Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble

by Beaton, M. C.

  “That’s not how it happened,” said Freda shrilly. “She did it deliberately. She killed him and so I shall tell them.”

  “They won’t believe you,” said Harry Dunster. “They’ll see you for the jealous old bag you are.”

  “How dare you!” shrieked Freda. “I’ll have that woman arrested for murder if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Could well be,” said Jake Turnbull.

  “It’s no use threatening me,” said Freda. “I shall tell the truth.”

  Freda was the only one not to have been moved by Agatha’s generosity. Matilda was shyly attracted to Simon and thought that if it hadn’t been for Agatha she would never have got to know him. Harry Dunster and Jake Turn-bull thought of previous lonely Christmases and the fact that Simon had said that now they had got to know each other, he could arrange a few trips and parties.

  A week later, Bill Wong called on Agatha. “Got the handcuffs?” asked Agatha gloomily.

  “No, you’re in the clear. You did not suffocate the man with pudding. The results of the autopsy are in. He died of a combination of alcohol, a massive dose of Viagra, and his liver was hobnailed and his heart in dangerously bad shape. But you have a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Despite the testimony of our other guests that it was an accident, Freda Pinch is not only sticking to her guns, she is threatening to take out a civil suit against you, according to what she told Wilkes. Mind you, I think she is just threatening. It would cost her a hell of a lot of money, she’s not even a relative, and, as the police have proved you were not guilty, she wouldn’t get very far. Have you heard anything from lawyers?”

  “Not a thing. Damn that bloody woman. I could kill her.”

  “I didn’t hear that. But that pudding! Agatha, most of the ingredients were in uncooked lumps along with two dead flies. Stick to the micro wave in future.”

  “There must have been something wrong with the recipe.”

  “The infallible Sarah? Sorry. Nowhere in that recipe does she suggest adding uncooked, unchopped fruit and nuts, not to mention dead flies and insecticide.”

  “What’ll I do about Freda?” asked Agatha.

  “Just ignore it. She won’t get anywhere.”

  After he had left, Agatha received a visit from Simon and Matilda. “I took Matilda to that restaurant in Broadway,” said Simon. “We had a marvellous meal. We wondered how you were getting on.”

  Agatha told them about Freda and the civil suit. “Oh, dear,” said Simon. “Two days ago, I took everyone into Cheltenham for the day. I included Freda in the invitation. She was pretty horrible. I won’t be asking her again. It’s my belief she’s just trying to upset you.”

  “Maybe I should talk to her,” said Matilda.

  Simon took her hand. “You’ll only get a mouthful of abuse,” he said. “Leave her alone.”

  After they had left, Agatha phoned Mrs. Bloxby and poured out her woes. “You’ll just need to ignore her,” said the vicar’s wife.

  “I can’t. I’m going to see her right now.”

  “There might be a difficulty. Did you actually bring that pudding down on Mr. Leech’s head?”

  “Got to go,” said Agatha.

  Simon was entertaining three of Agatha’s dinner guests: Matilda, Harry, and Jake.

  Matilda was falling in love with Simon, and Harry and Jake were enjoying what Jake thought of as a return to the living. No more sitting in a lonely home.

  “It is a shame about Freda’s case against Agatha,” said Simon. “I wish we could stop it.”

  Old Harry caressed the silver knob of the stick Agatha had given him and said vaguely, “I’ve a feeling she’ll come around.”

  It was nine in the evening when Agatha set out for Freda’s cottage. Mrs. Bloxby’s remark had upset her. Why on earth should Mrs. Bloxby think that she had actually rammed that pudding down on Len’s head? Because she knows you well, said her conscience.

  The chilly evening air was full of the scents of the countryside. The first stars were beginning to shine. The village breathed peace and serenity outside, while inside Agatha there was a turmoil of anger, guilt and fear. She realised, in that moment, how much the usual placidity of the village meant to her. Living in the Cotswolds, that famous beauty spot, had been a childhood dream. Her parents had once taken her there on holiday, and, although they had bitched about how boring it was and they would have been better off at Butlin’s Holiday Camp, Agatha had fallen in love with the whole area. Why couldn’t Len just have dropped dead before she had attacked him?

