The Quiche of Death (16 page)

"I don't see why we're working overtime on this Raisin woman, Bill," grumbled the detective chief inspector. "The fact that
Mrs. Cummings-Browne had cowbane in herflower arrangement could be coincidence."

"I've always been sure she had done it," said Bill. "I told Mrs. Raisin to mind her own business because I didn't want her
getting hurt. We've got to ask Vera Cummings-Browne about this photograph. What a storm!"

They were cruising in the police car slowly along Carsely's main street. Bill peered through the windscreen. A flash of lightning
lit up the street, lit up the approaching Range Rover, and lit up the startled face of Vera behind the wheel. Almost without
thought, Bill swung the wheel and blocked the street.

"What the hell!" shouted Wilkes.

Vera jumped out of her car and began to run off down one of the lanes leading off the main street. "It's Mrs. Cummings-Browne.
After her," shouted Bill. Wilkes and Detective Sergeant Friend scrambled out of the car, but Bill ran instead through the
pounding rain towards Vera's cottage, cursing under his breath as he saw the fierce red glow of afire behind the drawn curtains
of the living-room.

The kitchen window was to the left of the door. He ran to it to try to force a way in and was just in time to see the white
staring face of Agatha Raisin rising above the kitchen sink and disappearing again.

There was a narrow strip of flower-bed out side the cottage, edged with round pieces of marble rock. He seized one of these
and threw it straight at the kitchen window, thinking wildly that it was only in films that the whole window shattered, for
the rock went straight through, leaving a jagged hole.

He seized another one and hammered furiously at the glass until he had broken a hole big enough to crawl through.

Agatha was lying on the kitchen floor. He tried to pick her up. At first she seemed too heavy. The roar of the fire from the
other room was tremendous. He got Agatha up on her feet and shoved her head in the kitchen sink. Then he got hold of her ankles
and heaved, so that her heels went over her head and out through the window. He seized her by the hair and, panting and shoving,
thrust the whole lot of her through the broken glass and out onto the cobbles outside and then dived through the window himself
just as the kitchen door fell in and raging tongues of flames scorched through the room.

He lay for a moment on top of Agatha while the rain drummed down on both of them. Doors were opening, people were coming running.
He heard a woman shout, "I phoned the fire brigade." His hands were bleeding and Agatha's face was cut from where he had shoved
her through the broken glass. But she was breathing deeply. She was alive.

Agatha recovered consciousness in hospital and looked groggily around. There seemed to be flowers everywhere. Her eyes focused
on the Asian features of Bill Wong, who was sitting patiently beside the bed.

Then Agatha remembered the horror of the fire. "What happened?" she asked feebly.

From the other side of the bed came the stern voice of Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes. "You nearly got burnt to a crisp,
that's what," he said, "and would have been if Bill here hadn't saved your life."

"You've got to lose weight, Mrs. Raisin," said Bill with a grin. "You're a heavy woman. But you'll be pleased to know that
Vera Cummings-Browne is under arrest, although whether she'll stand trial is another matter. She went barking mad. But you
did a silly and dangerous thing, Mrs. Raisin. I gather you went to accuse her of murder and then you calmly drink a cup of
tea which she had made."

Agatha struggled up against the pillows. "It's thanks to me you got her. I suppose you found her taped confession on my body."

"We found a blank tape on your body," said Bill. "You had forgotten to switch the damn thing on."

Agatha groaned. "So how did you get her to con­fess?" she said.

"It was like this," said Bill. "I wondered what you were up to seeing this Mr. Jones. I found out about the photograph you
had taken, he gave me the negative, I got it developed and found the cowbane in it. We were heading to her cottage to ask
her a few questions when we saw her driving along. I blocked the street. She got out and ran for it, and when Mr. Wilkes caught
up with her, she broke down and confessed and said it would be all worth it if you died in the fire. I managed to get you
out."

"What put you on to her in the first place?" asked Wilkes crossly. "Surely not one piece of cowbane in a photograph?"

Agatha thought quickly. She had not switched on the tape. There was no need for them to know that her quiche had come from
Devon or anything about Mr. Economides's cousin. So instead, she told them about the school-hall kitchen and the library book.

