You’ve probably travelled and seen all sorts of beautiful places.’

  Yes, Carsely was beautiful, thought Agatha reluctantly. The village was blessed with many underground springs, and so, in the middle of all the drought around, it glowed like a green emerald.

  ‘She doesn’t like it,’ crowed Roy, ‘because people keep trying to murder her.’

  Tracy begged to be told all about it and so Agatha began at the beginning, talking at first to Tracy and then to herself, for there was something nagging at the back of her mind.

  That evening, Roy took them out for dinner to a pretentious restaurant in Mircester. Tracy only drank mineral water, for she was to drive Roy home. She seemed intimidated by the restaurant but admiring of Roy, who was snapping his fingers at the waiters and, as far as Agatha was concerned, behaving like a first-class creep. Yes, thought Agatha, Roy will marry Tracy and she will probably think she is happy and Roy will turn out to be someone I can’t stand. I wish I had never got him that publicity.

  When she waved goodbye to them, it was with a feeling of relief. The time was rapidly approaching when Roy would phone expecting an invitation and she would make some excuse.

  But of course she wouldn’t need to bother. For she would be back in London.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Monday morning, Agatha rose late, wondering why she had slept so long and wishing she had risen earlier to catch any coolness of the day. She put on a loose cotton dress over the minimum of underwear, went downstairs and took a mug of coffee out into the garden.

  She had been plagued with dreams of Maria Borrow, Barbara James, and Ella Cartwright, who had appeared as the three witches in Macbeth. ‘I have summoned the evil spirits to kill you,’ Maria Borrow had croaked.

  Agatha sighed and finished her coffee and went for a walk to the butcher’s which was near the vicarage. The sign saying ‘New Delhi’ had been taken down. There was no evidence of the new owner, but Mrs Mason and two other women were standing on the step, carrying cakes to welcome the new comer. Agat
ha walked on, reflecting that nobody had called on her when she had first arrived.

  She was about to go into the butcher’s when she stiffened. A little way away, Vera Cummings-Browne was standing talking to Barbara James, who had a Scottie on a leash. Agatha dived for cover into the butcher’s shop and almost collided with Mrs Bloxby.

  ‘Seen your new neighbour yet?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Agatha, keeping a wary eye on the door in case Barbara should leap in and savage her. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A retired colonel. Mr James Lacey. He doesn’t use his title. Very charming.’

  ‘I’m not interested,’ snapped Agatha. Mrs Bloxby looked at her in pained surprise and Agatha coloured.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I just saw Vera Cummings-Browne with Barbara James. Barbara James tried to attack me.’

  ‘She always had a dreadful temper,’ said Mrs Bloxby placidly. ‘Mrs Cummings-Browne is just back from Tuscany. She is very brown and looks fit.’

  ‘I didn’t even know she was away,’ commented Agatha. ‘I’m wondering what to buy. My cooking skills are still very limited.’

  ‘Get some of those lamb chops,’ advised the vicar’s wife, ‘and put them under the grill with a little mint. I have fresh mint in the garden. Come back with me for a coffee and I’ll give you some. You just cook the chops slowly on either side until they are brown. Very simple. And I shall give you some of my mint sauce, too.’

  Agatha obediently bought the chops but hesitated in the doorway. ‘Do you mind seeing if the coast is clear?’

  Mrs Bloxby looked out. ‘They’ve both gone.’

  Over the coffee cups in the vicarage garden, under the shade of a cypress tree, Mrs Bloxby asked, ‘Are you still determined to move?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Agatha bleakly, wishing some of her old ambition and drive would come back to her. ‘The estate agents should be putting a “For Sale” board up this morning.’

  Mrs Bloxby looked at her over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Strange how things work out, Mrs Raisin. I thought your being here had something to do with Divine Providence.’

  Agatha gave a startled grunt.

  ‘First I felt you had been brought here for your own benefit. You struck me as a lady who had never known any real love or affection. You seemed to carry a weight of loneliness about with you.’

  Agatha stared at her in deep embarrassment.

  ‘Then of course there is the death of Mr Cummings-Browne. My husband, like the police, maintains it was an accident. I felt that God had sent you here to find out the culprit.’

  ‘Meaning you think it’s murder!’

  ‘I’ve tried not to. So much more comfortable to believe it an accident and settle back into our ways. But there is something, some atmosphere, something wrong. I sense evil in this village. Now you are going, no one will ask questions, no one will care, and the evil will remain. Call me silly and superstitious if you like, but I believe the taking of a human life is a grievous sin which should be punished by law.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘So I shall pray that if murder has been done, then the culprit will be revealed.’

  ‘But you’ve got nothing concrete to go on?’ asked Agatha.

  She shook her head. ‘Just a feeling. But you are going, so that is that. I feel that Bill Wong shares my doubts.’

  ‘He’s the one that has been urging me to leave the whole thing alone!’

  ‘That is because he is fond of you and does not want to see you get hurt.’

  Agatha turned the conversation over in her mind. The ‘For Sale’ notice was up when she got back, giving her a temporary feeling, as if she had already left the village.

