The Quiche of Death (3 page)

Angela drank a gin and tonic and then set out for the council estate. She soon found Wakefield Terrace and the Simpsons because
their garden was covered in plastic gnomes, not grouped round a pool, or placed artistically, but just spread about at random.

Mrs. Simpson answered the door herself. She looked more like an old-fashioned schoolteacher than a charwoman. She had snow-white
hair scraped back in a bun, and pale-grey eyes behind spectacles.

Agatha explained her mission. Mrs. Simpson shook her head. "Don't see as how I can manage any more, and that's a fact. Do
Mrs. Barr next to you on Tuesdays, then there's Mrs. Chomley on Wednesdays and Mrs. Cummings-Browne on Thursdays, and then
the weekends I work in a supermarket at Evesham."

"How much does Mrs. Barr pay you?" asked Agatha.

"Three pounds an hour."

"If you work for me instead, I'll give you four pounds an hour."

"You'd best come in. Bert! Bert, turn that telly off. This here is Mrs. Raisin what's taken Budgen's cottage down Lilac Lane."

A small, spare man with thinning hair turned off the giant television set which commanded the small neat living room.

"I didn't know it was called Lilac Lane," said Agatha. "They don't seem to believe in putting up names for the roads in the
village."

"Reckon that's because there's so few of them, m'dear," said Bert.

"I'll get you a cup of tea, Mrs. Raisin."

"Agatha. Do call me Agatha," said Agatha with the smile that any journalist she had dealt with would recognize. Angela Raisin
was going in for the kill.

While Doris Simpson retreated to the kitchen, Agatha said, "I am trying to persuade your wife to stop working for Mrs. Barr
and work for me instead. I am offering four pounds an hour, a whole day's work, and, of course, lunch supplied."

"Sounds handsome to me, but you'll have to ask Doris," said Bert. "Not but what she would be glad to see the back of that
Barr woman's house."

"Hard work?"

"It's not the work," said Bert, "it's the way that woman do go on. She follows Doris around, checking everything, like."

"Is she from Carsely?"

"Naw, her's an incomer. Husband died a whiles back. Something in the Foreign Office he was. Came here about twenty year ago."

Agatha was just registering that twenty years in Carsely did not qualify one for citizenship, so to speak, when Mrs. Simpson
came in with the tea-tray.

"The reason I am trying to get you away from Mrs. Barr is this," said Agatha. "I am very bad at housework. Been a career woman
all my life. I think people like you, Doris, are worth their weight in gold. I pay good wages because I think cleaning is
a very important job. I will also pay your wages when you are sick or on holiday."

"Now that's more than fair," cried Bert. " 'Member when you had your appendix out, Doris? Her never even came nigh the nospital,
let alone gave you a penny."

"True," said Doris. "But it's steady money. What if you was to leave, Agatha?"

"Oh, I'm here to stay," said Agatha.

"I'll do it," said Doris suddenly. "In fact, I'll phone her now and get it over with."

She went out to the kitchen to phone. Bert tilted his head on one side and looked at Agatha, his little eyes shrewd. "You
know you'll have made an enemy there," he said.

"Pooh," said Agatha Raisin, "she'll just need to get over it."

As Agatha was fumbling for her door key a half-hour later, Mrs. Barr came out of her cottage and stood silently, glaring across
at Agatha.

Agatha gave a huge smile. "Lovely evening," she called.

She felt quite like her old self.

TWO

The door was answered late the next morning to Agatha's knock by a woman whom Agatha's beady eyes summed up as being the same
sort of species of ex-patriot as Mrs. Barr. Despite the chilliness of the spring day, Mrs. Cummings-Browne was wearing a print
sun-dress which showed tanned middle-aged skin. She had a high autocratic voice and pale-blue eyes and a sort of "colonel's
lady" manner. "Yes, what can I do for you?"

Agatha introduced herself and said she was interested in entering the quiche competition but as she was new to the village,
she did not know how to go about it. "I am Mrs. Cummings-Browne," said the woman, "and really all you have to do is read one
of the posters. They're all over the village, you know." She gave a patronizing laugh which made Agatha want to strike her.
Instead Agatha said mildly, "As I say, I am new in the village and I would like to get to know some people. Perhaps you and
your husband might care to join me for dinner this evening. Do they do meals at the Red Lion?"

Mrs. Cummings-Browne gave that laugh again. "I wouldn't be seen
dead
in the Red Lion. But they do good food at the Feathers in Ancombe."

"Where on earth is Ancombe?" asked Agatha.

"Only about two miles away. You really don't know your way about very well, do you? We'll drive. Be here at seven-thirty."

The door closed. Well, well, thought Agatha. That was easy. Must be a pair of free-loaders, which means my quiche stands a
good chance.

She strolled back through the village, mechanically smiling and answering the greetings of "Mawning" from the passers-by.
So there were worms in this charming polished apple, mused Agatha. The majority of the villagers were mainly working- and
lower-middle class and extremely civil and friendly. If Mrs. Barr and Mrs. Cummings-Browne were anything to go by, it was
the no doubt self-styled upper-class of incomers who were rude. A drift of cherry blossom blew down at Agatha's feet. The
golden houses glowed in the sunlight. Prettiness did not necessarily invite pretty people. The incomers had probably bought
their dinky cottages when prices were low and had descended to be big fish in this small pool. But there was no impressing
the villagers or scoring off them in any way that Agatha could see. The incomers must have a jolly time being restricted to
trying to put each other down. Still, she was sure if she won that competition, the village would sit up and take notice.

That evening, Agatha sat in the low-raftered dining-room of the Feathers at Ancombe and covertly studied her guests. Mr. Cummings-Browne—"Well,
it's Major for my sins but I don't use my title, haw, haw, haw"— was as tanned as his wife, a sort of orangy tan that led
Agatha to think it probably came out of a bottle. He had a balding pointed head with sparse grey hairs carefully combed over
the top and odd jug like ears. Mr. Cummings-Browne had been in the British army in Aden, he volunteered. That, Agatha reflected,
must have been quite some time ago. Surely the British had left Aden in the sixties. Then it transpired he had done a "Little
chicken farming," but he preferred to talk about his army days, a barely comprehensible saga of servants he had had, and "chappies"
in the regiment. He was wearing a sports jacket with leather patches at the elbow over an olive-green shirt with a cravat
at the neck. His wife was wearing a Laura Ashley gown that reminded Agatha of the bedspreads in her cottage.

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 Cartwright-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 motorways.
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 quiche. 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 de
Uberate 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, quiche 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 pincenez, 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 onto 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 name 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 diedfifteen 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 microwaved so that
it stuck firmly to the bottom of the dish.