Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death ar-1 Read online

  Agatha thought grimly that her quiche had better win, for she knew when she was being ripped off and the Feathers was doing just that. A landlord who stood on the wrong side of the bar which ran along the end of the dining-room drinking with his cronies, a pretentious and dreadfully expensive menu, and sullen waitresses roused Agatha's anger.

  The Cummings-Brownes had, predictably, chosen the second-most-expensive wine on the menu, two bottles of it. Agatha let them do most of the talking until the coffee arrived and then she got down to business. She asked what kind of quiche usually won the prize. Mr. Cummings-Browne said it was usually quiche lorraine or mushroom quiche.

  Agatha said firmly that she would contribute her favourite spinach quiche.

  Mrs. Cummings-Browne laughed. If she laughs like that again, I really will slap her, thought Agatha, particularly as Mrs. Cummings-Browne followed up the laugh by saying that Mrs. Cartwright always won.

  Agatha was to remember later that there had been a certain stillness about Mr. Cummings-Browne when Mrs. Cartwright's name was mentioned, but for the present, she had the bit between her teeth. Her own quiche, said Agatha, was famous for its delicacy of taste and lightness of pastry. Besides, a spirit of competition was what was needed in the village. Very bad for morale to have the same woman winning year in and year out. Agatha was good at emanating emotional blackmail without precisely saying anything direct. She made jokes about how dreadfully expensive the meal was while all the time her bearlike brown eyes hammered home the message: "You owe me for this dinner."

  But journalists as a rule belong to the kind of people who are born feeling guilty. Obviously the Cummings-Brownes were made of sterner stuff. As Agatha was preparing to pay the bill notes slowly counted out instead of credit card to emphasize the price her guests stayed her hand by ordering large brandies for themselves.

  Despite all they had drunk, they remained as sober-looking as they had been when the meal started. Agatha asked about the villagers. Mrs. Cummings-Browne said they were pleasant enough and they did what they could for them, all delivered in a lady-of-the-manor tone. They asked Agatha about herself and she replied briefly. Agatha had never trained herself to make social chit-chat. She was only used to selling a product or asking people all about themselves to soften them up so that she could eventually sell that product.

  They finally went out into the soft dark night. The wind had died and the air held a promise of summer to come. Mr. Cummings-Browne drove his Range Rover slowly through the green lanes leading back to Carsely.

  A fox slid across the road in front of the lights, rabbits skittered for safety, and bird cherry, just beginning to blossom, starred the hedgerows. Loneliness again gripped Agatha. It was a night for friends, for pleasant company, not a night to be with such as the Cummings-Brownes. He parked outside his own front door and said to Agatha, "Find your way all right from here?"

  "No," said Agatha crossly. The least you could do is to run me home."

  "Lose the use of your legs if you go on like this," he said nastily, but after giving an impatient little sigh, he drove her to her cottage.

  I must leave a light on in future, thought Agatha as she looked at her dark cottage. A light would be welcoming. Before getting out of the car, she asked him exactly how to go about entering the competition, and after he had told her she climbed down and, without saying good night, went into her lonely cottage.

  The next day, as instructed, she entered her name in the quiche-competition book in the school hall. The voices of the schoolchildren were raised in song in some classroom: To my hey down-down, to my ho down-down." So they still sang

  "Among the Leaves So Green-O', thought Agatha.

  She looked around the barren hall. Trestle-tables were set against one wall and there was a rostrum at the far end. Hardly a setting for ambitious achievement.

  She then got out her car and drove straight to London this time, much as she loathed and dreaded the perils of the motor ways She parked in the street at Chelsea's World's End where she had lived such a short time ago, glad that she had not surrendered her resident's parking card.

  There had been a sharp shower of rain. How wonderful London smelled, of wet concrete, diesel fumes, petrol fumes, litter, hot coffee, fruit and fish, all the smells that meant home to Agatha.

  She made her way to The Quicherie, a delicatessen that specialized in quiches. She bought a large spinach quiche, stowed it in the boot of her car, and then took herself off to the Caprice for lunch, where she ate their salmon fish cakes and relaxed among what she considered as 'my people', the rich and famous, without it ever crossing her mind that she did not know any of them. Then to Fenwick's in Bond Street to buy a new dress, not print (heaven forbid!) but a smart scarlet wool dress with a white collar.

