The Quiche of Death (4 page)

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 Gloucester
shire 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."

"I 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 PC. 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 staring 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's house.

PC. Griggs was on duty outside, warding off all questions with a placid "Can't say anything now, I'm sure."

Agatha went slowly home. She ate some breakfast and picked up an Agatha Christie mystery and tried to read, but could not
focus on the words. What did fictional mysteries matter when there was a real-live one in the village? Had Mrs. Cummings-Browne
hit him on the top of his pointy head with the poker?

She threw down the book and went along to the Red Lion. It was buzzing with rumour and speculation. Agatha found herself in
the centre of a group of villagers eagerly discussing the death. To her disappointment, she learned that Mr. Cummings-Browne
had suffered from high blood pressure.

"But it can't be natural causes," protested Agatha. "All those police cars!"

"Oh, we likes to do things thoroughly in Gloucestershire," said a large beefy man. "Not like Lunnon, where there's people
dropping dead like flies every minute. My shout. What you 'aving, Mrs. Raisin?"

Agatha ordered a gin and tonic. It was all very pleasurable to be in the centre of this cosy group. When the pub finally closed
its doors at two in the afternoon, Agatha felt quite tipsy as she walked home. The heavy Cotswolds air, combined with the
unusually large amount she had drunk, sent her to sleep. When she awoke, she thought that Cummings-Browne had probably had
an accident and it was not worth finding out about anyway. Agatha Christie now seemed much more interesting than anything
that could happen in Carsley, and Agatha read until bedtime.

In the morning, she decided to go for a walk. Walks in the Cotswolds are all neatly signposted. She chose one at the end of
the village beyond the council houses, opening a gate that led into some woods.

Trees with new green leaves arched above her and primroses nestled among their roots. There was a sound of rushing water from
a hidden stream over to her left. The night's frost was slowly melting in shafts of sunlight which struck down through the
trees. High above, a blackbird sang a heart-breaking melody and the air was sweet and fresh. The path led her out of the trees
and along the edge of a field of new corn, bright green and shiny, turning in the breeze like the fur of some huge green cat.
A lark shot up to the heavens, reminding Agatha of her youth, in the days when even the wastelands of Birmingham were full
of larks and butterflies, the days before chemical spraying. She strode out, feeling healthy and well and very much allve.

By following the signs, she walked through fields and more woods, finally emerging onto the road that led down into Carsely.
As she walked down under the green tunnels formed by the branches of the high hedges which met overhead and saw the village
lying below her, all her euphoria caused by healthy walking and fresh air left, to be replaced by an inexplicable sense of
dread. She felt she was walking down into a sort of grave where Agatha Raisin would lie buried alive. Again she was plagued
with restlessness and loneliness.

This could not go on. The dream of her life was not what she had expected. She could sell up, although the market was still
not very good. Perhaps she could travel. She had never travelled extensively before, only venturing each year on one of the
more expensive packaged holidays designed for single people who did not want to mix with the riff-raff: cycling holidays in
France, painting holidays in Spain, that sort of thing.

In the village street, a local woman gave her a broad smile and Agatha wearily waited for that usual greeting of "Mawning,"
wondering what the woman would do or say if she replied, "Get stuffed."

But to her surprise, the woman stopped, resting her shopping basket on one broad hip, and said, "Police be looking for you.
Plain clothes."

"Don't know what they want with me," said Agatha uneasily.

"Better go and find out, m'dear."

Agatha hurried on, her mind in a turmoil. What could they want? Her driving licence was in order. Of course, there were those
books she had never got around to returning to the Chelsea library .
..
As she approached her cottage, she saw Mrs. Barr standing in her front garden, staring avidly at a small group of three men
who were waiting outside Agatha's cottage. When she saw Agatha, she scurried indoors and slammed the door but immediately
took up a watching position at the window.

A thin, cadaverous man approached Agatha. "Miss Raisin? I am Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes. May we have a word with you?
Indoors."

