The Quiche of Death Read Online Free

disappeared. Agatha had never filed for divorce. She assumed
     he was dead. She had never wanted to marry again. She had become harder and harder and more competent, more aggressive, until
     the thin shy girl that she had been slowly disappeared under layers of ambition. Her job became her life, her clothes expensive,
     her tastes in general those that were expected of a rising public-relations star. As long as people noticed you, as long as
     they envied you, that was enough for Agatha.
    By the time she reached Paddington Station, she had walked herself into a more optimistic frame of mind. She had chosen her
     new life and she would make it work. That village was going to sit up and take notice of Agatha Raisin.
    When she arrived home, it was late afternoon and she realized she had had nothing to eat. She went to Harvey's, the general
     store-cum-post-office, and ferreted around in the deep freeze wondering if she could face curry again when her eye was caught
     by a poster pinned up on the wall. "Great Quiche Compe­tition" it announced in curly letters. It was to be held on Saturday
     in the school hall. There were other competitions listed in smaller letters: fruit cake, flower arrangements, and so on. The
     quiche competition was to be judged by a Mr. Cummings-Browne. Agatha scooped a Chicken Korma out of the deep freeze and headed
     for the counter. "Where does Mr. Cummings Browne live?" she asked.
    "That'll be Plumtrees Cottage, m'dear," said the woman. "Down by the church."
    Agatha's mind was racing as she trotted home and shoved the Chicken Korma in the microwave. Wasn't that what mattered in these
     villages? Being the best at something domestic? Now if she, Agatha Raisin, won that quiche competition, they would sit up
     and take notice. Maybe ask her to give lectures on her art at Women's Institute meetings and things like that.
    She carried the revolting mess that was her microwaved dinner into the dining-room and sat down. She frowned at the table-top.
     It was covered with a thin film of dust. Agatha loathed housework.
    After her scrappy meal, she went into the garden at the back. The sun had set and a pale-greenish sky stretched over the hills
     above Carsely. There was a sound of movement from nearby and Agatha looked over the hedge. A narrow path divided her garden
     from the garden next door.
    Her neighbour was bent over a flower-bed, weeding it in the failing light.
    She was an angular woman who, despite the chill of the evening, was wearing a print dress of the type beloved by civil servants'
     wives abroad. She had a receding chin and rather bulbous eyes and her hair was dressed in a forties style, pinned back in
     rolls from her face. All this Agatha was able to see as the woman straightened up.
    "Evening," called Agatha.
    The woman turned on her heel and walked into her house and closed the door.
    Agatha found this rudeness a welcome change after all the friendliness of Carsely. It was more what she was used to. She walked
     back through her own cottage, out the front door, up to the cottage next door, which was called New Delhi, and rapped on the
     brass knocker.
    A curtain at a window near the door twitched but that was the only sign of life. Agatha gleefully knocked again, louder this
     time.
    The door opened a crack and one bulbous eye stared out at her.
    "Good evening," said Agatha, holding out her hand. "I'm your new neighbour."
    The door slowly opened. The woman in the print dress reluctantly picked up Agatha's hand, as if it were a dead fish, and shook
     it. "I am Agatha Raisin," said Agatha, "and you are . . . ?"
    "Mrs. Sheila Barr," said the woman. "You must forgive me, Mrs er... Raisin, but I am very busy at the moment."
    "I won't take up much of your time," said Agatha. "I need a cleaning woman."
    Mrs. Barr gave that infuriating kind of laugh often described as "superior." "You won't get anyone in the village. It's almost
     impossible to get anyone to clean. I have my Mrs. Simpson, so I'm