Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

returned books. ‘Not a word,’ hissed Agatha and shot out.
    So she did know about cowbane, thought Agatha triumphantly. And she certainly knew what it looked like. She saw clearly in her mind’s eye the coloured illustration in the book. Then she stopped in the middle of the main street, too shocked to notice that a handsome middle-aged man had come out of the butcher’s and was looking at her curiously.
    She had seen cowbane recently, but in black and white. What? Where? She began to walk home, cudgelling her brains.
    And then, just at her garden gate, she had it. The slide show. Mr Jones’s slide show. Mrs Cummings-Browne getting the prize for the best flower arrangement, an arty thing of wild flowers and garden flowers and, snakes and bastards, with a piece of cowbane right in the middle of it !
    The handsome middle-aged man was turning in at the gate of what had so recently been Mrs Barr’s cottage. He was the new tenant, James Lacey.
    ‘Mr Jones,’ said Agatha aloud. ‘Must find Mr Jones.’
    Batty, thought James Lacey. I don’t know that I like having a neighbour like that.
    Into Harvey’s went Agatha. ‘Where do I find Mr Jones, the one who takes the photographs?’
    ‘That’ll be the second cottage along Mill Pond Edge,’ said the woman behind the till. ‘Do be uncommon hot, Mrs Raisin.’
    ‘Sod the weather,’ said Agatha furiously. ‘Where’s Mill Pond Edge?’
    ‘Second lane on your right as you go out the door.’
    ‘I know the heat’s getting us down,’ said the woman in Harvey’s to Mrs Cummings-Browne later, ‘but there was no need for Mrs Raisin to be so rude. I was only trying to tell her where Mr Jones lives.’
    Agatha was fortunate in finding Mr Jones at home because he was also a keen gardener and liked to spend most of the day touring the local nurseries. He had all his photographs neatly filed and found the one Agatha asked for without any trouble.
    She looked greedily at the flower arrangement. ‘Mind if I keep this for a few days?’
    ‘No, not at all,’ said Mr Jones.
    And Agatha shot off without warning him not to say anything to Mrs Cummings-Browne.
    She went to the Red Lion, clutching the photo in a brown manila envelope, her brain buzzing with thoughts.
    She ordered a double gin and tonic. ‘Someone said as how he’d seen that detective, the Chinese one, heading your way with a basket,’ said the landlord.
    Agatha frowned. She did not want to tell Bill anything. Not now. Not until she had it all worked out.
    Bill Wong turned away from Agatha’s cottage, disappointed. He glared up at the ‘For Sale’ sign. He felt sure she was making a mistake. A faint miaow came from inside the basket. ‘Shh,’ he said gently. He had brought Agatha a cat. His mother’s cat had produced a litter and Bill, as usual, could not bear to see the little creatures drowned, so had started to inflict them on his friends as presents.
    He was walking past the cottage next door when he saw James Lacey. ‘Good morning,’ said Bill. He eyed the newcomer to Carsely shrewdly and wondered what Agatha thought of him. James Lacey was surely handsome enough to strike any middle-aged woman all of a heap. He was over six feet tall, with a strong tanned face and bright blue eyes. His thick black hair, fashionably cut, had only a trace of grey. ‘I was looking for your neighbour, Mrs Raisin,’ said Bill.
    ‘I think the heat’s got to her,’ said James in a clear upper-class voice. ‘She went past me muttering, “Mr Jones, Mr Jones.” Whoever Mr Jones is, I feel sorry for him.’
    ‘Anyway, I’ve brought her this cat,’ said Bill, ‘as a present, and a litter tray. It’s house-trained. Would you be so good as to give it to her when she returns? My name is Bill Wong.’
    ‘All right. Do you know when that will be?’
    ‘Shouldn’t be long,’ said Bill. ‘Her car’s outside.’
    He handed over the cat in its carrying basket and the litter tray and went off. Jones, he thought. What’s she up to now?’
    He went into Harvey’s to buy a bar of chocolate and asked the woman behind the till, ‘Who’s Mr Jones?’
    ‘Not you too,’ she said crossly. ‘Mrs Raisin was in here to find out, and quite rude she was. We’re all suffering from this heat, but there’s no call to behave like that.’
    Bill waited patiently until the complaints were over and he could find out about Mr Jones. He didn’t really know why he was bothering except that Agatha Raisin had a way of