THREE

Agatha sat in an armchair by the fireplace and the three sat down on the sofa, side by side. "We are here to ask you about
your quiche, Mrs. Raisin," said Wilkes. "I understand the Cummings-Brownes took it home. What was in it?"

"What's all this about?" demanded Agatha.

"Just answer my questions," said Wilkes stolidly.

What was in quiche? wondered Agatha desperately. "Eggs,flour,milk and spinach," she volunteered hopefully. Detective Constable
Wong spoke up. He had a soft Gloucester shire accent. "Perhaps it would be best if Mrs. Raisin took us into her kitchen and
showed us the ingredients."

The three detectives promptly stood up and towered over Agatha. Agatha got up, registering that her knees were trembling,
and led the way into the kitchen while they crowded in after her.

Under their watching eyes, she opened the cupboards. "Strange," said Agatha. "I seem to have used everything up. I am very
thrifty."

Wong, who had been watching her with amusement, said suddenly, "If you will write down the recipe, Mrs. Raisin, I'll run down
to Harvey's and buy the ingredients and then you can show us how you baked it."

Agatha shot him a look of loathing. She took down a cookery book called
French Provincial Cooking,
opened it, wincing at the faint crack from its hitherto unopened spine, and looked up the index. She found the required recipe
and wrote down a list of the ingredients. Wong took the list from her and went out.

"Now
will you
tell me what this is about?" asked Agatha.

"In a moment," said Wilkes stolidly.

Had Agatha not been so very frightened, she would have screamed at him that she had a right to know, but she weakly made a
jug of instant coffee and suggested they sit in the living-room and drink it while she waited for Wong.

Having got rid of them, she studied the recipe. Provided she did exactly as instructed, she should be able to get it right.
She had meant to take up baking and so she had scales and measures, thank God. Wong returned with a brown paper bag full of
groceries.

"Join the others in the Living-room," ordered Agatha, "and I'll let you know when it is ready."

Wong sat down in a kitchen chair. "I like kitchens," he said amiably. "I'll watch you cook."

Agatha shot him a look of pure hatred from her Ut­tle brown eyes as she heated the oven and got to work. There were old ladies
being mugged all over the country, she thought savagely. Had this wretched man nothing better to do? But he seemed to have
infinite patience. He watched her closely and then, when she finally put the quiche in the oven, he rose and went to join
the others. Agatha stayed where she was, her mind in a turmoil. She could hear the murmur of voices from the other room.

It was like being back at school, she thought. She remembered the headmistress telling them that they all must open their
lockers for inspection without explaining why. Oh, the dread of opening her own locker in case there was something in it that
shouldn't have been there. A policewoman had silently gone through everything. No one explained what was wrong. No one said
anything. Agatha could still remember the silent, frightened girls, the stern and silent teachers, the competent policewoman.
And then one of the girls was led away. They never saw her again. They assumed she had been expelled because of whatever had
been found in her locker. But no one had called at the girl's home to ask her. Judgement had been passed on her by that mysterious
world of adults and she had been spirited out of their lives as if by some divine retribution. They had gone on with their
schooldays.

Now she felt like a child again, hemmed in by her own guilt and an accusing silence. She glanced at the clock. When had she
put it in? She opened the oven door. There it stood, raised and golden and perfect. She heaved a sigh of relief and took it
out just as Wong came back into the kitchen.

"We'll leave it to cool for a little," he said. He opened his notebook. "Now about the Cummings Brownes. You dined with them
at the Feathers. What did you have? Mmmm. And then? What did they drink?" And so it went on while out of the corner of her
eye, Agatha saw her golden-brown quiche sink slowly down into its pastry shell.

Wong finally closed his notebook and called the others in. "We'll just cut a slice," he said. Agatha wielded a knife and
spatula and drew out one small soggy slice.

"What did he die of?" asked Agatha desperately.

"Cowbane/' said Friend.

"Cowbane?" Agatha stared at them. "Is that something like mad cow disease?"

