The Quiche of Death (8 page)

"Well?" demanded Mrs. Boggle when they had reached the colonnaded entrance to the Pump Room. "Aren't you going to help a body
out?"

Mrs. Boggle was small and round, dressed in a tweed coat and a long scarf that seemed to be inextricably wound around the
seat-belt. She smelt very strongly of cheap scent. "Stop pushin' me. You're hurtin' me," she grumbled as Agatha tried to release
her from bondage. Her husband elbowed Agatha aside, produced a pair of nail scissors and hacked through the scarf. "Now look
what you've done," moaned Mrs. Boggle.

"Quit your frettin', woman," said Mr. Boggle. He jerked a thumb at Agatha. "Her'11 buy you another one."

Like hell, thought Agatha when she finally parked near the bus station. She deliberately took a long time returning to the
Pump Room, an hour, in fact. She found the Boggles in the tea-room beside an empty coffee-pot and plates covered in cake crumbs.

"So you've finally decided to show up," said Mr. Boggle, handing her the bill. "You're a fine one."

"The trouble is, no one don't care nothing about old folks these days. All they want is discos and drugs," said Mrs. Boggle.
They both stared fiercely at Agatha.

"Have you taken the waters yet?" asked Agatha.

"Going to now," said Mrs. Boggle. "Help me up."

Agatha raised her to her feet, gagging slightly at the wafts of cheap scent and old body. The Boggles drank cups of sulphurous
water. "Do you want to see the Roman Baths?" asked Agatha, remembering Mrs. Bloxby and determined to please. "I haven't seen
them."

"Well, we've seen them scores of times," whined Mrs. Boggle. "We wants to go to Polly Perkin's Pantry."

"What's that?"

"That's where we's having dinner."

The Boggles belonged to that generation which still took dinner in the middle of the day.

"It's only ten to twelve," pointed out Agatha, "and you've just had coffee and cakes."

"But you've got to go and get the car," said Mr. Boggle. "Pantry's up in Monmouth Road. Can't expect us to walk there. No
consideration."

The idea of a short break from the Boggles while she got the car prompted Agatha to accept her orders docilely. Again she
took her time, returning to pick up the Boggles at one o'clock and ignoring their cries and complaints that Mrs. Boggle's
joints were stiffening with all the waiting.

No one could accuse Agatha Raisin of having a delicate or refined palate, but she had a sharp eye for a rip-off and as soon
as she sat down with the horrible pair in Polly Perkins' Pantry, she wondered if they were soul mates of the Cummings-Brownes.
Waitresses dressed in laced bodices and mob caps flitted about at great speed, therefore being able to ignore all the people
trying to get served.

The menu was expensive and written in that twee kind of prose which irritated Agatha immensely. The Boggles wanted Beau Nash
cod fritters to start—"sizzling and golden, on a bed of fresh, crunchy lettuce"—followed by Beau Brummell escalopes of veal—"tender
and mouth-watering, with a white wine sauce and sizzling aubergine sticks, tender new carrots, and succulent green peas."
"And a bottle of champagne," said Mr. Boggle.

"I'm not made of money," protested Agatha hotly.

"Champagne's good for my arthuritis," quavered Mrs. Boggle. "Not often we gets a treat, but if you' goin' to count every penny
. . ."

Agatha caved in. Get them sozzled and they might sleep on the way home.

The waitresses were now grouped in a corner by the till, chatting and laughing. Agatha rose and marched over to them. "I have
no intention of waiting for service. Get a move on," she snarled. "I want cheerful and polite and
fast
service
now.
And don't give me those looks of dumb insolence. Jump to it!"

A now surly waitress followed Agatha over to her table and took the order. The champagne was warm when it arrived. Agatha
cracked. She rose to her feet and glared at the pale, shy English faces of the other diners. "Why do you sit there and put
up with this dreadful service?" she howled. "You're
paying
for it, dammit."

