She swore under her breath as she fumbled with the key.
It was the first time her phone had rung. She tumbled in the door and felt her way towards it in the gloom.
'Roy here,' came the familiar mincing voice of her ex-assistant.
'How lovely to hear from you!' cried Agatha in tones she had never used before to the young man.
'Fact is, Aggie, I was hoping I could come down and see you this weekend.'
'Of course. You're welcome.'
'I've got this Australian friend, Steve, wants to see the countryside.
Do you mind if he comes too?'
'More the merrier. Are you driving here?'
Thought we'd take the train and come down Friday night.' 'Wait a bit,' said Agatha, 'I've got a timetable here.' She fumbled in her bag. 'Yes, there's a through train leaves Paddington at six twenty in the evening. Don't need to change anywhere. Gets in at Moreton-in-Marsh'
'Where?'
'Moreton-in-Marsh.'
'Too Agatha Christie for words, darling.'
'And I'll meet you at the station.'
'It's the May Day celebrations at the weekend, Aggie, and Steve wants to look at maypoles and morris dancers and all that sort of thing.'
'I haven't had time to look at any posters, Roy. I've been involved in a death.'
'Did one of the clodhoppers try to mumble with you with his gruttock, luv?'
'Nothing like that. I'll tell you all about it when I see you.'
Agatha whistled to herself as she cracked open one of her cookery books and began to prepare the fish she had bought the day before. There seemed to be so many exotic recipes. Surely one just fried the stuff.
So she did and by the time it was ready, realized she had not put the potatoes on to boil or cooked the cauliflower. She threw a packet of microwave able chips in the micro and opened a can of bright-green peas. It all tasted delicious to Agatha's undemanding palate when she finally sat down to eat.
The next day, she called in at Harvey's and studied the posters at the door. Yes, there was to be morris dancing, maypole dancing, and a fair in the village on the Saturday. People nodded and smiled to her. No one said '' or anything dreadful like that. Cheerfully Agatha trotted home but was waylaid by Mrs. Barr before she could get to her own garden gate.
'I thought you would have been at the inquest yesterday at Mircester,' said Mrs. Barr, her eyes cold and watchful.
'No one asked me,' said Agatha. 'It was an accident. I suppose the police evidence was enough.'
'Not enough for me,' said Mrs. Barr coolly. 'Nothing came out about the way you cheated at that competition.'
Curiosity overcame rancour in Agatha's bosom. 'Why not? Surely it was mentioned that it had been bought in a shop in Chelsea?'
'Oh, yes, that came out but not a word of condemnation for you being a cheat and a liar. Poor Mrs. Cummings-Browne broke down completely. We don't need your sort in this village.'
'And what was the verdict?'
'Accidental death, but you killed him, Agatha Raisin. You killed him with your nasty foreign quiche, just as much as if you had knifed him.'
Agatha's eyes blazed. 'I'll kill you, you malicious harridan, if you don't bugger off.'
She marched to her own cottage, blinking tears from her eyes, appalled at her own shock and dismay and weakness.
Thank God Roy was coming. Dear Roy, thought Agatha sentimentally, forgetting she had always considered him a tiresomely effeminate young man whom she would have sacked had he not had a magic touch with the peculiar world of pop music.
There came a knock at the door and Agatha cringed, wondering if some other nasty local was about to berate her. But when she opened it, it was Bill Wong who stood on the step.
'Came to tell you about the inquest,' he said. 'I called yesterday but you were out.' 'I was seeing friends,' said Agatha loftily. 'In fact, two of them are coming to stay with me for the weekend. But come in.'
'What was the Barr female on about?' he asked curiously as he followed Agatha into her kitchen.
'Accusing me of murder,' mumbled Agatha, putting groceries away in the cupboards. 'Like a coffee?'
'Yes, please. So the inquest is over and Mr. Cummings-Browne is to be cremated and his ashes cast to the four winds on Salisbury Plain in memory of his army days.'
'I believe Mrs. Cummings-Browne collapsed at the inquest,' said Agatha.
'Yes, yes, she did. Two sugars please and just a dash of milk. Most affecting.'
Agatha turned and looked at him, her interest suddenly quickening. 'You think she was acting?'
'Maybe. But I was surprised he was so generally mourned. There were quite a lot of ladies there sobbing into their handkerchiefs.'
'With their husbands? Or on their own?'
'On their own.'
Agatha put a mug of coffee down in front of him, poured one for herself and sat down at the kitchen table opposite him.
'Something's bothering you,' said Agatha.
'Oh, the case is closed and I have a lot of work to do. There's an epidemic of joy-riders in Mircester.'
'What time did Mrs. Cummings-Browne go to bed, the night her husband died?' asked Agatha.
'Just after midnight or thereabouts.'
'But the Red Lion closes sharp at eleven and it's only a few minutes' walk away.' 'She said he often stayed out late, drinking with friends.'
Agatha's eyes were shrewd. 'Oho! And weeping women at the inquest.
Don't tell me old jug ears was a philanderer.'
'There's no evidence of that.'
'And yet Mrs. Cartwright always won the competition. Why?'
'Perhaps her baking was the best.' 'No one bakes a better quiche than Mr. Economides,' said Agatha firmly.
'But you are the in comer. More natural to give a prize to one of the locals.'
'Still 'I can see from the look in your eye, Mrs. Raisin, that you would like it to be murder after all and so clear your conscience.'
'Why did you call to tell me about the inquest?' 'I thought you would be interested. There's a paragraph about it in today's Gloucestershire Telegraph.' 'Have you got it?' demanded Agatha. 'Let me see.'
He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled newspaper. 'Page three.'
Agatha turned to page three.
At the coroner's court in Mircester yesterday [she read], a verdict of accidental death by eating poisoned quiche was pronounced. The victim was Mr. Reginald Cummings-Browne, fifty-eight, of Plumtrees Cottage, Carsely. Giving evidence, Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes said that cow bane had been introduced into a spinach quiche by accident. The quiche had been bought by a newcomer to the village, Mrs. Agatha Raisin. She had bought the quiche from a London delicatessen and had entered it in a village competition as her own baking, a competition at which the late Mr. Cummings-Browne was the judge.
The owner of the delicatessen, Mr. Economides, had stated to the police that the cow bane must have become mixed with the spinach by accident. It was stressed that no blame fell on the unfortunate Mr. Economides, a Greek immigrant, aged forty-five, who owns The Quicherie at the World's End, Chelsea.
Mrs. Vera Cummings-Browne, fifty-two, collapsed in court.
Mr. Cummings-Browne was a well-known figure in the Cotswolds ... 'And blah, blah, blah,' said Agatha, putting the paper down. 'Hardly a paragraph.' 'You're lucky,' said Bill Wong. 'If there hadn't been riots on that estate in Mircester and two deaths, I am sure some enterprising reporter would have been around to find out about the cheating in comer of Carsley. You got off lucky.' Agatha sighed. 'I'll never live it down, unless I can prove it was