"You should have brought information like that straight to us," said Wilkes crossly. "Bill here got his hands cut badly rescuing
you and you were nearly killed. For the last time, leave investigations to the police."

"Next time I won't be so amateur," said Agatha huffily.

"Next time?" roared Wilkes. "There won't
be
a next time."

"The thing that puzzles me," said Agatha, "is why didn't I notice the taste of the sleeping pills in the tea? I mean, if she
had ground all those pills up, at least it surely would have tasted gritty."

"She got gelatine capsules of Dormaron, a very powerful sleeping pill, from some quack in Oxford who is being questioned.
The stuff's tasteless. She simply cut open the capsules and put the Uquid in your tea," said Wilkes. "FU be back when you
get home to question you further, Mrs. Raisin, but don't ever try to play detective again. By the way, we got John Cartwright.
He was working on a building site in London."

He stomped out. "I'd better be going as well," said Bill. For the first time Agatha noticed his bandaged hands.

"Thank you for saving my life," she said. "I'm sorry about your hands."

"I'm sorry about your face," he said. Agatha raised her hands to her face and felt strips of sticking plaster. "There's a
couple of stitches in a cut in your cheek. But the only way I could get you out was by shoving you through the window, and
I'm afraid I tore a handful of your hair out as well."

"I've given up worrying about my appearance," said Agatha. "Oh, my kitten. How long have I been here?"

"Just over night. But I called on your neighbor, Mr. Lacey, and he offered to keep the cat until your return."

"That's good of you. Mr. Lacey? Does he know what happened?"

"I hadn't time to explain. I simply handed over the cat and said you'd had an accident."

Agatha's hands flew up to her face again. "Do I look awful? Did you tear out much hair? Is there a mirror in here?"

"I thought you didn't care about your appearance."

"And all those flowers?Who are they from?"

"The big one is from the Carsely Ladies' Society, the small bunch of roses is from Doris and Bert Simpson, the elegant gladioli
from Mrs. Blox by, the giant bouquet from the landlord of the Red Lion and the regulars, and that weedy bunch is from me."

"Thank you so much, Bill. E r . . . anything from Mr. Lacey?"

"Now how could there be? You barely know the man."

"Is my handbag around? I must look a fright. I need powder and lipstick and a comb and I've some French perfume in there."

"Relax. They're letting you home tomorrow. You can paint your face to your heart's content. Don't forget that dinner invitation."

"Oh, what? Oh, yes, that. Of course you must come. Next week. Perhaps I might be able to help you with some of your cases?"

"No," said Bill firmly. "Don't ever try to solve a crime again." Then he relented. "Not but what you haven't done me a favour."

"In what way?"

"I confess I'd been following you around on my time off and getting the local bobby to report anything to me. Like you, I
never could really believe it to be an accident. But Wilkes is more or less crediting me with solving the case because he
would rather die than admit a member of the public could do anything to help. So when's that dinner?"

"Next Wednesday? Seven o'clock, say?"

"Fine. Go back to sleep. I'll see you then."

"Am I in Moreton-in-Marsh?"

"No, Mircester General Hospital."

After he had gone, Agatha fished in the locker beside her bed and found her handbag. The pills had been taken out of it, she
noticed. She opened her compact and stared at her face in the mirror and let out a squawk of dismay. She looked a wreck.

'"Ere!" Agatha looked across at the next bed. It contained an elderly woman who looked remarkably like Mrs. Boggle. "What
you done?" she asked avidly. "All them police in 'ere."

"I solved a case for them," said Agatha grandly.

"Garn," said the old horror. "Last one in that bed thought she was Mary Queen of Scots."

"Shut up," snarled Agatha, looking in the mirror and wondering whether the sticking plaster did not look, in fact, well,
heroic.

The day wore on. The television set at the end of the beds flickered through soap opera after soap opera. No one else called.
Not even Mrs. Bloxby.

Well, that's that, thought Agatha bleakly. Why did they bother to send flowers?Probably thought I was dead.

