Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

might have accused you of murder otherwise.’
    ‘But look here,’ protested Agatha, ‘she could have killed her husband by putting cowbane in my quiche.’
    ‘Like most of the British population, I’d swear she couldn’t tell a piece of cowbane from a palm tree,’ said Bill. ‘Also, it couldn’t have been you. When you left that quiche, you had no idea it would be taken home and eaten by Cummings-Browne. So it couldn’t have been you. And it couldn’t have been Mrs Cummings-Browne. Poisoning like that would need to be a coldblooded, premeditated act. No, it was a horrible accident. Cowbane was only in part of the quiche.’
    ‘I feel sorry for Mr Economides,’ said Agatha. ‘Mrs Cummings-Browne could sue him.’
    ‘She has generously said she will not press charges. She is a very rich woman in her own right. She has the money. She had nothing to gain from his death.’
    ‘But why did Cummings-Browne not drop dead at the tasting when he had a slice of it? Perhaps someone substituted another quiche. Or . . . let me think . . . wouldn’t there have been some cowbane in that wedge, the juice, for instance?’
    ‘Yes, we wondered about that,’ said Bill. ‘Mrs Cummings-Browne said her husband did feel a bit queasy after the tasting but she put that down to the amount of precompetition drinks he had been knocking back.’
    Agatha asked all about the case, all the details she had not asked before. He had been found dead in the morning. Then why, asked Agatha, had Mrs Cummings-Browne gone straight up to bed?
    ‘Oh, that was because her husband was usually late, drinking at the Red Lion.’
    ‘But that precious pair – or rather, it was Mrs Cummings-Browne – told me they wouldn’t be seen dead in the Red Lion. Mind you, that was before they socked me for a disgracefully expensive load of rubbish at the Feathers.’
    ‘He drinks at the Red Lion, all right, but Mrs Cummings-Browne owns twenty-five per cent of the Feathers.’
    ‘The cow! I’ll be damned. Anyway, how did you guess I never cooked that quiche? For you did, you know, even before I baked one.’
    ‘The minute I saw there wasn’t a single baking ingredient in the kitchen I was sure.’ He laughed. ‘I asked you to make one to be absolutely sure. You should have seen your face!’
    ‘Oh, very funny.’
    He looked at her curiously. What an odd woman she was, he thought. Her shiny brown, well-groomed hair was not permed but cut in a sort of Dutch bob that somehow suited her square, rather truculent face. Her body was square and stocky and her legs surprisingly good. ‘What,’ asked Bill, ‘was so special to a recently ex-high-powered businesswoman like yourself about winning a village competition?’
    ‘I felt out of place,’ said Agatha bleakly. ‘I wanted to make my mark on the village.’
    He laughed happily, his eyes closing into slits. ‘You’ve done just that. Mrs Cummings-Browne knows now you cheated and so does Fred Griggs, the local bobby, and he’s a prize gossip.’
    Agatha felt too humiliated to speak. So much for her dream home. She would need to sell up. How could she face anyone in the village?
    He looked at her sympathetically. ‘If you want to make your mark on the village, Mrs Raisin, you could try becoming popular.’
    Agatha looked at him in amazement. Fame, money and power were surely the only things needed to make one’s mark on the world.
    ‘It comes slowly,’ he said. ‘All you have to do is start to like people. If they like you back, regard it as a bonus.’
    Really, what odd types they had in the police force these days, thought Agatha, surprised. Did she dislike people? Of course she didn’t. Well, so far the only people she had taken a dislike to in Yokel Country, she thought savagely, were old fart-face next door and Mrs Cummings-Browne and the dear deceased.
    ‘How old are you?’ she asked.
    ‘Twenty-three,’ said Bill.
    ‘Chinese?’
    ‘Half. Father is Hong Kong Chinese and Mother is from Evesham. I was brought up in Gloucestershire.’ He rose to go but for some reason Agatha wanted him to stay.
    ‘Are you married?’ she asked.
    ‘No, Mrs Raisin.’
    ‘Well, sit down for a moment,’ said Agatha urgently, ‘and tell me about yourself.’
    Again a flicker of sympathy appeared in his eyes. He sat down and began to talk about his short career in the police force and Agatha listened, soothed by his air of certainty and calm. Unknown to her, it was the start of an odd friendship.