Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

along the cake.
    The school hall was fortunately empty. She went through into the kitchen and gingerly lifted the lid of the freezer. There were all sorts of goodies: tarts, angel cakes, chocolates cakes, sponges and – she shuddered – even quiches.
    She took out a large chocolate cake, feeling every bit the thief she was, looking about her, expecting any moment to be surprised. She gently lowered the lid and slipped the frozen cake into a plastic bag she had brought with her for the purpose. Back home again.
    She took a shower and washed her hair, dried it and brushed it until it shone. She put on a red linen dress with a white collar and tan high-heeled sandals. Then she gave the kitten some more milk and defrosted the cake in the microwave after taking it out of its cellophane wrapper. She arranged it on a plate and marched along to James Lacey’s cottage.
    ‘Oh, Mrs Raisin,’ he said when he opened the door and reluctantly accepted the cake. ‘How good of you. Perhaps you would like to come in, or,’ he added hopefully, ‘perhaps you are too busy.’
    ‘No, not at all,’ said Agatha cheerfully.
    He led the way into his living-room and Agatha’s curious eyes darted from side to side. There were books everywhere, some already on banks of shelves, some in open boxes on the floor, waiting to be stored away.
    ‘It’s like a library,’ said Agatha. ‘I thought you were an army man.’
    ‘Ex. I am settling down in my retirement to write military history.’ He waved a hand to a desk in the corner which held a computer. ‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll make some coffee to go with that delicious cake. You ladies are certainly champion bakers.’
    Agatha settled herself carefully in a battered old leather armchair, hitching her skirt up slightly to show her legs to advantage.
    It had been years since Agatha Raisin had been interested in any man. In fact, up until she had set eyes on James Lacey, she would have sworn that all her hormones had lain down and died. She felt excited, like a schoolgirl on her first date.
    She hoped the cake was a good one. How fortunate she had remembered that kitchen in the school hall.
    And then she froze and clutched tightly at the leather arms of the chair. The kitchen. Did it have a cooker? It had a microwave oven, for that was where they defrosted the goodies when they were setting up the tea-room for one of their endless charity drives.
    She had to go back. She shot out of her chair and out of the door of the cottage just as James Lacey entered his living-room, carrying a tray with a coffee-pot and two mugs.
    He carefully set down the tray and walked to his front door and looked out.
    Agatha Raisin, with her skirts hitched up, was running down Lilac Lane as if all the fiends of hell were after her.
    Might be inbreeding, he thought. He sat down and cut a slice of cake.
    Agatha ran into the school-hall kitchen and looked feverishly about. There it was, what she had been hoping to see – a large gas cooker. She opened the low cupboards next to the sink. They were full of cups and saucers, mixing bowls, pie dishes, pots and pans.
    She sat down suddenly. That’s how it could have been done. That’s how it must have been done.
    She racked her memory. Mrs Mason had been in the kitchen on the day of the auction, for example, beating up a fresh batch of cakes. The kitchen was also used for cooking. But wouldn’t people remember if Vera Cummings-Browne had been in there on the day of the quiche competition, cooking a quiche?
    But she didn’t have to be, thought Agatha. All she had to do was cook it any time before and put it in the freezer and keep an eye on it to make sure it was not used until she needed it. The remains of her, Agatha’s, quiche would have been dumped with all the other rubbish left over from the tea-room. All Vera had to do was take out her poisoned quiche, carry it home, pop it in the microwave, cut a slice out of it to match the missing slice that had been taken out at the competition, wrap it up and take it with her when she went out and dump it somewhere. Agatha was willing to bet the forensic men hadn’t gone through the widow’s clothes looking for poisoned crumbs.
    How to prove it?
    Confront her with it, thought Agatha, and get myself wired for sound. Trap her into a confession.

 
Chapter Twelve
     
    Mr James Lacey looked uneasily out of his window. There was that Agatha Raisin woman, hurrying back. Her lips were moving soundlessly. He