THIRTEEN

She took the greetings cards off the bouquets of flowers around her bed to keep as a souvenir of her time in the Cotswolds.
How odd that she had volunteered to help Bill with his cases, just as if she meant to stay. She asked a nurse to take the
flowers to the children's ward and then got dressed and went downstairs to wait for the ambulance. There was a shop in the
entrance hall selling newspapers. She bought a pile of the local ones but there was no mention of Vera Cummings-Browne's arrest.
But perhaps it all leaked out too late for them to do anything about it.

To her dismay, the "ambulance" turned out to be a mini bus which was taking various geriatric patients back to their local
villages. Why does the sight of creaking old people make me feel so cruel and impatient? thought Agatha, watching them fumbling
and stumbling on board. I'll be old myself all too soon. She forced herself to get up to help an old man who was trying to
get into the bus. He leered at her. "Keep your hands to yourself," he said. "I know your sort."

The rest of the passengers were all old women who shrieked with laughter and said, "You are a one, Arnie," and things like
that, all of them evidently knowing each other very well.

It was a calm, cool day with great fluffy clouds floating across a pale-blue sky. The old woman next to Agatha caught her
attention by jabbing her painfully in the toes with her stick. "What happened to you then?" she asked, peering at Agatha's
sticking-plaster-covered face. "Beat you up, did he?"

"No," said Agatha frostily. "I was solving a murder case for the potice."

"It's the drink," said the old woman. "Mine used ter come home from the pub and lay into me something rotten. He's dead now.
It's one thing you've got to say in favour of men, they die before we do."

"'Cept me," said Arnie. "I'm seventy-eight and still going strong."

More cackles. Agatha's announcement about solving a murder case had bit the dust. The mini bus rolled lazily to a stop in
a small hamlet and the woman next to Agatha was helped out. She looked at Agatha and said in farewell, "Don't go making up
stories to protect him. I did that. Different these days. If he's bashing you, tell the police."

There was a murmur of approval from the other women.

The bus moved off. It turned out to be a comprehensive tour of Cotswold villages as one geriatric after another was set down.

Agatha was the last passenger. She felt dirty and weary as the bus rolled down into Carsely. "Where to?" shouted the driver.

"Left here," said Agatha. "Third cottage along on the left."

"Something going on," called the driver. "Big welcome. You been in the wars or something?"

The ambulance stopped outside Agatha's cottage. There was a big cheer. The band began to play "Hello Dolly." They were all
there, all the village, and there was a banner hanging drunkenly over her doorway which said, WELCOME HOME.

Mrs. Bloxby was the first with a hug. Then the members of the Carsely Ladies' Society. Then the landlord, Joe Fletcher, and
the regulars from the Red Lion.

Local photographers were busy clicking their cameras, local reporters stood ready.

"Everyone inside," called Agatha, "and I'll tell you all about it."

Soon her living-room was crowded, with an overflow stretching into the dining-room and kitchen as she told a rapt audience
how she had solved The Case of the Poisoned Quiche. It was highly embroidered. But she did describe in glorious Technicolor
how the brave Bill Wong had dragged her from the burning house, "his clothes in flamesand his hands cut to ribbons.

"Such bravery," said Agatha, "is an example of the fine men we have in the British police force."

Some reporters scribbled busily; the more up-to-date used tape recorders. Agatha was about to hit the nationals, or rather,
Bill Wong was. There had been two nasty stories recently about corrupt policemen, but the newspapers knew there was nothing
more the British liked to read about than a brave bobby.

Next door, James Lacey stood in his front garden, burning with curiosity. The visit from Agatha had been enough. He had called
on the vicarage and told Mrs. Bloxby sternly that although he was grateful for the welcome to the village, he now wanted to
be left strictly alone. He enjoyed his own company. He had moved to the country for peace and quiet. Mrs. Bloxby had done
her work well. So although he had watched the preparations for Agatha's return, he did not know what she had done or what
it had all been about. He wanted to walk along and ask someone but felt shy of doing so because he had said he wanted to be
alone and he remembered he had added that he had no interest in what went on in the village or in anyone in it.

One by one Agatha's fan club was leaving. Doris Simpson was among the last to go. She handed Agatha a large brown paper parcel.

