Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

whiles back. Something in the Foreign Office he was. Came here about twenty year ago.’
    Agatha was just registering that twenty years in Carsely did not qualify one for citizenship, so to speak, when Mrs Simpson came in with the tea-tray.
    ‘The reason I am trying to get you away from Mrs Barr is this,’ said Agatha. ‘I am very bad at housework. Been a career woman all my life. I think people like you, Doris, are worth their weight in gold. I pay good wages because I think cleaning is a very important job. I will also pay your wages when you are sick or on holiday.’
    ‘Now that’s more than fair,’ cried Bert. ‘’Member when you had your appendix out, Doris? Her never even came nigh the nospital, let alone gave you a penny.’
    ‘True,’ said Doris. ‘But it’s steady money. What if you was to leave, Agatha?’
    ‘Oh, I’m here to stay,’ said Agatha.
    ‘I’ll do it,’ said Doris suddenly. ‘In fact, I’ll phone her now and get it over with.’
    She went out to the kitchen to phone. Bert tilted his head on one side and looked at Agatha, his little eyes shrewd. ‘You know you’ll have made an enemy there,’ he said.
    ‘Pooh,’ said Agatha Raisin, ‘she’ll just need to get over it.’
    As Agatha was fumbling for her door key half an hour later, Mrs Barr came out of her cottage and stood silently, glaring across at Agatha.
    Agatha gave a huge smile. ‘Lovely evening,’ she called.
    She felt quite like her old self.

 
Chapter Two
     
    Plumtrees Cottage, where the Cummings-Brownes lived, was opposite the church and vicarage in a row of four ancient stone houses fronting on to a cobbled diamond-shaped area. There were no gardens at the front of these houses, only narrow strips of earth which held a few flowers.
    The door was answered late the next morning to Agatha’s knock by a woman whom Agatha’s beady eyes summed up as being the same sort of species of expatriate as Mrs Barr. Despite the chilliness of the spring day, Mrs Cummings-Browne was wearing a print sun-dress which showed tanned middle-aged skin. She had a high autocratic voice and pale-blue eyes and a sort of ‘colonel’s lady’ manner. ‘Yes, what can I do for you?’
    Agatha introduced herself and said she was interested in entering the quiche competition but as she was new to the village, she did not know how to go about it. ‘I am Mrs Cummings-Browne,’ said the woman, ‘and really all you have to do is read one of the posters. They’re all over the village, you know.’ She gave a patronizing laugh which made Agatha want to strike her. Instead Agatha said mildly, ‘As I say, I am new in the village and I would like to get to know some people. Perhaps you and your husband might care to join me for dinner this evening. Do they do meals at the Red Lion?’
    Mrs Cummings-Browne gave that laugh again. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in the Red Lion. But they do good food at the Feathers in Ancombe.’
    ‘Where on earth is Ancombe?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Only about two miles away. You really don’t know your way about very well, do you? We’ll drive. Be here at seven thirty.’
    The door closed. Well, well, thought Agatha. That was easy. Must be a pair of free-loaders, which means my quiche stands a good chance.
    She strolled back through the village, mechanically smiling and answering the greetings of ‘Mawning’ from the passers-by. So there were worms in this charming polished apple, mused Agatha. The majority of the villagers were working and lower-middle class and extremely civil and friendly. If Mrs Barr and Mrs Cummings-Browne were anything to go by, it was the no doubt self-styled upper class of incomers who were rude. A drift of cherry blossom blew down at Agatha’s feet. The golden houses glowed in the sunlight. Prettiness did not necessarily invite pretty people. The incomers had probably bought their dinky cottages when prices were low and had descended to be big fish in this small pool. But there was no impressing the villagers or scoring off them in any way that Agatha could see. The incomers must have a jolly time being restricted to trying to put each other down. Still, she was sure that, if she won the competition, the village would sit up and take notice.
    That evening, Agatha sat in the low-raftered dining-room of the Feathers at Ancombe and covertly studied her guests. Mr Cummings-Browne – ‘Well, it’s Major for my sins but I don’t use my title, haw, haw, haw’ – was as tanned as his