Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

no evidence of that.’
    ‘And yet Mrs Cartwright always won the competition. Why?’
    ‘Perhaps her baking was the best.’
    ‘No one bakes a better quiche than Mr Economides,’ said Agatha firmly.
    ‘But you are the incomer. More natural to give a prize to one of the locals.’
    ‘Still . . .’
    ‘I can see from the look in your eye, Mrs Raisin, that you would like it to be murder after all and so clear your conscience.’
    ‘Why did you call to tell me about the inquest?’
    ‘I thought you would be interested. There’s a paragraph about it in today’s Gloucestershire Telegraph .’
    ‘Have you got it?’ demanded Agatha. ‘Let me see.’
    He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled newspaper. ‘Page three.’
    Agatha turned to page three.
    At the coroner’s court in Mircester yesterday [she read], a verdict of accidental death by eating poisoned quiche was pronounced. The victim was Mr Reginald Cummings-Browne, fifty-eight, of Plumtrees Cottage, Carsely. Giving evidence, Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes said that cowbane had been introduced into a spinach quiche by accident. The quiche had been bought by a newcomer to the village, Mrs Agatha Raisin. She had bought the quiche from a London delicatessen and had entered it in a village competition as her own baking, a competition at which the late Mr Cummings-Browne was the judge.
    The owner of the delicatessen, Mr Economides, had stated to the police that the cowbane must have become mixed with the spinach by accident. It was stressed that no blame fell on the unfortunate Mr Economides, a Greek immigrant, aged forty-five, who owns The Quicherie at the World’s End, Chelsea.
    Mrs Vera Cummings-Browne, fifty-two, collapsed in court.
    Mr Cummings-Browne was a well-known figure in the Cotswolds . . .
    ‘And blah, blah, blah,’ said Agatha, putting the paper down. ‘Hardly a paragraph.’
    ‘You’re lucky,’ said Bill Wong. ‘If there hadn’t been riots on that estate in Mircester and two deaths, I am sure some enterprising reporter would have been around to find out about the cheating incomer of Carsley. You got off lucky.’
    Agatha sighed. ‘I’ll never live it down, unless I can prove it was murder.’
    ‘Don’t go looking for more trouble. That’s why there’s a police force. Best let everyone forget about your part in the death. Economides is lucky as well. With all this going on in the Middle East, not one London paper has bothered to pick up the story.’
    ‘I still wonder why you came?’
    He drained the last of his coffee and stood up.
    ‘Perhaps I like you, Agatha Raisin.’
    Agatha blushed for about the first time in her life. He gave her an amused look and let himself out.

 
Chapter Four
     
    Agatha felt quite nervous as she waited for the Cotswold Express to pull in at Moreton-in-Marsh station. What would this friend of Roy’s be like? Would she like him? Agatha’s main worry was that the friend might not like her, but she wasn’t even going to admit to that thought.
    The weather was calm but still cold. The train, oh, miracle of miracles, was actually on time. Roy descended and rushed to embrace her. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt which bore the legend I HAVE BEEN USED. Following him came a slight young man. He had thick black hair and a heavy moustache and wore a light-blue denim jacket, jeans, and high-heeled cowboy boots. Butch Cassidy comes to Moreton-in-Marsh. This then was Steve. He gave her a limp handshake and stood looking at her with doggy eyes.
    ‘Welcome to the Cotswolds,’ said Agatha. ‘Roy tells me you’re Australian. On holiday?’
    ‘No, I am a systems analyst,’ said Steve in the careful English accents of an Eliza Doolittle who hadn’t yet quite got it. ‘I work in the City.’
    ‘Come along, then,’ said Agatha. ‘The car’s parked outside. I thought I would take you both out for dinner tonight. I’m not much of a cook.’
    ‘And neither you are, ducks,’ said Roy. He turned to Steve. ‘We used to call her the queen of the microwave. She ate most of her meals in the office and kept a microwave oven there, awful stuff like the Rajah’s Spicy Curry and things like that. Where are we going to eat, Aggie?’
    ‘I thought maybe the Red Lion in the village.’
    She unlocked the car door but Roy stood his ground. ‘Pub grub?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Steak and kidney pie and chips, sausage and chips, fish and chips and lasagne and chips?’
    ‘Yes, so what?’
    ‘So what?