  Back to Carsely in the evening light and into the kitchen. She removed the quiche from its shop wrappings, put her own ready printed label, "Spinach Quiche, Mrs. Raisin', on it, and wrapped it with deliberate amateurishness in thin clear plastic. She surveyed it with satisfaction. It would be the best there. The Quicherie was famous for its quiches.

  She carried it up to the school hall on Friday evening, following a straggling line of women bearing flowers, jam, cakes, quiches and biscuits. The competition entries had to be in the school hall the evening before the day of the competition, for some of the women worked at the weekends. As usual, a few of the women hailed her with "Evening. Bit warmer. Maybe get a bit o' sun." How would they cope with some horror like an earthquake or a hurricane? Agatha wondered.

  Might shut them up in future as the mild vagaries of the Cotswolds weather rarely threw up anything dramatic or so Agatha believed.

  She found she was quite nervous and excited when she went to bed that night. Ridiculous! It was only a village competition.

  The next day dawned blustery and cold, with wind tearing down the last of the cherry blossom from the gardens and throwing the petals like bridal showers over the villagers as they crowded into the school hall.

  A surprisingly good village band was playing selections from My Fair Lady, ages of the musicians ranging from eight to eighty. The air smelt sweetly from the flower arrangements and from single blooms set proudly in their thin vases for the flower competition: narcissi and daffodils. There was even a tea-room set up in a side-room with dainty sandwiches and home-made cakes.

  "Of course Mrs. Cartwright will win the quiche competition," said a voice near Agatha.

  Agatha swung round. "Why do you say that?"

  "Because Mr. Cummings-Browne is the judge," said the woman and moved off to be lost in the crowd.

  Lord Pendlebury, a thin elderly gentleman who looked like an Edwardian ghost, and who had estates on the hill above the village, was to announce the winner of the quiche competition, although Mr. Cummings-Browne was to be the judge.

  Agatha's quiche had a thin slice cut out of it, as had the others. She looked at it smugly. Three cheers for The Quicherie. The spinach quiche was undoubtedly the best one there. The fact that she was expected to have cooked it herself did not trouble her conscience at all.

  The band fell silent. Lord Pendlebury was helped up to the platform in front of the band.

  The winner of the Great Quiche Competition is ... " quavered Lord Pendlebury. He fumbled with a sheaf of notes, picked them up, tidied them, took out a pair of pince-nez, looked again helplessly at the papers, until Mr. Cummings-Browne pointed to the right sheet of paper.

  "Bless me. Yes, yes, yes," wittered Lord Pendlebury. "Harrumph! The winner is ... Mrs. Cartwright."

  "Snakes and bastards," muttered Agatha.

  Fuming, she watched as Mrs. Cartwright, a gypsy-looking woman, climbed up on to the stage to receive the award. It was a cheque. "How much?" Agatha asked the woman next to her.

  Ten pounds."

  Ten pounds!" exclaimed Agatha, who had not even asked before what the prize was to be but had naively assumed it would be in the form of a silver cup. She had imagined such a cup with her nam
e engraved on it resting on her mantelpiece. "How's she supposed to celebrate by spending that? Dinner at Mcdonald's?"

  "It's the thought that counts," said the woman vaguely. "You are Mrs. Raisin. You have just bought Budgen's cottage. I am Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar's wife. Can we hope to see you at church on Sunday?" "Why Budgen?" asked Agatha. "I bought the cottage from a Mr. Alder." "It has always been Budgen's cottage," said the vicar's wife. "He died fifteen years ago, of course, but to us in the village, it will always be Budgen's cottage. He was a great character. At least you do not have to worry about your dinner tonight, Mrs. Raisin. Your quiche looks delicious."

  "Oh, throw it away!" snarled Agatha. "Mine was the best. This competition was rigged."

  Mrs. Bloxby gave Agatha a look of sad reproach before moving away.

