Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

into Carsely. As she walked down under the green tunnels formed by the branches of the high hedges which met overhead and she 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: rambling 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. ‘Mrs Raisin? I am Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes. May we have a word with you? Indoors.’

 
Chapter Three
     
    Agatha led them indoors. Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes introduced a dark, silent man beside him as Detective Sergeant Friend, and a young tubby oriental who looked like a Buddha as Detective Constable Wong.
    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 a quiche? wondered Agatha desperately. ‘Eggs, flour, milk and spinach,’ she volunteered hopefully.
    Detective Constable Wong spoke up. He had a soft Gloucestershire 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