"You're right," called a meek-looking little man. "I've been here for half an hour and no one's come near this table."

Cries of rage and frustration rose from the other diners. The manager was hurriedly summoned from some office abovestairs.
An ice bucket was produced like lightning. "On the house," muttered the manager, bending over Agatha. Waitresses flew backwards
and forwards, serving the customers this time, long skirts swinging, outraged bosoms heaving under laced bodices, mob caps
nodding.

"They'll be worn out by the time they get home," said Agatha with a grin. "Never moved so much in all their lives."

Mrs. Boggle speared a cod fritter and popped the whole thing in her mouth. "We've never 'ad trouble afore," she said through
a spray of codflakes. "Have we, Benjamin?"

"No, people respect
us"
said Mr. Boggle.

Agatha opened her mouth to blast the horrible pair when Mr. Boggle added, "Were you one o' his fancy women?"

She looked at him dumbfounded.

"Who?"

"Reg Cummings-Browne, him what you poisoned."

"I didn't poison him," roared Agatha and then dropped her voice as the other diners stared. "It was an accident. And what
the hell makes you think I was having an affair with Cummings-Browne?"

"You was seen up at Ella Cartwright's. Like to like, I allus say."

"You mean Mrs. Cartwright was having an affair with Cummings-Browne?"

"Course. Everybody knew that, 'cept her hus­band."

"How long had this been going on?"

"Dunno. Must have gone off her, though, for he was arter some bit in Ancombe, or so I heard."

"So Cummings-Browne
was
a philanderer," said Agatha.

Enlivened by champagne, Mr. Boggle suddenly giggled. "Got his leg over half the county, if you ask me.

Agatha's mind raced. She remembered having dinner with the Cummings-Brownes. She remembered Mrs. Cartwright's name being mentioned
and the sudden stillness between the pair. Then there were those sobbing women at the inquest.

"O' course," said Mrs. Boggle suddenly, "we all knew it was you that was meant to be poisoned, if anyone."

"Why would anyone want to poison me?" demanded Agatha.

"Look what you did to Mrs. Barr. Lured Mrs. Simpson away from her with promises of gold. Heard Mrs. Barr down in Harvey's
talking about it."

"Don't try to tell me that Mrs. Barr would try to poison me because I took her cleaning woman away."

"Why not? Reckon her has a point. Said you brought down the tone of the village."

"Are you usually so rude to people who give up a day to take you out?" asked Agatha.

"I tell it like it is," said Mrs. Boggle proudly.

Agatha was about to retort angrily when she remembered herself saying exactly the same thing on several occasions. Instead
she said, after they had demolished their main course, "Do you want any pudding?"

Silly question. Of course they wanted pudding. Prince Regent fudge cake with ice cream—"devilishly good."

Agatha's mind returned to the problem of Cummings-Browne's death. Mr. Cummings-Browne had been a judge at competitions in
other villages. He had had favourites. Had those favourites been his mistresses? And what of the burning animosity of Mrs.
Barr? Was it all because of Mrs. Simpson? Or did Mrs. Barr enter home-baking, jam-making, or flower-arranging in the village
competitions?

"Don't want coffee," Mrs. Boggle was saying. "Goes straight for me bowels."

Agatha paid the pill but did not leave a tip, free champagne or no free champagne.

"If you would both like to wait here," she said, "I'll get the car." Freedom from this precious pair was close at hand. Agatha
felt quite cheerful as she brought the car round.

As she was heading out of Bath, Mrs. Boggle poked her in the shoulder. "Here! Where you going?"

"Home," said Agatha briefly.

"We wants to hear the band in the Parade Gar­dens," said Mr. Boggle. "What sort of a day out is it if you can't hear the band?"

Only the thought of Mrs. Bloxby's gentle face made Agatha turn the car round. The couple had to be deposited at the gardens
while Agatha wearily parked the car again, a long way away, and then walked back. Deck chairs had to be found for the Boggles.