  She got out a large notebook and pen and sat down at the kitchen table and began to write down everything that had happened since she came to the village. The long hot day wore on and she wrote busily, going back and back over her notes, looking for some clue. Then she tapped the pen on the paper. For a start, there was one little thing. The body had been found on Sunday. On Tuesday – it must have been Tuesday, for on the Wednesday the police had told her that Mrs Cummings-Browne did not mean to sue The Quicherie – the bereaved widow had gone to Chelsea in person. Agatha sat back and chewed the end of her pen. Now wasn’t that odd behaviour? If your husband has just been murdered and you are collapsing about the place with grief and everyone is talking about how stricken you are, how do you summon up the energy to go all the way to London? She could just as easily have phoned. Why? Agatha glanced at the kitchen clock. What exactly had Vera Cummings-Browne said to Mr Economides? She went to the phone, lifted the receiver and put it back down again. Despite his confession about his relative without the work permit, the Greek had still looked guarded. The shop didn’t close till eight. Agatha decided to motor up to London and catch him before he shut the shop for the evening.

  She had just locked the door behind her when she found on turning round that a family consisting of ferrety husband, plump wife, and two spotty teenagers were surveying her.

  ‘We’ve come to look round the house,’ said the man.

  ‘You can’t.’ Agatha pushed past the family.

  ‘It says “For Sale”,’ he complained.

  ‘It’s already sold,’ lied Agatha. She heaved the board out of the ground and dropped it on the grass. Then she got into her car and drove off, leaving the family staring after her.

  The hell with it, thought Agatha, I wouldn’t want to inflict that lot on the village anyway.

  She made London in good time, for most of the traffic was going the other way.

  She parked on a double yellow line outside The Quicherie.

  She went into the shop. Mr Economides was clearing his cold shelf of quiches for the night. He looked at Agatha and again that wariness was in his eyes.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ said Agatha bluntly. ‘Don’t worry,’ she lied. ‘I’ve got friends in the Home Office. You won’t come to any harm.’

  He took off his apron and walked around the counter.

  They both sat down at one of his little tables. There was no offer of coffee. His dark eyes surveyed her mournfully.

  ‘Look, tell me exactly what happened between you and Mrs Cummings-Browne when she called on you.’

  ‘Can’t we forget the whole thing?’ he pleaded. ‘All ended well. No bad publicity in the London papers.’

  ‘A man was poisoned,’ said Agatha. ‘Don’t worry your head about immigration. I’ll keep you out of it. Just tell me.’

  ‘All right. She came in in the morning. I forget what day it was. But mid-morning. She started shouting that I had poisoned her husband and that she would sue me for every penny I’d got. She told me about the quiche you had bought. I cried and pleaded innocence. I threw myself on her mercy. I told her the quiche was not one of mine but had come down from Devon. I told her my cousin grew all the vegetables for his shop in his own market garden. Some of that cowbane must have got mixed in with the spinach. I told her about my cousin’s son-in-law. She went very quiet. Then she said she was overwrought. She said she hardly knew what she was saying. She was a different woman, calm and sad. No action would be taken against me or my cousin, she said.

  ‘But the next day, she came back.’

  ‘What!’

  Agatha leaned forward, clenching her hands in excitement.

  ‘She said that if I ever told anyone that the quiche had come from Devon, then she would change her mind and sue and she would also report my relative to the Home Office and get him deported.’

  ‘Goodness!’ Agatha looked at him in bewilderment. ‘She must be mad.’

  Two people came into the shop. Mr Economides rose to his feet. ‘You will not tell? I only told you before because I thought the whole thing was over.’

  ‘No, no,’ gabbled Agatha.

  She went out into the heat and drove off, heading automatically back to the Cotswolds, her brain in a turmoil. Vera Cummings-Browne didn’t want the police to know that the quiche had come from Devon
. Why?

  And then the light dawned. A phrase from the book on poisonous plants leaped into her mind. ‘Cowbane is to be found in marshy parts of Britain . . . East Anglia, West Midlands, and southern Scotland.’ But not Devon.

  But, wait a bit. The police had been thorough. They had searched her kitchen and even her drains for traces of cowbane. And they had said that Vera Cummings-Browne probably didn’t know cowbane from a palm tree. But couldn’t she just have looked up a book, as she, Agatha, had done? If she had, she would not only know what it looked like and where to get it, she would know it did not grow in Devon.

  When she got home, Agatha wondered whether to phone Bill Wong but then decided against it. He would have all the answers. There had been no trace of cowbane in Vera’s house. Her brain had been unhinged by the death and that was why she had gone to see Economides.

  She put the estate agent’s display board back in place and then tried to get a good night’s sleep, but the days and days of heat had made the old stone walls of her cottage radiate like a furnace.

  Agatha awoke, tired and listless, but dutifully got out her notes again and added what she had found out.

  Cowbane. What about the local library? she thought with a jolt. Would they know whether Vera Cummings-Browne had taken out a book on poisonous plants? Would there be a record? Of course there must be! How else could they write to people who had failed to return books?

  As she trudged along to the library, Agatha reflected that her standard of dressing was slipping. In London, she had favoured power dressing and always wore crisp dresses and business suits. Now her loose print dress flopped about her and her bare feet were thrust into sandals.

  The library was a low stone building. A plaque above the door stated it had originally been the village workhouse. Agatha pushed open the door and went in. She recognized the lady behind the desk as being Mrs Josephs, one of the members of the Carsely Ladies’ Society.

  Mrs Josephs smiled brightly. ‘Were you looking for anything in particular, Mrs Raisin? We’ve got the latest Dick Francis.’