Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

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 quiches. 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 deliberate 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, quiches 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 pince-nez, 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 on to the stage to receive the award. It was a cheque. ‘How much?’ Agatha asked the woman next to her.
    ‘Ten