The sun shone, the band played its way through a seemingly endless repertoire as the afternoon wore on. Then the Boggles wanted
afternoon tea at the Pump Room. Did they always eat so much? wondered Agatha. Or were they storing up food inside for some
long hibernation before the next outing?

At last they allowed her to take them home. All went well until she reached the Fosse Way and again that horny finger prodded
her back. "I have ter pee," said Mrs. Boggle.

"Can't you wait until I reach Bourton-on-theWater or Stowe?" called Agatha over her shoulder. "Bound to be public toilets
there."

"I gotta go
now"
wailed Mrs. Boggle.

Agatha pulled into the side of the road, bumping the car onto the grassy verge.

"You'd best help her," said Mr. Boggle.

Mrs. Boggle had to be led into a field and behind the shelter of some bushes. Mrs. Boggle produced toilet paper from her handbag.
Mrs. Boggle needed help getting her knickers down, capacious pink cotton knickers with elastic at the knee.

It was all very stomach-churning for Agatha, who felt quite green when she finally shepherded her charge back to the car.
It would be a cold day in hell, thought Agatha, before she ever let herself in for a day like this again.

She felt quite limp and weepy when she arrived outside CuUoden. "Why CuUoden?" she asked.

"When we bought our council house," said Mr. Boggle, "we went down to the nursery where they sell house signs. I wanted Rose
Cottage, but she wanted CuUoden."

Agatha got out and heaved Mrs. Boggle onto the pavement beside her husband. Then she fairly leaped back into the driving seat
and drove off with a frantic crunching of gears.

Detective Constable Wong was waiting on Agatha's doorstep.

"Out enjoying yourself?" he asked as Agatha let him into the house.

"I've had a hellish time," said Agatha, "and I don't want to talk about it. What brings you here?"

He sat down at the kitchen table and spread out the anonymous letter. "Have you any idea who sent this?"

Agatha plugged in the electric kettle. "I thought it might be John Cartwright. He's been threatening me.

"And why should John Cartwright threaten you?"

Agatha looked shifty. "I called on his wife. He didn't seem to like it."

"And you were asking questions," said Bill.

"Well, do you know that Cummings-Browne was having an affair with Ella Cartwright?"

"Yes."

Agatha's eyes gleamed. "Well, there's a motive . . ."

"In desperately trying to prove this a murder, you are going to land into trouble. No one likes anyone poking into their private
life. This note, now. It interests me. No fingerprints."

"Everyone knows about fingerprints," scoffed Agatha.

"And everyone also knows that if you do not have a criminal record, there is no way the police can trace you through your
fingerprints. The police are not going to fingerprint a whole village just because of one nasty letter. Then it was, I think,
written by someone literate trying to sound semiliterate."

"How do you come by that?"

"Even in the broadest Gloucestershire dialect, interfering comes out sounding just that, not "innerfer-ing." Might be interferin'
with the dropped
g,
but that's all. Also, strangely enough, everyone appears to know how to spell bitch. Apart from the Cartwrights, who else
have you been questioning?"

"No one," said Agatha. "Except that I was discussing the murder in the Horse and Groom with my friends, and two friends of
her next door were there."

"Not murder," he said patiently. "Accident. I'll keep this note. I haven't found anyone who recognizes the woman in your photograph.
The reason I have called is to warn you, Agatha Raisin, not to go messing about in people's lives, or soon there might be
a real-live murder, with you as the corpse!"

SEVEN

She drove to a bicycle shop in Evesham and purchased a light, collapsible bicycle of the kind she could carry around in the
boot of her car. She did not want to experiment cycling near the village until she felt she had remastered the knack. She
had not cycled since the age of six.

