Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

hatred from her little 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 inconsequently. ‘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.
    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