"No," said Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes heavily. "It's a poisonous plant, not all that common, but it's found in several
parts of the British Isles, including the West Midlands, and we are in the West Midlands, Mrs. Raisin. On examining the contents
of the deceased's stomach, it was shown he had eaten quiche and drunk wine just before his death. The green vegetable stuff
was identified as cowbane. The poisonous substance it contains is an unsaturated higher alcohol, cicutoxin."

"So you see, Mrs. Raisin," came the mild voice of Wong, "Mrs. Cummings-Browne thinks your quiche poisoned her husband... that
is, if you ever made that quiche."

Agatha glared out of the window, wishing they would all disappear.

"Mrs. Raisin!" She swung round. Detective Constable Wong's slanted brown eyes were on a level with her own. Wasn't he too
small for the police force? she thought mconsequently. "Mrs. Raisin," said Bill Wong softly, "it is my humble opinion that
you have never baked a quiche or a cake in your Life. Your cookery books had obviously never been opened before. Some of your
cooking utensils still had the prices stuck to them. So will you begin at the beginning? There is no need to lie so long as
you are innocent."

"Will this come out in court?" asked Agatha miserably, wondering if she could be sued by the village committee for having
thrust a Quicherie quiche into their competition.

Wilkes's voice was heavy with threat. "Only if we think it necessary."

Again, Agatha's memory carried her back to her schooldays. She had bribed one of the girls to write an essay for her with
two chocolate bars and a red scarf. Unfortunately, the girl, a leading light in the Young People in Christ movement, had confessed
all to the headmistress and so Agatha had been summoned and told to tell the truth.

So in a small, almost childish voice, quite unlike her usual robust tones, she confessed going up to Chelsea and buying the
quiche. Wong was grinning happily and she could have wrung his neck. Wilkes demanded the bill for the quiche and Agatha found
it at the bottom of the rubbish bin under several empty frozen food packets and gave it to him. They said they would check
her story out.

Agatha hid indoors for the rest of that day, feeling like a criminal. She would have stayed in hiding the next day had not
the cleaner, Mrs. Simpson, arrived, reminding Agatha that she had promised her lunch. Agatha scuttled down to Harvey's and
bought some cold meat and salad. Nothing seemed to have changed. People talked about the weather. The death of Cummings-Browne
might never have happened.

Agatha returned to find Mrs. Simpson down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. A sign of her extreme low state
was that Agatha's eyes filled with weak tears at the sight. When had she last seen a woman scrubbing a floor instead of slopping
it around with a mop? She had hired a succession of cleaning girls through an agency in London, mostly foreign girls or out-of-work
actresses who seemed expert at producing an effect of cleanliness without actually ever getting down to the nitty-gritty.

Mrs. Simpson looked up from her cleaning. "I found him, you know," she said. "I found the body."

"I don't want to talk about it," said Agatha hurriedly and Mrs. Simpson grinned as she wrung out the floor cloth. 'That's
a mercy, for to tell the truth, I don't like talking about it. Rather get on with the work."

Agatha retreated to the living-room and then, when Mrs. Simpson moved upstairs, she prepared her a cold lunch, put it on the
kitchen table beside an envelope containing Mrs. Simpson's money, and called upstairs, "I'm going out. I have a spare key.
Just lock up and put the key through the letter box," and received a faint affirmative, shouted over the noise of the vacuum
cleaner.

Agatha got in her car and drove up and out of the village. Where should she go? Market day in Moreton-in-Marsh. That would
do. She battled in the busy town to find a parking place and then joined the throngs crowding the stalls. The Cotswolds appeared
to be a very fecund place. There were young women with babies and toddlers everywhere, pushing them in push-chairs, or strollers,
as she had heard an American call those chariots which the mothers thrust against the legs of the childless with such aplomb.
She had read an article once where a young mother had explained how she had suffered from acute agoraphobia when her child
had grown out of the pushchair. It certainly seemed to give the mothers an aggressive edge, as, like so many Boadice as, they
propelled their chariots through the market crowd. Agatha bought a geranium for the kitchen window, fresh fish for dinner,
potatoes and cauliflower. She was determined to cook everything herself. No more frozen food. After depositing her shopping
in the car, she ate lunch in the Market House Restaurant, bought scent in the chemist's, a blouse at one of the stalls, and
then, at four o'clock, as the market was closing down, she reluctantly returned to her car and took the road home.

