Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

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 died fifteen 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.
    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 Gloucestershire 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