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 quiche better than Mr. Economides," said Agatha firmly.
"But you are the incomer. 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 cowbane 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 cowbane 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 incomer of Carsley. You got off lucky."
Agatha sighed. "I'll never live it down, unless I can prove it was murder."
"Don't go looking for more trouble. That's why there's a police force. Best let everyone forget about your part in the death.
Economides is lucky as well. With all this going on in Russia, not one London paper has bothered to pick up the story."
"I still wonder why you came?"
He drained the last of his coffee and stood up.
"Perhaps I like you, Agatha Raisin."
Agatha blushed for about the first time in her life. He gave her an amused look and let himself out.
FOUR
Agatha felt quite nervous as she waited for the Cotswold Express to pull in at Moreton-in-Marsh Station. What would this friend
of Roy's be like? Would she like him? Agatha's main worry was that the friend might not like her, but she wasn't even going
to admit to that thought.
The weather was calm but still cold. The train, oh, miracle of miracles, was actually on time. Roy descended and rushed to
embrace her. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt which bore the legend i HAVE BEEN USED. Following him came a slight young
man. He had thick black hair and a heavy moustache and wore a light-blue denim jacket, jeans, and high-heeled cowboy boots.
Butch Cassidy comes to Moreton-in-Marsh. This then was Steve. He gave her a limp handshake and stood looking at her with doggy
eyes.
"Welcome to
"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 quiche better than Mr. Economides," said Agatha firmly.
"But you are the incomer. 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 cowbane 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 cowbane 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 incomer of Carsley. You got off lucky."
Agatha sighed. "I'll never live it down, unless I can prove it was murder."
"Don't go looking for more trouble. That's why there's a police force. Best let everyone forget about your part in the death.
Economides is lucky as well. With all this going on in Russia, not one London paper has bothered to pick up the story."
"I still wonder why you came?"
He drained the last of his coffee and stood up.
"Perhaps I like you, Agatha Raisin."
Agatha blushed for about the first time in her life. He gave her an amused look and let himself out.
FOUR
Agatha felt quite nervous as she waited for the Cotswold Express to pull in at Moreton-in-Marsh Station. What would this friend
of Roy's be like? Would she like him? Agatha's main worry was that the friend might not like her, but she wasn't even going
to admit to that thought.
The weather was calm but still cold. The train, oh, miracle of miracles, was actually on time. Roy descended and rushed to
embrace her. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt which bore the legend i HAVE BEEN USED. Following him came a slight young
man. He had thick black hair and a heavy moustache and wore a light-blue denim jacket, jeans, and high-heeled cowboy boots.
Butch Cassidy comes to Moreton-in-Marsh. This then was Steve. He gave her a limp handshake and stood looking at her with doggy
eyes.
"Welcome to
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