She parked off the road next to one of the country walks, took out the little bicycle, and pushed it to the beginning of the
grassy path. She mounted and wobbled off very nervously, climbed a small rise, and then, with a feeling of exhilaration, cruised
downhill through pretty woods dappled with sunlight. After a few miles, she realized she was approaching the village, and
with a groan, she turned back. Her well-shaped legs, although fairly sturdy with London walking, were not up to cycling the
whole way back up the hill and so she got off and pushed. Clouds covered the sun very quickly and it began to rain, fine,
soft, drenching rain.

In London, she could have gone into a bar or cafe and waited for the rain to stop, but there was nothing here but fields and
woods and the steady drip of water from the trees above.

She thankfully reached her car and stowed away the bicycle. She was just moving off when a car passed her. She stared at it
in amazement. Surely it was that rusting brown thing she had recently seen trapped in the Cartwrights' front garden. On impulse,
she swung her own car round and set off in pursuit. Her quarry wound through narrow lanes, heading for Ancombe. Agatha tried
to keep out of sight, but there were no other cars on the road. She could just make out that Mrs. Cartwright was driving the
rusty car.

As Agatha approached Ancombe, she noticed large signs and arrows directing drivers to the ANCOMBE ANNUAL FAIR. Mrs. Cartwright
appeared to be heading for it. Now there were other cars and Agatha let a Mini get between her and Mrs. Cartwright.

Mrs. Cartwright parked her car in a large wet field. Agatha, ignoring a steward's waving arm, parked a good bit away. As abruptly
as it had started, the rain stopped and the sun shone down. Feeling damp and creased, Agatha got out. There was no sign of
Mrs. Cartwright. Her car, an old Ford Vauxhall, Agatha noted as she passed it, was empty.

Agatha walked towards the fair and paid the ten pence admission charge and an additional ten pence for a programme. She flicked
through it until she found the Home-Baking Competition tent on the map in the centre.

Just as she was about to enter the tent, Agatha came face to face with Mrs. Cartwright. "What you doin' here?" demanded Mrs.
Cartwright suspiciously.

"How did you get your car out of the garden?" asked Agatha.

"Push the fence over, drive off, push the fence up again. Been like that for years, but will my John fix it? Nah. Why are
you here?"

"I heard there was a fair on," said Agatha vaguely. "Are you entering anything?"

"Quiche," said Mrs. Cartwright laconically. She suddenly grinned. "Spinach quiche. Better prizes here than you get at Carsely."

"Think you'll win?"

"Bound to. Haven't any competition really."

"Did Mr. Cummings-Browne judge the home-baking here as well?"

"Nah. Dogs. Best of breed and all that. Look . . ." Mrs. Cartwright glanced furtively around. "Want a bit of info?"

"I've paid you forty pounds to date and I haven't yet got my money's worth," snapped Agatha. "And you can tell that husband
of yours to stop threatening me."

"He's always threatening people and he thinks you're a nosy old tart. Still, if you don't want to know what went on at Ancombe
. . ."

She began to move away.

"Wait," said Agatha. "What can you tell me?"

Mrs. Cartwright's dark eyes rested greedily on Agatha's handbag.

Agatha clicked it open and took out her wallet. "Ten if I think it's worth it."

Mrs. Cartwright leaned forward. "The dog competition's always won by a Scottie."

"So?"

"And the woman who shows the Scotties is Barbara James from Combe Farm. At the inquest her were, and crying fit to bust."

"Are you saying . . . ?"

"Our Reg had to have a bit before he would favour someone year in and year out."

Agatha handed over ten pounds. She studied her programme. The dog judging was due to begin in an arena near the tent. When
she looked up from her programme, Mrs. Cartwright had gone.

Agatha sat on a bench just outside the roped-off arena. She opened her programme again. The Best of Breed competition was
to be judged by a Lady Wa-verton. She looked up. A stout woman in tweeds and a deerstalker was sitting on a shooting-stick,
her large tweed-encased bottom hanging down on either side of it, studying the dogs as they were paraded past her. A fresh-faced
woman of about thirty-five with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks was walking a Scotch terrier past Lady Waverton. Must be
this Barbara James, thought Agatha.

