Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

Economides rose to his feet. ‘You will not tell? I only told you before because I thought the whole thing was over.’
    ‘No, no,’ gabbled Agatha.
    She went out into the heat and drove off, heading automatically back to the Cotswolds, her brain in a turmoil. Vera Cummings-Browne didn’t want the police to know that the quiche had come from Devon. Why?
    And then the light dawned. A phrase from the book on poisonous plants leaped into her mind. ‘Cowbane is to be found in marshy parts of Britain . . . East Anglia, West Midlands, and southern Scotland.’ But not Devon.
    But, wait a bit. The police had been thorough. They had searched her kitchen and even her drains for traces of cowbane. And they had said that Vera Cummings-Browne probably didn’t know cowbane from a palm tree. But couldn’t she just have looked up a book, as she, Agatha, had done? If she had, she would not only know what it looked like and where to get it, she would know it did not grow in Devon.
    When she got home, Agatha wondered whether to phone Bill Wong but then decided against it. He would have all the answers. There had been no trace of cowbane in Vera’s house. Her brain had been unhinged by the death and that was why she had gone to see Economides.
    She put the estate agent’s display board back in place and then tried to get a good night’s sleep, but the days and days of heat had made the old stone walls of her cottage radiate like a furnace.
    Agatha awoke, tired and listless, but dutifully got out her notes again and added what she had found out.
    Cowbane. What about the local library? she thought with a jolt. Would they know whether Vera Cummings-Browne had taken out a book on poisonous plants? Would there be a record? Of course there must be! How else could they write to people who had failed to return books?
    As she trudged along to the library, Agatha reflected that her standard of dressing was slipping. In London, she had favoured power dressing and always wore crisp dresses and business suits. Now her loose print dress flopped about her and her bare feet were thrust into sandals.
    The library was a low stone building. A plaque above the door stated it had originally been the village workhouse. Agatha pushed open the door and went in. She recognized the lady behind the desk as being Mrs Josephs, one of the members of the Carsely Ladies’ Society.
    Mrs Josephs smiled brightly. ‘Were you looking for anything in particular, Mrs Raisin? We’ve got the latest Dick Francis.’
    Agatha plunged in. ‘I was upset by Mr Cummings-Browne’s death,’ she said.
    ‘As were we all,’ murmured Mrs Josephs.
    ‘I’d hate a mistake like that to happen again,’ said Agatha. ‘Have you a book on poisonous plants?’
    ‘Now, let me see.’ Mrs Josephs extracted a microfiche nervously from a pile and slotted it into the viewing screen. ‘Yes, Jerome on Poisonous Plants of the British Isles . Number K-543. Over to your left by the window, Mrs Raisin.’
    Agatha searched the shelves until she found the book. She opened it at the front and studied the dates stamped there. It had last been taken out a whole ten days before the death. Still . . .
    ‘Could you tell me who was the last to take this out, Mrs Josephs?’
    ‘Why?’ The librarian looked anxious. ‘I hope it wasn’t Mrs Boggle. She will leave the pages stuck together with marmalade.’
    ‘I was thinking of getting up a lecture on local poisonous plants,’ said Agatha, improvising. ‘Whoever had it out before might show equal interest,’ she continued, looking at the illustrations in the book as she spoke.
    ‘Oh, well, let me see. We still have the old-fashioned card system.’ She drew out long drawers and flicked through the listed book cards until she drew out the one on poisonous plants. ‘That was last taken out by card holder number 27. We don’t have many members. I fear this is a television village. Let me see. Number 27. Why, that’s Mrs Cummings-Browne!’ Her mouth fell a little open and she stared through her glasses at Agatha.
    And at that moment, the library door opened and Vera Cummings-Browne walked in. Agatha seized the book and returned it to the shelves and then said brightly to Mrs Josephs, ‘I’ll let you know about the Dick Francis.’
    ‘You’ll need to join the library first, Mrs Raisin. Would you like a card?’
    ‘Later,’ muttered Agatha. She looked over her shoulder. Vera was standing some distance away, looking through the