Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

Day celebrations at the weekend, Aggie, and Steve wants to look at maypoles and morris dancers and all that sort of thing.’
    ‘I haven’t had time to look at any posters, Roy. I’ve been involved in a death.’
    ‘Did one of the clodhoppers try to mumble with you with his gruttock, luv?’
    ‘Nothing like that. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.’
    Agatha whistled to herself as she cracked open one of her cookery books and began to prepare the fish she had bought the day before. There seemed to be so many exotic recipes. Surely one just fried the stuff. So she did and by the time it was ready, realized she had not put the potatoes on to boil or cooked the cauliflower. She threw a packet of microwaveable chips in the micro and opened a can of bright-green peas. It all tasted delicious to Agatha’s undemanding palate when she finally sat down to eat.
    The next day, she called in at Harvey’s and studied the posters at the door. Yes, there was to be morris dancing, maypole dancing, and a fair in the village on the Saturday. People nodded and smiled to her. No one said ‘quiche’ or anything dreadful like that. Cheerfully Agatha trotted home but was waylaid by Mrs Barr before she could get to her own garden gate.
    ‘I thought you would have been at the inquest yesterday at Mircester,’ said Mrs Barr, her eyes cold and watchful.
    ‘No one asked me,’ said Agatha. ‘It was an accident. I suppose the police evidence was enough.’
    ‘Not enough for me,’ said Mrs Barr coolly. ‘Nothing came out about the way you cheated at that competition.’
    Curiosity overcame rancour in Agatha’s bosom. ‘Why not? Surely it was mentioned that it had been bought in a shop in Chelsea?’
    ‘Oh, yes, that came out but not a word of condemnation for you being a cheat and a liar. Poor Mrs Cummings-Browne broke down completely. We don’t need your sort in this village.’
    ‘And what was the verdict?’
    ‘Accidental death, but you killed him, Agatha Raisin. You killed him with your nasty foreign quiche, just as much as if you had knifed him.’
    Agatha’s eyes blazed. ‘I’ll kill you, you malicious harridan, if you don’t bugger off.’
    She marched to her own cottage, blinking tears from her eyes, appalled at her own shock and dismay and weakness.
    Thank God Roy was coming. Dear Roy, thought Agatha sentimentally, forgetting she had always considered him a tiresomely effeminate young man whom she would have sacked had he not had a magic touch with the peculiar world of pop music.
    There came a knock at the door and Agatha cringed, wondering if some other nasty local was about to berate her. But when she opened it, it was Bill Wong who stood on the step.
    ‘Came to tell you about the inquest,’ he said. ‘I called yesterday but you were out.’
    ‘I was seeing friends ,’ said Agatha loftily. ‘In fact, two of them are coming to stay with me for the weekend. But come in.’
    ‘What was the Barr female on about?’ he asked curiously as he followed Agatha into her kitchen.
    ‘Accusing me of murder,’ mumbled Agatha, putting groceries away in the cupboards. ‘Like a coffee?’
    ‘Yes, please. So the inquest is over and Mr Cummings-Browne is to be cremated and his ashes cast to the four winds on Salisbury Plain in memory of his army days.’
    ‘I believe Mrs Cummings-Browne collapsed at the inquest,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Yes, yes, she did. Two sugars please and just a dash of milk. Most affecting.’
    Agatha turned and looked at him, her interest suddenly quickening. ‘You think she was acting?’
    ‘Maybe. But I was surprised he was so generally mourned. There were quite a lot of ladies there sobbing into their handkerchiefs.’
    ‘With their husbands? Or on their own?’
    ‘On their own.’
    Agatha put a mug of coffee down in front of him, poured one for herself and sat down at the kitchen table opposite him.
    ‘Something’s bothering you,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Oh, the case is closed and I have a lot of work to do. There’s an epidemic of joy-riders in Mircester.’
    ‘What time did Mrs Cummings-Browne go to bed, the night her husband died?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Just after midnight or thereabouts.’
    ‘But the Red Lion closes sharp at eleven and it’s only a few minutes’ walk away.’
    ‘She said he often stayed out late, drinking with friends.’
    Agatha’s eyes were shrewd. ‘Oho! And weeping women at the inquest. Don’t tell me old jug ears was a philanderer.’
    ‘There’s