Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble (2 page)

“Okay. But I’m going to have a stiff drink first,” said Roy. “Have one yourself. You might need it.”

“Get yourself a drink and start reading.” Agatha wrapped herself in an apron she had never used before. Most of her cooking was done by putting readymade meals in the micro wave.

When Roy was finally seated at the table with a large vodka and tonic, he began to read out Sarah’s instructions. “ ‘Take your largest, roomiest mixing bowl and start putting in the suet, sifted flour and breadcrumbs, spices and sugar.’ I don’t think those are the right breadcrumbs, Aggie. They’re those orange ones people put on fish. And the almonds are supposed to be skinned and chopped, not put in whole. And you didn’t peel the apple.”

“Nobody’ll notice,” said Agatha. “Read on.”

What a lot of ingredients, thought Agatha. Part of the advice was to tick everything off, but Agatha couldn’t be bothered. For example, she was supposed to put the barley wine, rum and stout into a smaller basin and beat it up with the eggs, but she cut corners by just pouring it all into the mix in the big bowl.

Roy took a turn stirring. “It’s supposed to be sloppy,” he complained.

“Easily solved,” said Agatha, tipping a generous amount of rum into the bowl and then taking a swig out of the bottle to fortify herself.

“Now what?” she asked.

“You’re supposed to cover it with a clean tea towel and leave to soak overnight.”

“And what do we have to do tomorrow?”

“Steam it for eight hours. I didn’t see you sift the flour,” said Roy anxiously. “You just dumped it in.”

“So I did,” said Agatha, stifling a yawn. “We’ll steam the beastly thing in the morning.”

But the next day, after they had put the pudding on to steam, it seemed too boring to wait indoors and so they went to the pub for lunch and forgot about it, only remembering as they were strolling back down the road. Both broke into a run. The windows of the cottage were covered in steam. Agatha ran through billowing clouds of steam in time to put more water into the pot which was about to boil dry.

They opened the doors and windows to let the steam out and then Agatha had to field phone calls from various villagers asking if her house was on fire.

“It’s been on four hours.” Agatha peered at the pudding anxiously. “That should be enough. What do I do with it now?”

“You’re supposed to put it in a cool place like an un-heated bedroom.”

“Everything’s heated in this house,” said Agatha. “I’ll put it down in the shed.”

“Maybe you should buy one from a supermarket just in case,” suggested Roy.

“What! After all my work!”

“And mine,” pointed out Roy. “Nonetheless . . .”

“Nonetheless nothing,” said Agatha. “Sarah is supposed to be infallible.”

“Only if you follow the recipe,” muttered Roy.

****

Agatha’s friend, Sir Charles Fraith, who had the keys to her cottage, strolled in one evening shortly before Christmas, to find Agatha trying to fend off her cats, Hodge and Boswell, as she decorated a large fake-green Christmas tree.

“Thought you’d be off soon to somewhere sunny,” said Charles. “Why all the decorations?”

Agatha told him.

“For a hard-nosed detective, occasionally you’re a bit of a dreamer, Agatha. Do you expect them all to tug their forelocks and say, ‘Thank you, Lady Bountiful’?”

“Stop bitching and help me with this tinsel.”

“I hope you’ve got caterers,” said Charles.

“I have. But not for the pudding. I made that myself.”

“Where is it?”

“Down in the garden shed.”

“It’s been unusually mild recently, Agatha. Are you sure the flies won’t have got to it?”

“It’s sealed.”

“Maybe I’d better have a look at it.” Charles strolled towards the kitchen door with the cats at his heels.

“Look! But don’t touch.” Agatha called after him.

Charles opened the shed door and then backed away. He felt like someone in a
CSI
television programme discovering a rotting corpse. The air was full of the hum of flies. The pudding was sitting on a potting bench with black flies swirling around it. He gritted his teeth, stepped into the shed, and carried the pudding back up the garden and into the kitchen.

“You’d better come and see this,” he called. “The bowl’s covered in flies.”

Agatha rushed in, took one horrified look at the bowl, seized a can of fly killer and sprayed the pudding.

“There. That’s all right,” she said as dying flies rolled around the kitchen table.

“Don’t you think it might now taste awful?” asked Charles.

“No. It’s well sealed. Clean up those flies, Charles. I know, I’ll put it in the fridge. Why didn’t Sarah think of that?”

