The Quiche of Death (14 page)

"I want one hundred seventy-five thousand pounds for mine," said Agatha. "It's thatched and I'll bet it's in better nick than
that tart's."

The estate agent blinked, but a house for sale was a house for sale, and so he and Agatha got down to business.

I don't need to sell to just anyone, thought Agatha. After all, I owe it to Mrs. Bloxby and the rest to see that someone nice
gets it.

The village band was playing outside the school hall. Before Agatha went to hear it, she carried a present she had bought
for Doris Simpson along to the council estate. When she pushed open the gate of Doris's garden, she noticed to her surprise
that all the gnomes had gone. But she rang the bell and when Doris answered, put a large brown paper parcel in her arms.

"Come in," said Doris. "Bert! Here's Agatha back from London with a present. It's ever so nice of you. You really shouldn't
have bothered."

"Open it, then," said Bert, when the parcel was placed on the coffee-table in their living-room.

Doris pulled off the wrappings to reveal a large gnome with a scarlet tunic and green hat. "You really shouldn't have done
it," said Doris with feeling. "You really shouldn't."

"You deserve it," said Agatha. "No, I won't stay for coffee. I'm going to hear the band."

Inside the school hall, stalls had been set up. Agatha went in and wandered about, amused to notice that some of the items
from her auction were being recycled. And then she stopped short in front of a stall run by Mrs. Mason. It was covered in
garden gnomes.

"Where did you get all these?" asked Agatha, filled with an awful suspicion.

"Oh, that was the Simpsons," she said. 'The gnomes were there when they moved into that house and they've been meaning to
get rid of them for ages. Can I interest you in buying one? What about this jolly little fellow with the fishing rod? Brighten
up your garden."

"No, thanks," said Agatha, feeling like a fool. And yet how could she have known the Simpsons didn't like gnomes?

She wandered into the tea-room, which was off the main hall, to find Mrs. Bloxby helping Mrs. Mason. "Welcome back," cried
Mrs. Bloxby. "What can I get you?"

"I haven't had lunch," said Agatha, "so I'll have a couple of those Cornish pasties and a cup of tea. You must have been up
all night baking."

"Oh, it's not all mine, and when we have a big affair like this, we do it in bits and pieces. We bake things and put them
in the freezer, that big thing over there, and then just defrost them in the microwave on the day of the event."

Agatha picked up her plate of pasties and her teacup and sat down at one of the long tables. Farmer Jimmy Page joined her
and introduced his wife. Various other people came over. Soon Agatha was surrounded by a group of people all chatting away.

"You'll know soon enough," she said at last. "I'm putting my cottage up for sale."

"Well, that's a pity," said Mr. Page. "You off to Lunnon again?"

"Yes, going to restart in business."

"S'pose it's different for you, Mrs. Raisin," said his wife. "I once went up there and I was so lonely. Cities are lonely
places. Different for you. You must have scores of friends."

"Yes," lied Agatha, thinking bleakly that the only friend she had was Roy and he had only become a friend since she had moved
to the Cotswolds. The heat was still fierce. Agatha felt too lazy to think what to do next and somehow she found she had accepted
an invitation to go back to Jimmy Page's farm with a group of them. Once at the farm, which was up on a rise above the village,
they all sat outside and drank cider and talked idly about how hot the weather was and remembered summers of long ago, until
the sun began to move down the sky and someone suggested they should move to the Red Lion and so they did.

Walking home later, slightly tipsy, Agatha shook off doubts about selling the house. Once the winter came, things in Carsely
would look different, bleaker, more shut off. She had done the right thing. But Jimmy Page had said her cottage was seventeenth
century. Nothing fake about it, he had said, apart from the extension.

She kicked off her shoes and reached out a hand to switch on the lights when the security lights came on outside the house,
brilliant and dazzling. She stood frozen. There came soft furtive sounds as though someone were retreating quietly from the
door. All she had to do was to fling open the door and see who it was. But she could not move. She felt sure something dark
and sinister was out there. It could not be children. Young people in Carsely went to bed at good old-fashioned times of the
evening, even on holiday.

She sank down onto the floor and sat there with her back against the wall, listening hard. And then the security lights went
off again, plunging the house into darkness.

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."

"Girl-friend? You haven't got one." M. C. BEATON

"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.

Being 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 Nicholas and Daphne at minor public schools,
house in some twee builder's close called Loam End or something, table-mats from the Costa Brava, niched curtains, Jacuzzi,
giant television set, boredom, out on Saturday night to some road-house for chicken in a basket washed down with Beaujolais
nouveau and followed by Black Forest gateau. 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 portable telephone 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 newfound 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 and 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.

ELEVEN

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 andfinishedher 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 newcomer. Agatha 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 Lace^
AQ
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 CummingsBrowne 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 griU 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 stiU 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 Ufe 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 CummingsBrowne
said
to Mr. Economides? She went to the phone, Ufted 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 quiche 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. The 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 teU 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 CummingsBrowne 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 used
Margaret Thatcher as a role model, rather than Joan Collins or any other British beauty, favouring 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 been originally 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."

Agatha plunged in. "I was upset by Mr. CummingsBrowne'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," said Agatha, 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. CummingsBrowne!" Her mouth fell a little open and she stared through her
glasses at Agatha.

And at that moment, the Ubrary 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. CummingsBrowne getting the prize
for the bestflowerarrangement, an arty thing of wild flowersand 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.

"Must find Jones," said Agatha aloud. "Must find Jones."

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