Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

that you had used cowbane already in one of your floral arrangements. So that’s how it was done!’
    Agatha triumphantly drained her teacup and stared defiantly at Vera.
    To her surprise, Vera’s only reaction was to get up and put coal on the blazing wood on the fire.
    Vera sat down again. She looked at Agatha.
    ‘As a matter of fact, you are quite right, Mrs Raisin.’ She raised her voice above the noise of the thunder. ‘You just had to go and cheat in that competition, didn’t you, you silly bitch? So I thought I’d get some financial mileage out of it and yes, I did hope that Greek would volunteer to settle out of court. Then he let fall the bit about Devon. But at least I had him so frightened, he didn’t even examine the quiche closely. I had a bad moment thinking he would and that he would say it wasn’t his. So everything looked safe. I was tired of Reg’s bloody philandering, but I turned a blind eye to it until that Maria Borrow came on the scene. She turned up here one day and told me Reg was going to marry her. Her! Pathetic mad old spinster. It was the ultimate shame. I knew he didn’t mean to divorce me but sooner or later this Borrow fright was going to tell everyone he did and I wasn’t standing for that. Do you know I thought it hadn’t worked? I came home and saw the lights burning and the television on but no sign of Reg. I was a bit relieved. He’d gone out before and left everything on. So I just went to bed. When they told me in the morning he was dead, I couldn’t believe I had caused it. I used to dream of getting rid of him and I almost thought that the baking of that poisoned quiche and the substitution for yours had all been in my mind and that they would tell me he’d died of a stroke. What’s the matter, Mrs Raisin? Feeling drowsy?’
    Agatha felt her head swimming. ‘The tea,’ she croaked.
    ‘Yes, the tea, Mrs Raisin. Think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you? Well, only a crass fool would drop in to accuse a poisoner and drink tea.’
    ‘Cowbane,’ gasped Agatha.
    ‘Oh, no, dear. Just sleeping pills. I found out from Jones what you had been asking, and from that woman in the library. I followed you to Oxford. I had seen your car the night before parked up in one of the lanes. I was waiting for you when you drove off. So I went to Oxford, too, to a quack I’d heard of, a private doctor who gives all sorts of pills to anyone. I said I was Mrs Agatha Raisin and couldn’t sleep. Here are the pills.’ Vera dug in a pocket of her dress and held up a pharmacist’s bottle. And with your name on them.’
    She stood up. ‘And so I just spread a few of these leaflets advertising the flower-arranging competition about the floor, and I help a live coal to roll out of the fire on top of them. I will tell everyone that I told you to make yourself comfortable and wait until I returned. Such a sad accident. Everything is tinder-dry with the heat. You’ll have quite a funeral pyre. I’ll just drop what’s left of these sleeping pills into your handbag and put it in the kitchen by the window and hope it survives the blaze.’
    It was like a dream of hell, thought Agatha. She could not move. But she could see . . . just. Vera spread the leaflets about, frowned down at them, and then went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of cooking oil. She sprinkled some of that about and then took the bottle back to the kitchen. ‘Such a good thing this cottage is heavily insured,’ she remarked.
    She picked up a glowing coal from the fire with the brass tongs and dropped it on the leaflets and then stood patiently while it smouldered on the floor. With a click of annoyance, Vera struck a match and dropped it on the leaflets, which leaped into flame. She edged towards the door. There was a stack of magazines in a rack by the fire. It burst into flames. Then she locked the living-room windows. With a little smile, Vera said, ‘Bye, Mrs Raisin,’ and let herself out of the cottage. She walked to her garage, glancing over her shoulder. She had taken the precaution of closing the curtains. She would have to get away quickly all the same.
    With one superhuman effort, Agatha shoved one finger down her throat and was violently sick. She fell off the chair on to the blazing carpet. Whimpering and sobbing, she crawled away from the roaring fire, dragging herself to the kitchen. Vera had locked the front door. No use trying that way. Agatha feebly kicked the kitchen door closed