It was all so boring, Agatha felt quite glassy-eyed. How nervous and pleading the contestants looked, like parents at prize-giving.
Lady Waverton wrote something down on a piece of paper and a messenger ran with it to a platform, where a man seated on a
chair was holding a microphone. "Attention, please," said the man. "The awards for Best of Breed are as follows. Third place,
Mr. J. G. Feathers for his Sealyham, Pride of Moreton. Second, Mrs. Comley, for her otter hound, Jamesy Bright Eyes. And the
first is
..
."

Barbara James picked up her Scottie and cuddled it and looked expectantly towards the two local newspaper photographers. "The
first prize goes to Miss Sally Gentle for her poodle, Bubbles Daventry of the Fosse."

Miss Sally Gentle looked remarkably like her dog, having curly white hair dressed in bows. Barbara James strode from the arena,
her face dark with fury.

Agatha rose to her feet and followed her. Barbara went straight to the beer tent. Agatha hovered in the background until the
disappointed competitor had got herself a pint of beer. Agatha detested beer but she gamely ordered a half pint and joined
Barbara at one of the rickety tables that were set about the beer tent.

Agatha affected surprise. "Why, it's Miss James," she cried. She leaned forward and patted the Scottie, who nipped her hand.
"Playful, isn't he?" said Agatha, casting a look of loathing at the dog. "Such a good head. I was sure he would win."

"It's the first time in six years I've lost," said Barbara. She stretched her jodphurred legs moodily out in front of her
and stared at her toe-caps.

Agatha fetched up a sigh. "Poor Mr. CummingsBrowne."

"Reg knew a good dog when he saw one," said Barbara. "Here, go on. Walkies." She put the dog down. It strolled over to the
entrance to the tent and lifted its leg against a rubbish bin. "Did you know Reg?"

"Only slightly," said Agatha. "I had dinner with the Cummings-Brownes shortly before he died.

"It should never have happened," said Barbara. "That's the trouble with these Cotswold villages. Too many people from the
cities coming to settle. Do you know how he died? Some bitch of a woman called Raisin bought a quiche and tried to pass it
off at the competition as her own."

Agatha opened her mouth to admit she was that Mrs. Raisin when it started to rain again, suddenly, as if someone had switched
on a tap. It was a long walk to where she had parked her car. A chill wind blew into the tent.

"Terrible," said Agatha feebly. "Did you know Mr. Cummings-Browne well?"

"We were very good friends. Always good for a laugh, was Reg."

"Have you entered anything in the home-baking competition?" asked Agatha.

Barbara's blue eyes were suddenly suspicious. "Why should I?"

"Most of the ladies seem very talented at these shows."

"I can't bake, but I know a good dog. Dammit, I should have won. What qualifications does this Lady Muck have for judging
a dog show? I'll tell you . . . none. The organizers want a judge and so they ask any fool with a title. She couldn't even
judge her own arse."

As Barbara picked up her beer tankard, Agatha noticed the woman's rippling muscles and decided to retreat.

But at that moment, Ella Cartwright looked into the beer tent, saw Agatha and called out, "Enjoying yourself, Mrs. Raisin?"

Barbara slowly put down her tankard. "You!" she hissed. She lunged across the table, her hands reaching for Agatha's throat.

Agatha leaped backwards, knocking her flimsy canvas-and-tubular-steel seat over. "Now, don't get excited," she said weakly.

But Barbara leaped on her and seized her by the throat. Agatha was dimly aware of the grinning faces of the drinkers in the
tent. She got her knee into Barbara's stomach and pushed with all her strength. Barbara staggered back but then came at her
again. She was blocking the way out. Agatha fled behind the serving counter, screaming for help while the men laughed and
cheered. She seized a large kitchen knife and held it in front of her. "Get away," she said breathlessly.

