Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

Society. Then the landlord, Joe Fletcher, and the regulars from the Red Lion.
    Local photographers were busy clicking their cameras, local reporters stood ready.
    ‘Everyone inside,’ called Agatha, ‘and I’ll tell you all about it.’
    Soon her living-room was crowded, with an overflow stretching into the dining-room and kitchen as she told a rapt audience how she had solved The Case of the Poisoned Quiche. It was highly embroidered. But she did describe in glorious Technicolor how the brave Bill Wong had dragged her from the burning house, ‘his clothes in flames and his hands cut to ribbons.’
    ‘Such bravery,’ said Agatha, ‘is an example of the fine men we have in the British police force.’
    Some reporters scribbled busily; the more up-to-date used tape recorders. Agatha was about to hit the nationals, or rather, Bill Wong was. There had been two nasty stories recently about corrupt policemen, but the newspapers knew there was nothing people liked to read about more than a brave bobby.
    Next door, James Lacey stood in his front garden, burning with curiosity. The visit from Agatha had been enough. He had called on the vicarage and told Mrs Bloxby sternly that although he was grateful for the welcome to the village, he now wanted to be left strictly alone. He enjoyed his own company. He had moved to the country for peace and quiet. Mrs Bloxby had done her work well. So although he had watched the preparations for Agatha’s return, he did not know what she had done or what it had all been about. He wanted to walk along and ask someone but felt shy of doing so because he had said he wanted to be alone and he remembered he had added that he had no interest in what went on in the village or in anyone in it.
    One by one Agatha’s fan club was leaving. Doris Simpson was among the last to go. She handed Agatha a large brown paper parcel.
    ‘Why, what’s this, Doris?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Me and Bert got talking about that gnome you gave us,’ said Doris firmly. ‘Those things are expensive and we don’t really have much interest in our garden and we know you must have liked it because you bought it. So we decided to give it back to you.’
    ‘I couldn’t possibly accept it,’ said Agatha.
    ‘You must. We haven’t felt right about it.’
    Agatha, who had long begun to suspect that her cleaning lady had a will of iron, said feebly, ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Anything else?’ called Joe Fletcher from the doorway.
    Agatha made a sudden decision. ‘Yes, there is,’ she said. ‘Take that “For Sale” sign down.’
    At last they had all gone. Agatha sat down, suddenly shivering. The full horror of what had happened to her at Vera’s hit her. She went upstairs and took a hot bath and changed into a nightgown and an old shabby blue wool dressing-gown. She peered in the bathroom mirror. There was a bald sore red patch at the front of her hair where Bill had pulled it out. She switched on the central heating and then threw logs on the fire, lit a match and then shuddered and blew the match out. It would be a while before she could bear the sight of a fire.
    There was a tentative knock at the door. Still shivering and holding her dressing-gown tightly about her, she went to open it. James Lacey stood there, holding the kitten in its basket and the litter tray.
    ‘Bill Wong asked me to look after the cat for you,’ he said. He eyed her doubtfully. ‘I could look after it for another day if you’re not up to it.’
    ‘No, no,’ babbled Agatha. ‘Come in. I wonder how Bill got the cat? Of course, he would have taken the keys out of my bag in the hospital. How very good of you.’
    She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. How awful she looked, and not a scrap of make-up on either!
    She carried the cat into the living-room and stooped and let it out of its basket and then took the litter tray into the kitchen. When she returned, James was sitting in one of her chairs staring thoughtfully at the large gnome which Doris had returned and Agatha had unwrapped. It was standing on the coffee-table leering horribly, like old Arnie on the minibus.
    ‘Would you like a gnome?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘No, thank you. It’s an unusual living-room ornament.’
    ‘It’s not really mine. You see . . .’
    There was a hammering at the door. Agatha swore under her breath and went to answer it. Midlands Television and the BBC. ‘Can’t you come back later?’ pleaded Agatha, casting a longing look towards the