  Agatha experienced a qualm of unease. She should not have been bitchy about the competition to the vicar's wife. Mrs. Bloxby seemed a nice sort of woman. But Agatha had only been used to three lines of conversation: either ordering her staff about, pressuring the media for publicity, or being oily to clients. A faint idea was stirring somewhere in her brain that Agatha Raisin was not a very lovable person.

  That evening, she went down to the Red Lion. It was indeed a beautiful pub, she thought, looking about: low raftered, dark, smoky; with stone floors, bowls of spring flowers, log fire blazing, comfortable chairs and solid tables at proper drinking and eating height instead of those 'cocktail' knee-high tables which meant you had to crouch to get the food to your mouth. Some men were standing at the bar. They smiled and nodded to her and then went on talking. Agatha noticed a slate with meals written on it and ordered lasagne and chips from the landlord's pretty daughter before carrying her drink over to a corner table. She felt as she had done as a child, longing to be part of all this old English country tradition of beauty and safety and yet being on the outside, looking in. But had she, she wondered, ever really been part of anything except the ephemeral world of PR? If she dropped dead, right now, on this pub floor, was there anyone to mourn her? Her parents were dead. God alone knew where her husband was, and he would certainly not mourn her. Shit, this gin's depressing stuff, thought Agatha angrily, and ordered a glass of white wine instead to wash down her lasagne, which she noticed had been micro-waved so that it stuck firmly to the bottom of the dish.

  But the chips were good. Life did have its small comforts after all.

  Mrs. Cummings-Browne was preparing to go out to a rehearsal of Blithe Spirit at the church hall. She was producing it for the Carsely Dramatic Society and trying unsuccessfully to iron out their Gloucestershire accents. "Why can't any of them achieve a proper accent?" she mourned as she collected her handbag. They sound as if they're mucking out pigs or whatever one does with pigs. Speaking of pigs, I brought home that horrible Raisin woman's quiche. She flounced off in a huff and said we were to throw it away. I thought you might like a piece for supper. I've left a couple of slices on the kitchen counter. I've had a lot of cakes and tea this afternoon. That'll do me." T don't think I'll eat anything either," said Mr. Cummings-Browne.

  "Well, if you change your mind, pop the quiche in the microwave."

  Mr. Cummings-Browne drank a stiff whisky and watched television, regretting that the hour was before nine in the evening, which meant no hope of any full frontal nudity, the powers-that-be having naively thought all children to be in bed by nine o'clock, after which time pornography was permissible, although anyone who wrote in to describe it as such was a fuddy-duddy who did not appreciate true art. So he watched a nature programme instead and consoled himself with copulating animals. He had another whisky and felt hungry. He remembered the quiche. It had been fun watching Agatha Raisin's face at the competition. She really had wanted her dinner back, silly woman.

  People like Agatha Raisin, that sort of middle-aged yuppie, lowered the tone decidedly. He went into the kitchen and put two slices of quiche in the microwave and opened a bottle of claret and poured himself a glass. Then, putting quiche and wine on a tray, he carried the lot through to the living-room and settled down again in front of the television.

  It was two hours later and just before the promised gang rape in a movie called Deep in the Heart that his mouth began to burn as if it were on fire. He felt deathly ill. He fell out of his chair and writhed in convulsions on the floor and was dreadfully sick. He lost consciousness as he was fighting his way toward the phone, ending up stretched out behind the sofa.

  Mrs. Cummings-Browne arrived home sometime after midnight. She did not see her husband because he was lying behind the sofa, nor did she notice any of the pools of vomit because only one dim lamp was burning.

  She muttered in irritation to see the lamp still lit and the television still on. She switched both off.

  Then she went up to her bedroom it had been some time since she had shared one with her husband -removed her make-up, undressed and soon was fast asleep.

  Mrs. Simpson arrived early the next morning, grumbling under her breath. Her work schedule had been disrupted. First the change-over to cleaning Mrs. Raisin's place, and now Mrs. Cummings-Browne had asked her to clean on Sunday morning because the Cummings-Brownes were going off on holiday to Tuscany on the Monday and Vera Cummings-Browne had wanted the place cleaned before they left. But if she worked hard, she could still make it to her Sunday job in Evesham by ten.