"Murderer!" shrieked Barbara but she backed off. Then there came a blinding flash and the click of a camera. One of the local
photographers had just snapped Agatha brandishing the kitchen knife.

Still holding the knife, Agatha edged around to the exit. "Don't come near me again or I'll
kill
you," shouted Barbara.

Agatha dropped the knife outside the tent and ran. Once in the safety of her car and with the doors locked, she sat panting.
She thrust the key in the ignition and then paused, dismay flooding her. That photograph! She could already see it in her
mind's eye on the front of some local paper. What if the London papers picked it up? Oh, God. She was going to have to get
that film.

She felt shaken and tired as she reluctantly climbed out again and trekked across the rain-sodden field.

Keeping a sharp eye out for Barbara James, she threaded her way through the booths selling old books, country clothes, dried
flowers, local pottery, and, as usual, home-baking. In addition to the usual stands, there was one selling local country wines.
The photographer was standing there with a reporter sampling elderberry wine. Agatha's heart beat hard. His camera case was
on the ground at his feet, but the camera which had taken the photo of her was still around his neck. Agatha backed off in
case he should see her. He stood there, sampling wine for a long time until the terrier racing was announced. He said something
to the reporter and they headed off to the arena. Agatha followed them and waited until they were in the arena. She retreated
to a stand and bought herself a wax-coat and a rain-hat. The rain was still drumming down. It was going to be a long day.
The terrier racing was followed by show jumping. Agatha lurked at the edge of the thinning crowd, but feeling that the hat
and coat she had just put on disguised her some what.

At the end of the show jumping, the rain stopped again and a chill yellow sunlight flooded the fair. Heart beating hard, Agatha
saw the photographer wind the film from his camera, pop it in his case, and then reload with another. Slowly she took off
her coat. The photographer and reporter headed out of the arena and back to the local wine-stand. "Try the birch wine," the
woman serving was urging them as Agatha crept closer. She dropped her coat over the camera case, mumbled something and bent
and seized the handle of the camera case and lifted it up and scurried off round the back of a tent. She opened the case and
stared down in dismay at all the rolls of film. Too bad. She took them all out after putting on her coat again so that she
could stuff the rolls of film into her pocket.

She heard a faint yell of "Police!" and hurried off, leaving the camera case on the ground. She felt sure that the woman serving
the wine had not noticed her and the photographer and reporter had not even turned round. She felt lucky in that they were
not from a national paper, otherwise they would have concentrated on her and Barbara James and would have referred back to
the quiche poisoning. But local photographers and reporters knew that their job at these fairs was to get as many faces and
prizewinners on their pages as possible so as to boost circulation. But if the picture of her brandishing a knife in the beer
tent had turned out well, she knew they would use it, along, no doubt, with quotes from the enraged Barbara James.

She was just driving out of the car-park when a policeman flagged her down. Agatha let down the window and looked at him nervously.
"A photographer has had his camera case stolen," said the policeman. "Did you notice anything suspicious?" He peered into
the car, his eyes darting this way and that. Agatha was painfully conscious of her coat pockets bulging with film. "No," she
said. "What a terrible thing to happen."

There came a faint cry of "We've found it." The policeman straightened up. 'That's that," he said with a grin. "These photographers
are always drinking too much. Probably just forgot where he left it."

He stood back. Agatha let in the clutch and drove off. She did not once relax until she was home and had lit a large fire.
When it was blazing, she tipped all the rolls of film onto it and watched them burn merrily. Then she heard a car drawing
up.

She looked out of the window. Barbara James!

Agatha dived behind the sofa and lay there, trembling. The knocking at the door, at first mild, became a fusillade of knocks
and kicks. Agatha let out a whimper. Then there was silence. She was just about to get up when something struck her living-room
window and she crouched down again. She heard what she hoped was Barbara's car driving off. Still she waited.