"Why, what's this, Doris?" asked Agatha.

"Me and Bert got talking about that gnome you gave us," said Doris firmly. "Those things are expensive and we don't really
have much interest in our garden and we know you must have liked it because you bought it. So we decided to give it back to
you."

"I couldn't possibly accept it," said Agatha.

"You must. We haven't felt right about it."

Agatha, who had long begun to suspect that her cleaning lady had a will of iron, said feebly, "Thank you."

"Anything else?" called Joe Fletcher from the doorway.

Agatha made a sudden decision. "Yes, there is," she said. "Take that 'For Sale' sign down."

At last they had all gone. Agatha sat down, suddenly shivering. The full horror of what had happened to her at Vera's hit
her. She went upstairs and took a hot bath and changed into a night-gown and an old shabby blue wool dressing-gown. She peered
in the bathroom mirror. There was a bald sore red patch at the front of her hair where Bill had pulled it out. She switched
on the central heating and then threw logs on the fire, lit a match and then shuddered and blew the match out. It would be
a while before she could bear the sight of a fire.

There was a tentative knock at the door. Still shivering and holding her dressing-gown tightly about her, she went to open
it. James Lacey stood there, holding the kitten in its basket and the litter tray.

"Bill Wong asked me to look after the cat for you," he said. He eyed her doubtfully. "I could look after it for another day
if you're not up to it."

"No, no," babbled Agatha. "Come in. I wonder how Bill got the cat? Of course, he would have taken the keys out of my bag in
the hospital. How very good of you."

She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. How awful she looked, and not a scrap of make-up on either!

She carried the cat into the living-room and stooped and let it out of its basket and then took the litter tray into the kitchen.
When she returned, James was sitting in one of her chairs staring thoughtfully at the large gnome which Doris had returned
and Agatha had unwrapped. It was standing on the coffee-table leering horribly, like old Arnie on the mini bus.

"Would you like a gnome?" asked Agatha.

"No, thank you. It's an unusual living-room orna­ment."

"It's not really mine. You see . . ."

There was a hammering at the door. Agatha swore under her breath and went to answer it. Midlands Television and the BBC. "Can't
you come back later?" pleaded Agatha, casting a longing look back towards the living-room. But then she saw the police car
driving up as well. Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes had called.

The television interviewers had a more modified version of Agatha's story than the villagers had heard. Detective Chief Inspector
Wilkes was interviewed saying sternly that the public should leave police matters to the police, as Mrs. Raisin had nearly
been killed and he had nearly lost one of his best officers, Agatha shrewdly guessing that when that appeared on the screens,
his comments would be cut down to the simple fact that he had nearly lost one of his best officers. Everyone wanted a hero,
and Bill Wong was to be the hero. Somehow in the middle of it all, James Lacey had slipped out. The television teams rushed
off tofind Bill Wong in Mircester, a policewoman with a recorder came in from the police car, and Wilkes got down to exhaustive
questioning.

At last they left, but the phone rang and rang as various nationals phoned up to add to the stories sent in by the local men.
By eleven o'clock, the phone feU silent. Agatha fed the cat and then carried it up to bed. It lay on her feet, purring gently.
I'd better think of a name for it, she thought sleepily.

The phone rang downstairs. "Now what?" groaned Agatha aloud, gently lifting the cat off her feet and wondering why she had
not bothered to get a phone extension put in the bedroom. She went downstairs and picked up the receiver.

"Aggie!" It was Roy, his voice sharp with excitement. "I thought I'd never get through. I saw you on the telly."

"Oh, that," said Agatha. She shivered. "Can I call you back tomorrow, Roy?"

"Look, sweetie, there seems to be more publicity comes out of that little village than out of all the streets of London. The
idea is this. Maybe the telly will be back for a follow-up. I'll run down there tomorrow and you can tell them how I helped
you to solve the mystery. I phoned Mr. Wilson at home and he thinks it's a great idea."

"Roy, the story will be dead tomorrow. You know it, I know it. Let me go back to bed. I won't be up to seeing visitors for
some time."