  She let herself in with the spare key which was kept under the doormat, made a cup of coffee for herself, drank it at the kitchen table and then got to work, starting with the kitchen. She would have liked to do the bedrooms first but she knew the Cummings-Brownes slept late. If they were not up by the time she had finished the living-room, then she would need to rouse them. She finished cleaning the kitchen in record time and then went into the living-room, wrinkling her nose at the sour smell. She went round behind the sofa to open the window and let some fresh air in and her foot struck the dead body of Mr. Cummings-Browne.

  His face was contorted and bluish. He was lying doubled up. Mrs. Simpson backed away, both hands to her mouth. She thought vaguely that Mrs. Cummings-Browne must be out. The phone was on the window-ledge.

  Plucking up her courage, she leaned across the dead body and dialled 999 and asked for the police and an ambulance. She then shut herself in the kitchen to await their arrival. It never occurred to her to check if he was really dead or to go out and get immediate help. She sat at the kitchen table, hands tightly clasped as though in prayer, frozen with shock.

  The local policeman was the first to arrive. Police Constable Fred Griggs was a fat, jolly man, unused to coping with much more than looking for stolen cars in the tourist season and charging the odd drunken driver.

  He was bending over the body when the ambulance men arrived.

  In the middle of all the commotion, Mrs. Cummings Browne descended the stairs, holding a quilted dressing-gown tightly about her.

  When it was explained to her that her husband was dead, she clutched hold of the newel-post at the foot of the stairs and said in a stunned voice, "But he can't be. He wasn't even here when I got home. He had high blood pressure. It must have been a stroke."

  But Fred Griggs had noticed the pools of dried vomit and the distorted bluish face of the corpse. "We can't touch anything," he said to the ambulance men. "I'm pretty damn sure it's poisoning."

  Agatha Raisin went to church that Sunday morning. She could not remember having been inside a church before, but going to church, she believed, was one of those things one did in a village. The service was early, eight thirty, the vicar having to go on afterwards to preach at two other churches in the neighbourhood of Carsely.

  She saw P.C. Griggs's car standing outside the Cummings-Brownes' and an ambulance. "I wonder what happened," said Mrs. Bloxby. "Mr. Griggs is not saying anything. I hope nothing has happened to poor Mr. Cummings-Browne." "I hope something has," said Agatha. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer fellow," and she marched on into the gloom of the church of St. Jude and left the vicar's wife st
aring after her. Agatha collected a prayer-book and a hymn-book and took a pew at the back of the church.

  She was wearing her new red dress and on her head was a broad-brimmed black straw hat decorated with red poppies. As the congregation began to file in, Agatha realized she was overdressed. Everyone else was in casual clothes.

  During the first hymn, Agatha could hear the wail of approaching police sirens. What on earth had happened? If one of the Cummings-Brownes had just dropped dead, surely it did not require more than an ambulance and the local policeman. The church was small, built in the fourteenth century, with fine stained-glass windows and beautiful flower arrangements. The old Book of Common Prayer was used. There were readings from the Old and New Testaments while Agatha fidgeted in the pew and wondered if she could escape outside to find out what was going on.

  The vicar climbed into the pulpit to begin his sermon and all Agatha's thoughts of escape disappeared. The Reverend Alfred Bloxby was a small, thin, ascetic-looking man but he had a compelling presence. In a beautifully modulated voice he began to preach and his sermon was "Love Thy Neighbour'. To Agatha, it seemed as if the whole sermon was directed at her. We were too weak and powerless to alter world affairs, he said, but if each one behaved to his or her neighbours with charity and courtesy and kindness, then the ripples would spread outwards. Charity began at home. Agatha thought of bribing Mrs. Simpson away from Mrs. Barr and squirmed. When communion came round, she stayed where she was, not knowing what the ritual involved.

  Finally, with a feeling of release, she joined in the last hymn, "My Country

  "Tis of Thee', and impatiently shuffled out, giving the vicar's hand a perfunctory shake, not hearing his words of welcome to the village as her eyes fastened on the police cars filling the small space outside the Cummings-Brownes' house.