The Quiche of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mr. Cummings-Browne pointed to
     the right sheet of paper.
    "Bless me. Yes, yes, yes," wittered Lord Pendlebury. "Harrumph! The winner is . . . Mrs. Cartwright."
    "Snakes and bastards," muttered Agatha.
    Fuming, she watched as Mrs. Cartwright, a gypsy-looking woman, climbed up onto the stage to receive the award. It was a cheque.
     "How much?" Agatha asked the woman next to her.
    "Ten pounds."
    "Ten pounds!" exclaimed Agatha, who had not even asked before what the prize was to be but had naively assumed it would be
     in the form of a silver cup. She had imagined such a cup with her name engraved on it resting on her mantelpiece. "How's she
     supposed to celebrate by spending that? Dinner at McDonald's?"
    "It's the thought that counts," said the woman vaguely. "You are Mrs. Raisin. You have just bought Budgen's cottage. I am
     Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar's wife. Can we hope to see you at church on Sunday?"
    "Why Budgen?" asked Agatha. "I bought the cottage from a Mr. Alder."
    "It has always been Budgen's cottage," said the vicar's wife. "He diedfifteen years ago, of course, but to us in the village,
     it will always be Budgen's cottage. He was a great character. At least you do not have to worry about your dinner tonight,
     Mrs. Raisin. Your quiche looks delicious."
    "Oh, throw it away," snarled Agatha. "Mine was the best. This competition was rigged."
    Mrs. Bloxby gave Agatha a look of sad reproach before moving away.
    Agatha experienced a qualm of unease. She should not have been bitchy about the competition to the vicar's wife. Mrs. Bloxby
     seemed a nice sort of woman. But Agatha had only been used to three lines of conversation: either ordering her staff about,
     pressuring the media for publicity, or being oily to clients. A faint idea was stirring somewhere in her brain that Agatha
     Raisin was not a very lovable person.
    That evening, she went down to the Red Lion. It was indeed a beautiful pub, she thought, looking about: low-raftered, dark,
     smoky; with stone floors, bowls of spring flowers, log fire blazing, comfortable chairs and solid tables at proper drinking
     and eating height instead of those "cocktail" knee-high tables which meant you had to crouch to get the food to your mouth.
     Some men were standing at the bar. They smiled and nodded to her and then went on talking. Agatha noticed a slate with meals
     written on it and ordered lasagne and chips from the landlord's pretty daughter before carrying her drink over to a corner
     table. She felt as she had done as a child, longing to be part of all this old English country tradition of beauty and safety
     and yet being on the outside, looking in. But had she, she wondered, ever really been part of anything except the ephemeral
     world of PR? If she dropped dead, right now, on this pub floor, was there anyone to mourn her? Her parents were dead. God
     alone knew where her husband was, and he would certainly not mourn her. Shit, this gin's depressing stuff, thought Agatha
     angrily, and ordered a glass of white wine instead to wash down her lasagne, which she noticed had been microwaved so that
     it stuck firmly to the bottom of the dish.
    But the chips were good. Life did have its small comforts after all.
    Mrs. Cummings-Browne was preparing to go out to a rehearsal of Blithe Spirit at the church hall. She was producing it for the Carsely Dramatic Society and trying unsuccessfully to iron out their Gloucester
     shire accents. "Why can't any of them achieve a proper accent?" she mourned as she collected her handbag. "They sound as if
     they're mucking out pigs or whatever one does with pigs. Speaking of pigs, I brought home that horrible Raisin woman's quiche.
     She flounced off in a huff and said we were to throw it away. I thought you might like a piece for supper. I've left a couple
     of slices on the kitchen counter. I've had a lot of cakes and tea this afternoon. That'll do me."
    "I don't think I'll eat anything either," said Mr. Cummings-Browne.
    "Well, if you