"Well, I must say I thought you might have mentioned me," complained Roy. "Who was it went with you to Ancombe? I've phoned
round all the papers but the night-desks say if you want to volunteer a quote about me, fine, but they're not interested in
taking it from me, so be a sweetie and phone them, there's a dear."

"I am going to bed, Roy, and that's that. Finish."

"Aren't we being just a bit of a selfish bitch hogging all the hmelight?"

"Good night, Roy," said Agatha and put down the receiver and then turned back and lifted it off the hook.

"Well, I want to meet this Raisin woman," said James Lacey's sister, Mrs. Harriet Camberwell, a week later. "I know you want
to be left alone. But I'm dying of curiosity. They gave a lot of play to that detective, Wong, but she solved it, didn't she?"

"Yes, I suppose she did, Harriet. But she's very odd. Do you know she keeps a garden gnome on her coffee-table as an ornament?
She walks down the street muttering and talking to herself."

"How sweet. I simply must meet her. Run along and ask her to drop by for a cup of tea."

"If I do that, will you go back to your husband and leave me alone?"

"Of course. Go and get her and I'll make the tea and cut some sandwiches."

Agatha was still recovering from the shock of being nearly burnt to death. She had not bothered about trying to see James,
waiting until her cuts healed up and her hair grew back. When that happened, she thought, she would plan a campaign.

The weather had turned pleasantly warm instead of the furnace heat of the days before the storm. She had the doors and windows
open and was lying in her old loose cotton dress on the kitchen floor, tossing balls of foil into the air to amuse the kitten,
when James walked in.

"I should have knocked," he said awkwardly, "but the door was open." Agatha scrambled to her feet. "I wonder whether you would
like to step along for a cup of tea."

"I must change," said Agatha wildly.

"I've obviously come at a bad moment. Maybe another time."

"No! I'll come now," said Agatha, frightened he would escape.

They walked along to his cottage. No sooner was she seated, no sooner was Agatha admiring his handsome profile, which was
turned towards the kitchen door, when an elegant woman walked in carrying a tea-tray.

"Mrs. Raisin, Mrs. Camberwell. Harriet, darling, this is Mrs. Raisin. Harriet's dying to hear all about your adventures, Mrs.
Raisin."

Agatha felt small and dingy. But then women like Harriet Camberwell always made her feel small and dingy. She was a very tall
woman, nearly as tall as James, slim, flat-chested, square hunting shoulders, clever upper-class face, expensive hair-style,
tailored cotton dress, cool amused eyes.

Agatha began to talk. The villagers would have been amazed to hear her dull rendering of her adventures. She stayed only long
enough to briefly recount her story, drink one cup of tea, eat one sandwich, and then she firmly took her leave.

At least Bill Wong was coming for dinner. Be thankful for small comforts, Agatha, she told herself sternly. But she had thought
of James Lacey a lot and her days had taken on life and colour. Still, there was no need to look a fright simply because her
guest was only Bill.

She changed and did her hair and put on make-up and put on the dress she had worn for the auction. Dinner—taught this time
by Mrs. Bloxby—was to be simple: grilled steaks, baked potatoes, fresh asparagus, fresh fruit salad and cream. Champagne on
ice for the celebration, for Bill Wong had been elevated to detective sergeant.

It was a new, slimmer Bill who walked in the door at seven o'clock. He had been keeping in shape rigorously ever since he
had seen his rather chubby features on television.

He talked of this and that, noticing that Agatha's bearlike eyes were rather sad and she seemed to have lost a great deal
of animation. He reflected that the attempt on her life must have hit her harder than he would have expected.

She was not contributing much to the conversation and so he searched around for another topic to amuse her. "Oh, by the way,"
he said as she slid the steaks under the grill, "your neighbour has given breaking up hearts in the village. He told Mrs.
Bloxby he wanted to be left alone and was quite sharpish about it. Then, when the ladies of Carsely back off, he is visited
by an elegant woman whom he introduces to all and sundry in Harvey's as Mrs. Camberwell. He calls her 'darling.' They make
a nice pair. Mrs. Mason was heard to remark crossly that she had always thought him an odd sort of man anyway and that she
had only taken around a cake to be friendly.