Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

stirring things up.
    Agatha was quite depressed as she walked home. She thought she had solved the case, as she had begun to call it in her mind, but while in the pub, that great stumbling block had risen up in front of her again. There was no way Vera Cummings-Browne could have cooked a poisoned quiche in her kitchen without the police forensic team finding a trace of it.
    She let herself wearily into her hot house. Better put the whole business to the back of her mind and go down to Moreton and buy a fan of some kind.
    There was a knock at the door. She looked through the new spyhole installed by the security people and found herself looking at the middle of a man’s checked shirt. She opened the door on the chain.
    ‘Mrs Raisin,’ said the man. ‘I am your new neighbour, James Lacey.’
    ‘Oh.’ Agatha took in the full glory of James Lacey and her mouth dropped open.
    ‘A Mr Wong called but you were out.’
    ‘What do the police want now?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘I did not know he was from the police. He was plain clothes. He asked me to give you this cat.’
    ‘Cat!’ echoed Agatha, amazed.
    ‘Yes, cat,’ he said patiently, thinking, She really is nuts.
    Agatha dropped the chain and opened the door. ‘Come in,’ she said, suddenly aware of her loose print dress and her bare, unshaven legs.
    They walked into the kitchen. Agatha knelt down and opened the basket. A small tabby kitten strolled out, looked around and yawned. ‘That’s a sweet little fellow,’ he said, edging towards the door. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs Raisin . . .’
    ‘Won’t you stay? Have a cup of coffee?’
    ‘No, I really must go. Oh, there’s someone at your door.’
    ‘Could you wait just for a moment,’ said Agatha, ‘and watch the kitten until I see who that is?’
    She left the kitchen before he could reply. She opened the door. A woman stood there, looking as fresh as a spring day despite the heat. She was wearing a white cotton dress with a red leather belt around her slender waist. Her legs were tanned and unhairy. Her expensively dyed blonde hair shone in the sunlight. She was about forty, with a clever face and hazel eyes. She was exactly the sort of woman, Agatha thought, who would be bound to catch the eye of this glamorous new neighbour.
    ‘What is it?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘I’ve come to view the house.’
    ‘It’s sold. Goodbye.’ Agatha slammed the door.
    ‘If your house is sold,’ said James Lacey when she returned to the kitchen, feeling more of a frump than ever, ‘you should get the estate agents to put a “Sold” sign up.’
    ‘I didn’t like the look of her,’ muttered Agatha.
    ‘Indeed? I thought she looked very pleasant.’
    Agatha looked at the wide-open kitchen door, which gave a perfect view of whoever was standing at the front door, and blushed.
    ‘Now you really must excuse me,’ he said, and before Agatha could protest, he had made his escape.
    The cat made a faint pleading sound. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ demanded Agatha, exasperated. ‘What is Bill Wong thinking of?’
    She poured the cat some milk in a saucer and watched it lapping it up. Well, she would need to feed it until she decided how to get rid of it. She went back into the heat. Her neighbour was working in his front garden. He saw her coming, smiled vaguely, and retreated into his cottage.
    Damn, thought Agatha angrily. No wonder all these women were crawling on to his doorstep with gifts. She went to Harvey’s, where the woman behind the till gave her a hurt look, and bought cat food, extra milk, and cat litter for the tray.
    She returned home and fed the kitten and then took a cup of coffee into the garden. Her handsome neighbour had knocked all thoughts of murder out of her head. If only she had been properly dressed. If only he hadn’t heard her being so rude to that woman who wanted to see the house.
    The kitten was rolling over in the sun. She watched it moodily. She, too, could have taken along a cake. In fact, she still could. She scooped up the kitten and carried it inside and then went back to Harvey’s to find that it was early-closing day.
    She could go down to Moreton and buy a cake, but one should really take home-baking along. Then she remembered the freezer in the school hall. That was where the ladies of Carsely stored their home-baking for fêtes to come. There would be no harm in just borrowing something. Then she could go home and put on something really pretty and take