Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

feeling. But you are going, so that is that. I feel that Bill Wong shares my doubts.’
    ‘He’s the one that has been urging me to leave the whole thing alone!’
    ‘That is because he is fond of you and does not want to see you get hurt.’
    Agatha turned the conversation over in her mind. The ‘For Sale’ notice was up when she got back, giving her a temporary feeling, as if she had already left the village.
    She got out a large notebook and pen and sat down at the kitchen table and began to write down everything that had happened since she came to the village. The long hot day wore on and she wrote busily, going back and back over her notes, looking for some clue. Then she tapped the pen on the paper. For a start, there was one little thing. The body had been found on Sunday. On Tuesday – it must have been Tuesday, for on the Wednesday the police had told her that Mrs Cummings-Browne did not mean to sue The Quicherie – the bereaved widow had gone to Chelsea in person . Agatha sat back and chewed the end of her pen. Now wasn’t that odd behaviour? If your husband has just been murdered and you are collapsing about the place with grief and everyone is talking about how stricken you are, how do you summon up the energy to go all the way to London? She could just as easily have phoned. Why? Agatha glanced at the kitchen clock. What exactly had Vera Cummings-Browne said to Mr Economides? She went to the phone, lifted the receiver and put it back down again. Despite his confession about his relative without the work permit, the Greek had still looked guarded. The shop didn’t close till eight. Agatha decided to motor up to London and catch him before he shut the shop for the evening.
    She had just locked the door behind her when she found on turning round that a family consisting of ferrety husband, plump wife, and two spotty teenagers were surveying her.
    ‘We’ve come to look round the house,’ said the man.
    ‘You can’t.’ Agatha pushed past the family.
    ‘It says “For Sale”,’ he complained.
    ‘It’s already sold,’ lied Agatha. She heaved the board out of the ground and dropped it on the grass. Then she got into her car and drove off, leaving the family staring after her.
    The hell with it, thought Agatha, I wouldn’t want to inflict that lot on the village anyway.
    She made London in good time, for most of the traffic was going the other way.
    She parked on a double yellow line outside The Quicherie.
    She went into the shop. Mr Economides was clearing his cold shelf of quiches for the night. He looked at Agatha and again that wariness was in his eyes.
    ‘I want to talk to you,’ said Agatha bluntly. ‘Don’t worry,’ she lied. ‘I’ve got friends in the Home Office. You won’t come to any harm.’
    He took off his apron and walked around the counter.
    They both sat down at one of his little tables. There was no offer of coffee. His dark eyes surveyed her mournfully.
    ‘Look, tell me exactly what happened between you and Mrs Cummings-Browne when she called on you.’
    ‘Can’t we forget the whole thing?’ he pleaded. ‘All ended well. No bad publicity in the London papers.’
    ‘A man was poisoned,’ said Agatha. ‘Don’t worry your head about immigration. I’ll keep you out of it. Just tell me.’
    ‘All right. She came in in the morning. I forget what day it was. But mid-morning. She started shouting that I had poisoned her husband and that she would sue me for every penny I’d got. She told me about the quiche you had bought. I cried and pleaded innocence. I threw myself on her mercy. I told her the quiche was not one of mine but had come down from Devon. I told her my cousin grew all the vegetables for his shop in his own market garden. Some of that cowbane must have got mixed in with the spinach. I told her about my cousin’s son-in-law. She went very quiet. Then she said she was overwrought. She said she hardly knew what she was saying. She was a different woman, calm and sad. No action would be taken against me or my cousin, she said.
    ‘But the next day, she came back.’
    ‘What!’
    Agatha leaned forward, clenching her hands in excitement.
    ‘She said that if I ever told anyone that the quiche had come from Devon, then she would change her mind and sue and she would also report my relative to the Home Office and get him deported.’
    ‘Goodness!’ Agatha looked at him in bewilderment. ‘She must be mad.’
    Two people came into the shop. Mr