“Obviously because that’s one thing you shouldn’t do.”

“Rats! She said a cool place and so the fridge is a cool place. Don’t nag. Just shovel up the flies. Do you want to come to this dinner?”

“When is it?”

“Christmas Day.”

“Can’t. Got to carve the bird at home. Do video it. I could do with a laugh.”

Roy arrived on Christmas Eve, just as Agatha was preparing to turn the pudding onto a plate.

“There!” she said triumphantly. “Oh, no, I think it’s going to fall apart. What will I do?”

“We could make a toffee glaze and pour it over. All we need is a lot of sugar and water. I can do that.”

Agatha waited nervously until Roy had made the toffee covering. He poured it over the pudding. “Now, if we put it gently back in the fridge, it’ll harden. Stick some holly on the top and it’ll look great. But God knows what it will taste like. I checked the ingredients you had left out.”

“I didn’t leave any out,” howled Agatha.

“Suit yourself.”

****

Matilda Glossop fretted over what to wear. It seemed a long time since she had been invited to any social event. She finally chose a black wool dress and tied a scarlet silk scarf at the neck to brighten it up. She had knitted a soft wool scarf for Agatha.

Harry Dunster decided on comfort, putting on his usual ratty old cardigan and checked shirt over a pair of black trousers, shiny with age. For a present he chose a pretty Crown Derby teacup. It was a bit chipped and had lost its saucer a long time ago.

Jack Turnbull thought that Agatha was rich enough not to need any present from him. Still, it
was
Christmas. He relucantly wrapped up a bottle of homemade sloe gin in a piece of newspaper. He put on the ratcatchers outfit he used for hunting: tweed hacking jacket and cords. Hunting was his one luxury.

Simon Trent put on his evening suit, glad that it still fitted. He wrapped up a pretty mother-of-pearl powder compact he had found in an antique shop and also wrapped up a bottle of champagne in Christmas paper.

Freda Pinch was wearing a long green evening gown and fake pearls. Her face was heavily made up. She decided not to buy Agatha anything. If Agatha was playing the part of the Lady Bountiful, then let her give and not expect anything. Simon Trent would be there and Freda often fantasised about him.

Len Leech put on his “best” clothes: a silk shirt and striped tie, double-breasted blazer with the Carsely bowling club crest on the pocket and dark trousers. His present for Agatha was a black lace thong. That’ll get her in the right mood, he thought complacently.

****

The party of elderly people was finally assembled in Agatha’s sitting room, where she had decided to put the tree with presents for all of them underneath it. Her cats had done their best to sabotage the tree decorations and so she had begged her cleaner, Doris Simpson, to look after them for the day.

“Welcome, everyone,” cried Agatha. “I have some presents for you. Roy will pass them out.”

“Ladies first,” said Roy. “Mrs. Glossop.”

Matilda nervously unwrapped her present. It was a very beautiful cashmere shawl. Agatha had fretted about what to give everyone so much that she had settled on expensive presents.

Next came Freda Pinch. Her present was an electric foot massager. She murmured her startled thanks at the generosity of the gift.

“Harry Dunster,” called Roy. He was enjoying himself despite the fact that Agatha had forced him to wear a conservative suit and tie.

Harry creaked forward and unwrapped his long present with arthritic fingers. Revealed was an ebony cane with a silver top. He stared at it in surprise. “It be right beautiful,” he said. “Thanks.”

Jake Turnbull was equally delighted to get a case of fine burgundy. Simon Trent received a gift token for an expensive dinner for two at a posh restaurant in Broadway.

Last came Len Leech. Before Agatha could guess what he was going to do, he whipped out a spring of mistletoe, held it over her head and tried to kiss her on the mouth. She jerked her head away and said sharply, “Do open your present, Mr. Leech.”

“Len to you, sweetie,” he leered.

His present was a Chinese silk dressing gown. As he grinned down at it and then gave Agatha a salacious smile, she realised the folly of her choice of present.

Then it was Agatha’s turn. She left Len Leech’s offering to the last, wishng he would stop smirking and ogling her. His rather prominent eyes roamed over her body. She felt they were like two snails, leaving pornographic trails.

She stared down at the thong. “Thanks,” she said curtly. “Shall we go in to dinner?”