  Freda’s small thatched cottage crouched in front of one of the cobbled lanes leading off the main street. The windows on either side of the door glittered in the streetlight like two eyes peering out from under a heavy fringe of thatch.

  Agatha rang the bell. There was no reply. An owl hooted from the nearby woods. Agatha then noticed the door was slightly open. She half-turned away but was suddenly determined to get this confrontation over and done with.

  She edged her way in, calling, “Freda,” at first quietly and then loudly. The little entrance hall was dark and she nearly tripped over a vacuum cleaner. She pushed open a door on her left and switched on the light. She found herself in a cluttered cottage living room. Photographs of Freda at every age were dotted on little tables about the room. A sofa and two armchairs were covered in some sulphurous yellow material to match the yellow painted walls.

  A high-backed leather reclining chair was in front of the television set, which was showing a game show with the sound turned off.

  Agatha edged round it. Freda Pinch sat there. Her eyes were closed. Her face was chalk-white apart from a livid bruise on one cheek.

  Agatha felt a wave of panic. She’s dead, she thought desperately. I’ll be called in for questioning. Let someone else find her. I am not going to spend another night at the police station. Everyone will think I did it.

  She backed slowly towards the door.

  Footprints!

  A forensic team would find her footprints even on this nasty carpet. Then she remembered that vacuum. She collected it from the hall, plugged it in, and began to vacuum every bit of carpet where she thought she had stood.

  She had just reached the living room door when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Agatha screamed with fear and turned round.

  Freda was standing there, very much alive. Her lips opened and closed. “I can’t hear you!” yelled Agatha and switched off the vacuum.

  “I asked you what on earth you were doing vacuuming my floor?” said Freda.

  “Just being neighbourly,” babbled Agatha. “I saw you were asleep and you didn’t look very well, so I thought . . .”

  “Just get out,” said Freda wearily.

  “Where did you get that bruise?” asked Agatha.

  “I fell over. Now, shove off.”

  ****

  Agatha hurried back to her cottage. She was just looking for her keys when once more she felt a tap on her shoulder. Again she screamed and swung round.

  Bill Wong stood there. “You’re a bag of nerves, Agatha. What’s up?”

  “Come in inside and I’ll tell you after I’ve had a stiff gin.”

  Bill listened to her account of her visit to Freda, while sipping a glass of orange juice and trying hard not to laugh. When she had finished, he said, “Actually, I came to tell you that Freda has dropped the case against you. It appears she is very short-sighted and was frightened of being made a fool of in court.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” said Agatha. “Why do my cats always drape themselves round you? I feed the beasts and the only attention I get from them is when they need more food.”

  “Well, I’d better go,” said Bill, detaching Hodge from his neck and Boswell from his lap. “How’s your love life?”

  “Moribund. How’s yours? What about pretty Alice?”

  “Can’t have romances with colleagues,” said Bill. “Mum sends her love.”

  Agatha dipl
omatically accepted the lie, knowing that Bill’s mother detested her.

  After he had gone and she was getting ready for bed, a picture of Freda’s white and bruised face came into her mind. She bit her lip in vexation. Mrs. Bloxby had told her that, with the exception of Freda, her remaining dinner guests had become fast friends.

  Had one of them intimidated Freda? Was that how she got the bruise on her cheek?

  Let it go, she told her never-very-active conscience.

  But the following day was a Saturday and she decided to visit Simon Trent. If someone had been threatening Freda, then the least she could do was to put a stop to it.

  Matilda, who blushed like a schoolgirl when she saw Agatha, opened the door of Simon’s cottage. “I just dropped round to make Simon a late breakfast,” she said.

  “Who is it, darling?” came Simon’s voice from upstairs.

  “Darling?” queried Agatha with a crocodile grim.

  “Come in,” said Matilda. “Have you had your break-fast?”

