Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

body.’
    ‘We found a blank tape on your body,’ said Bill. ‘You had forgotten to switch the damn thing on.’
    Agatha groaned. ‘So how did you get her to confess?’ she said.
    ‘It was like this,’ said Bill. ‘I wondered what you were up to seeing this Mr Jones. I found out about the photograph you had taken, he gave me the negative, I got it developed and found the cowbane in it. We were heading to her cottage to ask her a few questions when we saw her driving along. I blocked the street. She got out and ran for it, and when Mr Wilkes caught up with her, she broke down and confessed and said it would be all worth it if you died in the fire. I managed to get you out.’
    ‘What put you on to her in the first place?’ asked Wilkes crossly. ‘Surely not one piece of cowbane in a photograph?’
    Agatha thought quickly. She had not switched on the tape. There was no need for them to know that her quiche had come from Devon or anything about Mr Economides’s cousin. So instead, she told them about the school-hall kitchen and the library book.
    ‘You should have brought information like that straight to us,’ said Wilkes crossly. ‘Bill here got his hands cut badly rescuing you and you were nearly killed. For the last time, leave investigations to the police.’
    ‘Next time I won’t be so amateur,’ said Agatha huffily.
    ‘Next time?’ roared Wilkes. ‘There won’t be a next time.’
    ‘The thing that puzzles me,’ said Agatha, ‘is why didn’t I notice the taste of the sleeping pills in the tea? I mean, if she had ground all those pills up, at least it surely would have tasted gritty.’
    ‘She got gelatine capsules of Dormaron, a very powerful sleeping pill, from some quack in Oxford who is being questioned. The stuff’s tasteless. She simply cut open the capsules and put the liquid in your tea,’ said Wilkes. ‘I’ll be back when you get home to question you further, Mrs Raisin, but don’t ever try to play detective again. By the way, we got John Cartwright. He was working on a building site in London.’
    He stomped out. ‘I’d better be going as well,’ said Bill. For the first time Agatha noticed his bandaged hands.
    ‘Thank you for saving my life,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about your hands.’
    ‘I’m sorry about your face,’ he said. Agatha raised her hands to her face and felt strips of sticking plaster. ‘There’s a couple of stitches in a cut in your cheek. But the only way I could get you out was by shoving you through the window, and I’m afraid I tore a handful of your hair out as well.’
    ‘I’ve given up worrying about my appearance,’ said Agatha. ‘Oh, my kitten. How long have I been here?’
    ‘Just overnight. But I called on your neighbour, Mr Lacey, and he offered to keep the cat until your return.’
    ‘That’s good of you. Mr Lacey? Does he know what happened?’
    ‘I hadn’t time to explain. I simply handed over the cat and said you’d had an accident.’
    Agatha’s hands flew up to her face again. ‘Do I look awful? Did you tear out much hair? Is there a mirror in here?’
    ‘I thought you didn’t care about your appearance.’
    ‘And all those flowers? Who are they from?’
    ‘The big one is from the Carsely Ladies’ Society, the small bunch of roses is from Doris and Bert Simpson, the elegant gladioli from Mrs Bloxby, the giant bouquet from the landlord of the Red Lion and the regulars, and that weedy bunch is from me.’
    ‘Thank you so much, Bill. Er . . . anything from Mr Lacey?’
    ‘Now how could there be? You barely know the man.’
    ‘Is my handbag around? I must look a fright. I need powder and lipstick and a comb and I’ve some French perfume in there.’
    ‘Relax. They’re letting you home tomorrow. You can paint your face to your heart’s content. Don’t forget that dinner invitation.’
    ‘Oh, what? Oh, yes, that. Of course you must come. Next week. Perhaps I might be able to help you with some of your cases?’
    ‘No,’ said Bill firmly. ‘Don’t ever try to solve a crime again.’ Then he relented. ‘Not but what you haven’t done me a favour.’
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘I confess I’d been following you around on my time off and getting the local bobby to report anything to me. Like you, I never could really believe it to be an accident. But Wilkes is more or less crediting me with solving the case because he would rather die than admit a member of the public could do anything to help. So when’s