Len charged ahead and took a seat at the top of the table, leaving Agatha to sit at the other end, with her back to the hall. Freda tried to grab a seat next to Simon Trent, but she had stumbled in her rush and so he got there before her and took a place next to Matilda. Jake Turnbull was already on his other side. Roy helped old Harry Dunster to a chair next to Agatha, and then sat on her other side.

Agatha was pleased with the room. Holly decorated the picture frames and tall candles shone down on the table. She was glad she had decided to give up any pretence of having cooked practically all of the dinner herself. After the Christmas crackers had been pulled, the first course of pâté arrived.

“Has anyone heard this one about the actress and the bishop?” asked Len.

“Frequently,” snapped Agatha.

“What about the one about the gorilla? This gorilla kidnapped this woman and . . .”

“Heard it,” said Roy. “Everyone’s heard it. Kindly leave the stage.”

But Freda, flushed with unaccustomed wine and feeling like the femme fatale of her fantasies, said, “I haven’t.”

“This here gorilla,” said Len, “kidnaps this woman in Africa. Takes her up his tree and rapes her for two months. She’s rescued and gets back to America. She’s crying and telling a friend about her ordeal. ‘It must be awful for you,’ says the friend. ‘It is,’ says this woman. ‘He doesn’t write. He doesn’t phone.’ ” And Len laughed so hard, he nearly fell off his chair.

“But I don’t understand,” said Freda. “Who doesn’t write or phone?”

“The gorilla doesn’t,” said Len.

“But gorillas do not know how to write or phone. Do you mean, perhaps, whoever rescued her?”

Simon began to laugh.

“Oh, forget it,” said Len sulkily.

Their plates were removed and then the turkey was wheeled in. Soon everyone was digging in and there was a murmur of conversation from everyone but Len as vegetables were passed around and gravy poured.

“This is absolutely delicious, Mrs. Raisin,” said Matilda.

“Agatha, please.”

Roy was wondering nervously if Agatha was being too generous with the wine that the caterers were diligently pouring as soon as they saw an empty glass. He looked down the table at Len and with a sinking heart recognised the signs of a nasty drunk. Len had moved from the jolly stage to the sentimental stage. His eyes filled with tears, he kept praising and toasting Agatha. Roy guessed he would soon move to the mean and belligerent stage.

“This is very good of you,” said Simon. “The food is delicious.”

“And I’ll drink to that,” said Len. “Come on, you ancient lot. Drink up.”

“I’ve a feeling he’s going to get out of hand,” Matilda whispered to Simon. He smiled down at her, thanking his stars he had what he considered the best company at the party.

“Don’t worry. I’ll cope with him.”

Jake Turnbull pushed his glass away. He suddenly, for the first time in ages, did not feel like getting drunk. The food was marvellous and he was overwhelmed with the fact that he did not have to spend Christmas on his own.

Old Harry Dunster refused more wine as well. The food was a dream and he didn’t want to lose a bit of its savour.

“Is this a charity dinner, like?” demanded Len truculently.

“It’s a Christmas dinner, that’s all,” said Agatha.

“Makes you feel good, does it?” pursued Len. “I suppose you rich people can afford it.”

Simon threw down his napkin. He went up to Len and bent over him.

“If you don’t shut your face,” he whispered, “I’ll push your teeth down your throat.”

He then smiled around the company and resumed his seat.

Len simmered with hatred. There was that Agatha female queening it and she was little better than a whore with that toy boy of hers at her side.

Finally the plates were cleared away. Agatha went into the kitchen and paid off the caterers and then called to Roy to help her with the pudding. It stood on a decorated plate on the kitchen table. Roy sniffed it. “Agatha, I could swear this pudding smells of insecticide.”

“Nonsense.”

“Are you going to light it here?”

“No, put it on the side table behind Len. I was supposed to sit there. I’ll take in the pudding and you bring in the bowls and the brandy butter.”

Agatha carried in the pudding. Everyone except Len cheered. Roy beamed all round from the doorway. Agatha’s Christmas was a success after all.

But Agatha found that the caterers had taken away their serving table. Roy went back into the kitchen, put down his tray of bowls and brandy butter and carried in a stool.

“Is this all you can find?” asked Agatha. “It’s very low. Oh, well, I’ll see if I can manage.”

“Clear a space on the table and put it there,” said Roy.

“No, we’ll manage. Put the tray on the floor beside me and hand me a bottle of rum. I’m going to light it.”