  Agatha said she had, although breakfast as usual had consisted of two Bensons and a black coffee.

  As Agatha sat down at a chair in Simon’s kitchen, Simon came in to join them, freshly shaved and showered.

  “I came to tell you that Freda has dropped the case against me,” said Agatha.

  “What a relief,” said Simon. “Did you show Agatha your ring?”

  Matilda shyly held out her hand on which a sapphire and diamond ring glistened.

  “Oh, congratulations,” said Agatha sincerely, thinking, if you can nail a man at your age, there’s hope for me yet. “When’s the wedding?”

  “In about two months’ time,” said Simon. “We haven’t fixed an exact date yet. You’ve got to come. We’d never have met if it hadn’t been for you.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite Agatha.

  “I’m a bit worried about Freda,” said Agatha.

  “Why?” demanded Simon. “She’s caused you nothing but trouble.”

  “She’s got a nasty bruise on her cheek. She said it was an accident, but I cannot see such as Freda suddenly deciding to drop the case against me. I wondered if someone had tried to intimidate her.”

  “Who would do that?” said Matilda. “Not me or Simon.”

  “Isn’t Jake Turnbull famous for drunken rages?” asked Agatha.

  “He’s pretty much sworn off the booze. Thanks to you, we’ve all been socialising a bit. He’s turned out to be good company.”

  “So that leaves Harry Dunster.”

  Simon laughed. “He’s old. He can barely walk. Freda would only need to blow on him to knock him over. I think you’ll find Freda had a change of heart.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Look,” said Simon, “I’ll go along and see her and let you know what she says. She might talk to me.”

  After Agatha had left, Simon walked along to Freda’s cottage. “Come in!” cried Freda. “How nice to see you. Just excuse me a moment.”

  Freda rushed upstairs and applied heavy make-up and scarlet lipstick before going down to join Simon.

  “Have you had breakfast?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you. I heard you had a nasty bruise on your face and I was worried about you.”

  “How like you!” cried Freda. “You were the only person at that dreadful party that I feel I had some rapport with. Please sit down. I had a nasty fall, that’s all.”

  “I am pleased you have dropped the case against Agatha.”

  “I decided she wasn’t worth the expense and effort of going to court. Besides, that lawyer of hers was trying to get me to take an eye test. He said he could prove I couldn’t have seen anything properly.”

  Freda was not wearing glasses, but beside her on a small table was a pair of spectacles with thick lenses.

  Simon was seated on the sofa. Freda sat down next to him. She put a hand on his knee and smiled coyly up at him. “Let’s not talk about that dreadful woman.”

  “I do have some good news,” said Simon. “Matilda and I are going to get married.”

  Freda removed her hand and glared at him. “You’re making a big mistake. That woman has men visiting her at all times of night.”

  She’s mad, thought Simon. He got to his feet and walked straight out of the door.

  Agatha heard his news when he phoned her. She then phoned her lawyer, Jeffrey Hawthorne, to thank him. “How did you guess she was so short-sighted?” said Agatha. “I wouldn’t have known. I never saw her wearing glasses.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Raisin,” said Jeffrey. “I never contacted her at all.”

  “I wonder why she said that?”

  “My guess is that she didn’t want to go through with it and thought up some excuse on the spur of the moment.”

  Agatha could not let it go. She set off in her car to drive to Jake Turnbull’s farm. Agatha did not like farms. They were all right as a decoration to the countryside, but one didn’t want to get close enough to be reminded that the charming animals were more than likely to end up on one’s dinner plate.

  Jake was standing beside a combine harvester in his yard, talking to one of his men. His face brightened when he saw Agatha.

  “Let’s have a coffee,” he said. “I’m right glad to see you.”

  He certainly looked a lot healthier, but in Agatha’s experience, once a chronic drunk, always a drunk.

  She followed him into a dark, stone-flagged kitchen. It was cool and pleasant. A good Welsh dresser stood against one wall with an array of fine Crown Derby plates. Copper pans hung from hooks and there was a good smell of fresh coffee coming from a percolator on the counter.

