Read The Quiche of Death for Free Online

change your mind, pop the quiche in the microwave."
    Mr. Cummings-Browne drank a stiff whisky and watched television, regretting that the hour was before nine in the evening,
     which meant no hope of any full frontal nudity, the powers-that-be having naively thought all children to be in bed by nine
     o'clock, after which time pornography was permissible, although anyone who wrote in to describe it as such was a fuddy-duddy
     who did not appreciate true art. So he watched a nature programme instead and consoled himself with copulating animals. He
     had another whisky and felt hungry. He remembered the quiche. It had been fun watching Agatha Raisin's face at the competition.
     She really had wanted her dinner back, silly woman. People like Agatha Raisin, that sort of middle-aged yuppie, lowered the
     tone decidedly. He went into the kitchen and put two slices of quiche in the microwave and opened a bottle of claret and poured
     himself a glass. Then, putting quiche and wine on a tray, he carried the lot through to the living-room and settled down again
     in front of the television.
    It was two hours later and just before the promised gang rape in a movie called Deep in the Heart that his mouth began to burn as if it were on fire. He felt deathly ill. He fell out of his chair and writhed in convulsions
     on the floor and was dreadfully sick. He lost consciousness as he was fighting his way toward the phone, ending up stretched
     out behind the sofa.
    Mrs. Cummings-Browne arrived home sometime after midnight. She did not see her husband because he was lying behind the sofa,
     nor did she notice any of the pools of vomit because only one dim lamp was burning. She muttered in irritation to see the
     lamp still lit and the television still on. She switched both off.
    Then she went up to her bedroom—it had been some time since she had shared one with her husband—removed her make-up, undressed
     and soon was fast asleep.
    Mrs. Simpson arrived early the next morning, grumbling under her breath. Her work schedule had been disrupted. First the change-over
     to cleaning Mrs. Raisin's place, and now Mrs. Cummings-Browne had asked her to clean on Sunday morning because the Cummings-Brownes
     were going off on holiday to Tuscany on the Monday and Vera Cummings-Browne had wanted the place cleaned before they left.
     But if she worked hard, she could still make it to her Sunday job in Evesham by ten.
    She let herself in with the spare key which was kept under the doormat, made a cup of coffee for herself, drank it at the
     kitchen table and then got to work, starting with the kitchen. She would have liked to do the bedrooms first but she knew
     the Cummings-Brownes slept late. If they were not up by the time she had finished the Living-room, then she would need to
     rouse them. She finished cleaning the kitchen in record time and then went into the living-room, wrinkling her nose at the
     sour smell. She went round behind the sofa to open the window and let some fresh air in and her foot struck the dead body
     of Mr. Cummings-Browne. His face was contorted and bluish. He was lying doubled up. Mrs. Simpson backed away, both hands to
     her mouth. She thought vaguely that Mrs. Cummings Browne must be out. The phone was on the window-ledge. Plucking up her
     courage, she leaned across the dead body and dialled 999 and asked for the police and an ambulance. She then shut herself
     in the kitchen to await their arrival. It never occurred to her to check if he was really dead or to go out and get immediate
     help. She sat at the kitchen table, hands tightly clasped as though in prayer, frozen with shock.
    The local policeman was the first to arrive. Police Constable Fred Griggs was a fat, jolly man, unused to coping with much
     more than looking for stolen cars in the tourist season and charging the odd drunken driver.
    He was bending over the body when the ambulance men arrived.
    In the middle of all the commotion, Mrs. Cummings-Browne descended