Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

looked into all that,’ said Roy a trifle testily. He felt Steve was taking up too much of the conversation.
    Steve shook his head slowly from side to side.
    ‘Look,’ said Agatha. ‘Be sensible. Who was to know I would walk off in a huff and leave that quiche? Who would even know that the Cummings-Brownes would take it home? The vicar could have taken it and given it to some old-age pensioner. Lord Pendlebury could have taken it.’
    ‘When did you take your quiche to the competition?’ asked Steve.
    ‘The night before,’ said Agatha.
    ‘So it was just lying there all night, unattended, in this hall? Someone could have baked another quiche with cowbane in it and substituted it for Agatha’s quiche.’
    ‘We’re back to motive,’ said Agatha. ‘So say someone substituted a poisoned quiche for mine. Who was to know Cummings-Browne would take it? I didn’t even know I was going to walk off and leave it until the last minute.’
    ‘But it could have been meant for you,’ said Steve. ‘Don’t you see? Even if you had won that competition, only a little slice was taken out for the judging, and then you would have taken the rest home.’ He leaned forward. ‘Who hates you enough?’
    Agatha thought uneasily of Mrs Barr and then shrugged. ‘This is ridiculous. Do you read Agatha Christie?’
    ‘All the time,’ said Steve.
    ‘Well, so do I, but delightful as those detective stories are, believe me, murders are usually sudden and violent and take place in cities, some drunken lout of a husband bashing his wife to death. Don’t you see, I would like it to be murder.’
    ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Steve, ‘because you have been exposed as a cheat.’
    ‘Here, wait a minute –’
    ‘But it all looks very odd.’
    Agatha fell silent. If only she had never tried to win that stupid competition.
    Again a feeling of loneliness assailed her as she paid the bill and ushered her guests out into the night. She had a whole weekend in front of her entertaining this precious pair, and yet their very presence emphasized her loneliness. Roy had no real affection for her of any kind. His friend had wanted to see rural England and so he was using her.
    Roy pranced around the cottage, looking at everything. ‘Very cute, Aggie,’ was his verdict. ‘Fake horse brasses! Tch! Tch! And all that farm machinery.’
    ‘Well, what would you have?’ said Agatha crossly.
    ‘I dunno, sweetie. Looks like a stage set. Nothing of Aggie here.’
    ‘Perhaps that’s understandable,’ said Steve. ‘There are people who do not have personalities that transfer to interior decorating. You need to be a homebody.’
    ‘You can go off people, you know,’ commented Agatha waspishly. ‘Off to bed with both of you. I’m tired. The village festivities don’t begin until noon, so you can have a long lie-in.’
    The next morning Roy took over the cooking when he found Agatha was about to microwave the sausages for breakfast. He whistled happily as he went about the preparations and Agatha told him he would make someone a good wife. ‘More than you would, Aggie,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s a wonder your health hasn’t crumbled under a weight of microwaved curries.’
    Steve came down wrapped in a dressing-gown, gold and blue stripes and with the badge of a cricket club on the pocket. ‘He got it at a stall in one of the markets,’ said Roy. ‘Don’t bother talking to him, Aggie. He doesn’t really wake up until he’s had a jug of coffee.’
    Agatha read through the morning papers, turning the pages rapidly to see if there was anything further about the quiche poisoning, but there wasn’t a word.
    The morning passed amicably if silently and then they went out to the main street, Roy doing cartwheels down the lane past Mrs Barr’s cottage. Agatha saw the lace curtains twitch.
    Steve took out a large notebook and began to write down all about the festivities, which started off with the crowning of the May Queen, a small pretty schoolgirl with a slimly old-fashioned figure. In fact all the schoolchildren looked like illustrations in some long-forgotten book with their innocent faces and underdeveloped figures. Agatha was used to seeing schoolgirls with busts and backsides. The Queen was drawn by the morris men in their flowered top hats, the bells at their knees jingling. Roy was disappointed in the morris dancers, possibly because, despite the flowered hats, they looked like a boozy rugby team and were led by a