Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

around with badges to proclaim their gender. Or maybe the women could wear pink and the men blue. Or maybe.
    ‘What are you thinking about?’ demanded Roy.
    Agatha gave a guilty start. ‘Oh, about the Borrow woman,’ she said mendaciously.
    Roy took her now empty gin glass and went to the bar to get her a refill. Agatha saw him talking to the landlord.
    He came back, looking triumphant. ‘Miss Maria Borrow lives in Pear Trees, which is the cottage to the left of this pub. There!’
    ‘I don’t know, Roy. It’s such a lovely day. Couldn’t we just take a look around the village and then go back?’
    ‘I’m doing this for your own good,’ said Roy severely. ‘Gosh, this steak and kidney pudding is great. You know, there’s nothing like these English dishes when they’re done well.’
    ‘I should have had a salad,’ mourned Agatha. ‘I can feel every calorie.’
    I’m weak-willed, she thought when she had eaten every scrap of the steak and kidney pudding and she realized she had let Roy talk her into a helping of hot apple pie with cream, real cream, and not that stuff like shaving soap.
    The waitress came up when they had finished the pie, her high heels clacking on the stone flags of the floor. ‘Anything else?’ she asked.
    ‘Just coffee,’ said Roy. ‘That was an excellent meal.’
    ‘Yes, I reckon the part-timer on Sundays does a better job than our Mrs Moulson during the week,’ she said.
    ‘Who’s your part-timer?’
    ‘That’s John Cartwright from over Carsely way.’
    She clacked off. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Roy, seeing Agatha’s startled face.
    ‘John Cartwright’s the husband of Ella Cartwright, who was having an affair with Cummings-Browne. Who ever would have thought he could cook? He’s a great dirty ape of a man. You see, it could have been done. Someone could have replaced my quiche with one of their own.’
    ‘Again, I have to point out that you would be intended as the victim,’ said Roy patiently.
    ‘Wait a bit. Maybe it was intended for Cummings-Browne. Why not? Everyone knew he was to be the judge. Perhaps there wasn’t enough cowbane in that little piece he nibbled at the show.’
    ‘I’m sure any murderer would have thought of that.’
    ‘But John Cartwright struck me as having the IQ of a plant.’
    The waitress brought coffee. When she had gone again, Roy said, ‘Have you ever wondered about Economides?’
    ‘What? Why should the owner of The Quicherie, who didn’t even know Cummings-Browne or where I was taking the quiche, decide to put cowbane in it?’
    ‘But from what I’ve gathered,’ said Roy, ‘Economides didn’t shriek and complain. Did he demand to see the quiche?’
    ‘I don’t think so. But he would want to let the matter drop. Perhaps the John Cartwright in the kitchen is another John Cartwright?’
    ‘Finish your coffee,’ urged Roy, ‘and let’s stroll round the back of the pub and take a look in the kitchen door.’
    Agatha paid the bill and they walked together into the sunlight. ‘How do you know the kitchen’s at the back?’ she asked.
    ‘Just a guess. We’ll try to the right because the car-park’s to the left.’
    They walked round the building. Agatha was about to enter a small area of dustbins and outhouses when she drew back with a yelp and collided into Roy. ‘It is John Cartwright,’ she said. ‘He’s standing outside the kitchen door smoking a cigarette.’
    ‘Let me see.’ Roy pushed her aside and peered cautiously round the corner of the building. John Cartwright was leaning against the doorway, holding a home-made cigarette in one large dirty hand. His apron was stained with grease and gravy. The sun shone on the tattoos on his black hairy arms.
    ‘I feel sick,’ said Roy, retreating. ‘He looks filthy. Food poisoning oozing out of every dirty pore.’
    ‘I think we’ve done enough for one day,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s leave this Borrow woman alone.’
    ‘No,’ said Roy stubbornly. ‘We’re so close.’
    Maria Borrow’s cottage was low and thatched and very old. The small diamond-paned windows winked in the sunlight and the little garden was a riot of roses, honeysuckle, snapdragons, delphiniums and busy Lizzies. Roy nudged Agatha and pointed to the brass doorknocker, which was in the shape of a grinning devil.
    ‘What are we going to say?’ asked Agatha desperately.
    ‘Nothing like the truth,’ retorted Roy, seizing the door-knocker.
    The low door creaked open, and Miss Maria