Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

here.’
    And then, in sepulchral tones, Roy said, ‘As cold as the grave into which you drove Mr Cummings-Browne with your quiche, Agatha.’
    Agatha’s voice was replying testily, ‘He’s not in a grave. He’s scattered to the four winds on Salisbury Plain. Are you finished yet, Steve?’
    Then Steve’s voice saying, ‘Just a bit longer,’ and then the shot of the glaring woman.
    ‘And you said nobody hated you!’ mocked Roy. ‘That one looked as if she wanted to kill you. Wonder who she is?’
    ‘I’ll photograph her from the screen,’ said Steve, ‘and send you a print. Might be an idea to find out. She must have known about the death of Cummings-Browne.’
    Agatha sat silent for a few moments. She thought she would never forget that spinsterish face and those glaring eyes.
    ‘Beddy-byes,’ said Roy. ‘Which train should we catch tomorrow?’
    Agatha roused herself. ‘Trains might not be very good on a holiday Monday. I’ll run you to Oxford and take you both for lunch and you can get the train from there.’
    She had thought she would be glad to see the last of the pair of them, but when she finally stood with them on Oxford station to say goodbye, she suddenly wished they weren’t going.
    ‘Come again,’ she said. ‘Any time.’
    Roy planted a wet kiss on her cheek. ‘We’ll be back, Aggie. Super weekend.’
    The guard blew his whistle, Roy jumped aboard to join Steve, and the train moved out of the station.
    Agatha stood forlornly for several minutes, watching the train disappearing round the curve, before trailing out to the car-park. She felt slightly frightened and wished she had been able to go to London with them. Why had she ever left her job?
    But home was waiting for her in Carsely, down in a fold of the Cotswold Hills, Carsely where she had disgraced herself, where she did not belong and never would.

 
Chapter Five
     
    Agatha loaded up the car with the toby jugs, pewter mugs, fake horse brasses and bits of farm machinery the next day and drove the short distance to the vicarage.
    Mrs Simpson was busy cleaning the cottage. Agatha planned to talk to her over lunch. Perhaps it was because of the poisoning, but Mrs Simpson called Agatha Mrs Raisin and Agatha felt compelled to call her Mrs Simpson, not Doris. The cleaner was efficient and correct but exuded a certain atmosphere of wariness. At least she had not brought her own lunch.
    Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, answered the door herself. Frightened of a rebuff, Agatha gabbled out that she had brought some items she hoped the church might be able to sell to benefit some charity.
    ‘How very good of you,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Alf,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘Mrs Raisin has brought us some items for charity. Come and lend a hand.’ Agatha was startled. Vicars should not be called plain Alf but something like Peregrine, Hilary, or Aloysius. The vicar appeared wearing an old gardening shirt and corduroy trousers.
    All three carried the boxes into the vicarage living-room. Agatha took out a few of the items. ‘My dear Mrs Raisin,’ exclaimed Mrs Bloxby, ‘are you sure? You could sell this stuff yourself for quite a bit of money. I don’t mean the horse brasses, but the jugs are good and the farm-machinery pieces are genuine. This’ – she held up a shiny instrument of torture – ‘is a genuine mole trap. You don’t see many of those around today.’
    ‘No, I’ll be happy if you get some money. But try to choose some charity which won’t spend it all on cocktail parties or politics.’
    ‘Yes, of course. We’re very keen on supporting Cancer Research and Save the Children,’ said the vicar. ‘Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee, Mrs Raisin?’
    ‘That would be nice.’
    ‘I’ll leave my wife to look after you. I have Sunday’s sermons to prepare.’
    ‘Sermons?’
    ‘I preach in three churches.’
    ‘Why not use the same sermon for all?’
    ‘Tempting, but it would hardly show a sign of caring for the parishioners.’
    The vicar retreated to the nether regions and his wife went off to the kitchen to make coffee. Agatha looked about her. The vicarage must be very old indeed, she thought. The window-frames sloped and the floor sloped. Here was no fitted carpet such as she had in her own cottage but old floor-boards polished like black glass and covered in the centre by a brightly coloured Persian rug. Logs smouldered in the cavernous fireplace. There was a bowl of pot-pourri on one small table.