Mrs. Simpson had left a jug of wildflowers on the middle of the kitchen table. Bless the woman. All Agatha's guilt about having
lured her away from Mrs. Barr evaporated. The woman was a queen among cleaners.

The following morning there was a knock at the door and Agatha groaned inwardly. Anyone else, she thought bitterly, would
not be depressed, would expect some friend to be standing on the doorstep. But not Agatha Raisin. She knew it could only be
the police.

Detective Constable Wong stood there. "This is an informal call," he said. "May I come in?'

"I suppose so," said Agatha ungraciously. "I was just about to have a glass of sherry, but I won't ask you to join me."

"Why not?" he said with a grin. "I'm off duty."

Agatha poured two glasses of sherry, threw some imitation logs on the fire and lit them. "What now?" she asked. "And what
do I call you?

"My name is Bill awanesh Wong. You may call me Bill."

"An appropriate name. If you were older, I could call you the Old Bill. Now, what about the quiche?"

"You're off the hook," said Bill. "We checked out your story. Mr. Economides, the owner of The Quicherie, remembers selling
you that quiche. He cannot understand what happened. He buys his vegetables from the greengrocer's across the road. Greengrocer
goes to the new Covent Garden at Vaux-hall every morning to buy his stock. Stuff comes from all over the country and abroad.
Cowbane must have got in with the spinach. It's a tragic accident. Of course, we had to tell Mrs. Cummings-Browne where the
quiche came from."

Agatha groaned.

"She might have accused you of murder otherwise."

"But look here," protested Agatha, "she could have killed her husband by putting cowbane in my quiche."

"Like most of the British population, I'd swear she couldn't tell a piece of cowbane from a palm tree," said Bill. "Also,
it couldn't have been you. When you left that quiche, you had no idea it would be taken home and eaten by Cummings-Browne.
So it couldn't have been you. And it couldn't have been Mrs. Cummings-Browne. Poisoning like that would need to be a cold-blooded,
premeditated act. No, it was a horrible accident. Cowbane was only in part of the quiche."

"I feel sorry for Mr. Economides," said Agatha. "Mrs. Cummings-Browne could sue him."

"She has generously said she will not press charges. She is a very rich woman in her own right. She has the money. She had
nothing to gain from his death."

"But why did Cummings-Browne not drop dead at the tasting when he had a slice of it? Perhaps someone substituted another quiche.
O r . . . let me think . . . wouldn't there have been some cowbane in that wedge, the juice, for instance?"

"Yes, we wondered about that," said Bill. "Mrs. Cummings-Browne said her husband did feel a bit queasy after the tasting but
she put that down to the amount of pre-competition drinks he had been knocking back."

Agatha asked all about the case, all the details she had not asked before. He had been found dead in the morning. Then why,
asked Agatha, had Mrs.

Cummings-Browne gone straight up to bed?

"Oh, that was because her husband was usually late, drinking at the Red Lion."

"But that precious pair—or rather, it was Mrs. Cummings-Browne—told me they wouldn't be seen dead in the Red Lion. Mind you,
that was before they socked me for a disgracefully expensive load of rubbish at the Feathers."

"He drinks at the Red Lion, all right, but Mrs. Cummings-Browne owns twenty-five percent of the Feathers."

"The cow! I'll be damned. Anyway, how did you guess I never cooked that quiche? For you did, you know, even before I baked
one."

"The minute I saw there wasn't a single baking ingredient in the kitchen I was sure." He laughed. "I asked you to make one
to be absolutely sure. You should have seen your face!"

"Oh,
very
funny."

He looked at her curiously. What an odd woman she was, he thought. Her shiny brown, well-groomed hair was not permed but cut
in a sort of Dutch bob that somehow suited her square, rather truculent face. Her body was square and stocky and her legs
surprisingly good. "What," asked Bill, "was so special to a recently ex-high-powered business woman like yourself about winning
a village competition?"