Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death by MC Beaton Read Free Book Online Page A

Mrs Simpson down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. A sign of her extreme low state was that Agatha’s eyes filled with weak tears at the sight. When had she last seen a woman scrubbing a floor instead of slopping it around with a mop? She had hired a succession of cleaning girls through an agency in London, mostly foreign girls or out-of-work actresses who seemed expert at producing an effect of cleanliness without actually ever getting down to the nitty-gritty.
    Mrs Simpson looked up from her cleaning. ‘I found him, you know,’ she said. ‘I found the body.’
    ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Agatha hurriedly and Mrs Simpson grinned as she wrung out the floor cloth.
    ‘That’s a mercy, for to tell the truth, I don’t like talking about it. Rather get on with the work.’
    Agatha retreated to the living-room and then, when Mrs Simpson moved upstairs, she prepared her a cold lunch, put it on the kitchen table beside an envelope containing Mrs Simpson’s money, and called upstairs, ‘I’m going out. I have a spare key. Just lock up and put the key through the letter-box.’ She received a faint affirmative, shouted over the noise of the vacuum cleaner.
    Agatha got in her car and drove up and out of the village. Where should she go? Market day in Moreton-in-Marsh. That would do. She battled in the busy town to find a parking place and then joined the throngs crowding the stalls. The Cotswolds appeared to be a very fecund place. There were young women with babies and toddlers everywhere, pushing them in pushchairs which they thrust against the legs of the childless with aplomb. She had read an article once where a young mother had explained how she had suffered from acute agoraphobia when her child had grown out of the pushchair. It certainly seemed to give the mothers an aggressive edge as, like so many Boadiceas, they propelled their chariots through the market crowd. Agatha bought a geranium for the kitchen window, fresh fish for dinner, potatoes and cauliflower. She was determined to cook everything herself. No more frozen food. After depositing her shopping in the car, she ate lunch in the Market House Restaurant, bought scent in the chemist’s, a blouse at one of the stalls, and then, at four o’clock, as the market was closing down, she reluctantly returned to her car and took the road home.
    Mrs Simpson had left a jug of wild flowers on the middle of the kitchen table. Bless the woman. All Agatha’s guilt about having lured her away from Mrs Barr evaporated. The woman was a queen among cleaners.
    The following morning there was a knock at the door and Agatha groaned inwardly. Anyone else, she thought bitterly, would not be depressed, would expect some friend to be standing on the doorstep. But not Agatha Raisin. She knew it could only be the police.
    Detective Constable Wong stood there. ‘This is an informal call,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Agatha ungraciously. ‘I was just about to have a glass of sherry, but I won’t ask you to join me.’
    ‘Why not?’ he said with a grin. ‘I’m off duty.’
    Agatha poured two glasses of sherry, threw some imitation logs on the fire and lit them. ‘What now?’ she asked. ‘And what do I call you?’
    ‘My name is Bill Wong. You may call me Bill.’
    ‘An appropriate name. If you were older, I could call you the Old Bill. Now, what about the quiche?’
    ‘You’re off the hook,’ said Bill. ‘We checked out your story. Mr Economides, the owner of The Quicherie, remembers selling you that quiche. He cannot understand what happened. He buys his vegetables from the greengrocer’s across the road. Greengrocer goes to the market at Nine Elms every morning to buy his stock. Stuff comes from all over the country and abroad. Cowbane must have got in with the spinach. It’s a tragic accident. Of course, we had to tell Mrs Cummings-Browne where the quiche came from.’
    Agatha groaned.
    ‘She might