  “You’re very comfortable here,” said Agatha.

  “A couple of women from the village do for me. Better than having a wife. You can’t sack a wife without paying alimony. How do you like your coffee?”

  “Black, please.”

  He put a mug of coffee in front of her and then a large glass ashtray. I shouldn’t smoke, thought Agatha. I must give up. Oh, to hell with it. She lit a Bensons.

  “I’m worried about Freda,” she began.

  “Why? Nasty bit o’ goods.”

  “I called on her and she had a nasty bruise on her cheek. I was worried someone might have been trying to intimidate her. You see, she’s dropped the case against me.”

  “I can’t think of anyone who would be bothered. Mind you, me and Simon, Matilda and Harry would have liked to stop her going ahead, but none of us would attack her. She’d turn around and sue the socks off her, that one would.”

  Agatha had to accept the logic of this. But the weekend stretched ahead, empty and friendless. Well, not exactly friendless, she thought, brightening. She drove to the vicarage.

  The vicar answered the door. “Yes?” he demanded.

  “I’ve called to see your wife.”

  “She’s busy.” The door began to close. Agatha waited. She knew the vicar didn’t like her. She could hear the sounds of an altercation and then the door was jerked open.

  “Please come in,” said Mrs. Bloxby, looking flushed. “We’ll sit in the garden. Such a lovely day. One can almost feel spring arriving.”

  “Don’t blame me for not getting rid of that harridan,” came the vicar’s voice from the study.

  “He’s not talking about you,” said Mrs. Bloxby hurriedly.

  Oh, yeah, thought Agatha, but said nothing, merely following the vicar’s wife into the garden.

  Agatha sat down in a garden seat. “I have something that’s worrying me,” she said. She told Mrs. Bloxby about Freda’s bruise and change of heart.

  “I think you should take time out from detecting,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I don’t think there’s any mystery there. Who are you left with? Old Mr. Dunster? He’s hardly in a state to attack anyone.”

  Agatha then told her about Simon and Matilda becoming engaged. After that, Mrs. Bloxby talked about parish matters, and Agatha relaxed in her chair, soothed by
her quiet voice.

  But as soon as she had left the vicarage, it was as if Mrs. Bloxby were some tranquillising drug that was wearing off. Such as Freda surely did not give up easily.

  Old Harry might be too frail to threaten anyone, but he might have an idea of who could have done it.

  But when she called at Harry’s cottage, it was to find he was not at home.

  Simon had decided to take out what he called the Christmas party to a restaurant in Moreton-in-Marsh for dinner. It was only when they were all seated around the table that he said, “I should have asked Agatha. I’ve never asked her to any of our get-togethers. I always assumed she was busy, but it is the weekend.”

  “Phone her now,” suggested Matilda.

  “It might look rude. Too last minute. Besides, she must have a pretty full social life.”

  The woman with the “full social life” was at that very moment shoving a packet of The Swami’s Chicken Vindaloo in the micro wave and hoping there might be something worth watching on television. Let it go, she told herself. You only think there’s a mystery because you’re bored.

  But after she had gulped down the curry and let her cats out into the garden, she drove once more to Harry’s cottage. It was on a rise above the village, a dismal little building of cheap red brick which had once been a farm labourer’s cottage.

  This time, Harry’s mobility scooter was parked outside. Agatha rang the bell and waited, hearing shuffling footsteps approaching the door on the other side. The door creaked open and Harry, leaning heavily on the stick Agatha had given him, looked at her in surprise. “It’s late,” he said.

  “Just wanted a word.”

  “What about?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “All right. But the place is a mess.”

  He shoved open a door leading to a parlour, which looked as if it were kept for “best.” There was a black horse hair sofa dominating the room. Stuffed birds and animals in glass cases stood on a long oak sideboard. A dark oil painting of a rural scene hung over the sealed-up fireplace. In the middle of the room stood a small table surrounded by four upright chairs. The room smelled of dust, disinfectant, and essence of Harry: urine, sweat and mothballs.