Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble (3 page)

Agatha bent over the pudding—and that is what caused the subsequent tragedy. For Agatha, in her early fifties, had dressed to distinguish herself as far as possible from her aged guests. Under her short skirt, she was wearing lacy topped stockings and frilly knickers. And as she bent over, Len swivelling round in his chair, got a splendid view. His beefy hands seem to move of their own accord. He turned round, leaned forward, slid his hands up Agatha’s skirt and squeezed her buttocks.

“You filthy bastard!” cried Agatha in a red rage. Len swung back round and stared at the table as if he had nothing to do with it. Agatha picked up the pudding in both hands and brought it down on his head.

For one shocked moment, the guests stared at what looked like Pudding Man. Where Len’s head should have been was a round pudding. The candlelight shone on the toffee coating, giving the odd illusion of two flickering eyes.

The pudding must be uncooked in the middle, thought Roy wildly, as brown gunk began to pour down onto Len’s clothes.

Then Len sagged forward and fell with his pudding head on the table and lay still.

“You’ve smothered him!” screamed Freda as Agatha began to desperately claw the pudding from Len’s head.

Simon hurried round to join her and moved her gently aside. He felt Len’s neck for a pulse and found none. “He’s dead, Agatha,” he said.

“He can’t be,” said Agatha, white-faced in the candlelight. “Roy, phone for an ambulance.”

“Just done that,” said Roy.

Simon pulled away as much of the pudding as he could and laid Len down on the floor. He tried artificial respiration and then tried the kiss of life without success.

“Get me some water and towels,” ordered Simon, “and I’ll clean him up.”

“Shouldn’t he be left like that?” said Freda’s shrill voice.

“Why?” demanded Matilda.

“Well, she killed him. That’s why. Call the police.”

“Get me that water,” ordered Simon. “He’s probably died of a heart attack. I can’t leave him like this.”

“I have to go to the toilet,” said Freda.

“Upstairs on your left,” said Roy.

No sooner was she in the bathroom than Freda called the police.

And so it was that Agatha’s first Cotswold friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, working over Christmas, received the call that Agatha Raisin had murdered Len Leech with a Christmas pudding.

“What do you make of it?” asked Detective Constable Alice Peterson as she and Bill sped towards Carsely.

“Agatha’s a dreadful cook,” said Bill. “Let’s hope she hasn’t poisoned anyone.”

“We’ve made good time,” said Alice as they turned down into the road leading to Carsely. “The ambulance is just in front of us.”

Agatha was waiting at the door. “Oh, Bill,” she cried. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Let us in, Mrs. Raisin,” said Bill formally. “We need to view the scene first.”

Mrs. Raisin, not Agatha. Things are looking bad, thought Agatha.

He and Alice stood in the doorway of the dining room. Len’s face had been washed clean of pudding and he had been laid out on the floor. But his clothes were spattered with brown stains of uncooked pudding and shards of toffee.

Bill stood aside to let the paramedics through. “Make sure that he is really dead and then leave the scene. Did you try to revive him?”

“Yes,” said Simon.

“So what happened? Is a Miss Freda Pinch here?”

“That’s me,” said Freda. She pointed at Agatha. “She did it. She hit him on the head with a Christmas pudding.”

Harry Dunster shouted, “You’re lying. I saw it all. Agatha was about to serve and Len knocked her arm and the pudding fell on his head.”

“Yes, I saw that too,” said Matilda quickly. “Didn’t you see it, Simon?”

“Yes, we all saw it.”

“I’m not going to let that woman get away with murder,” screamed Freda.

Bill looked apologetically at Agatha. “Could you escort your guests through to your sitting room? I will take statements. In view of Miss Pinch’s accusation, I will need to call in a forensic team. For the moment, the body cannot be removed. I will interview you one at a time in the kitchen.”

He phoned headquarters in Mircester and asked for the Scenes of Crimes Operatives but was told as it was Christmas, no one would be available until the following day.

Agatha was the first to be called through to the kitchen. “Before we go any further,” said Bill, “what happened to the pudding?”

“Simon Trent cleaned him up. We couldn’t leave him like that.”

“So where are the remains of the pudding?”

“In that plastic bag over there.”

“Right. That will need to be examined. What happened?”

Agatha told Bill and Alice about her desire to give some of the elderly residents a Christmas dinner. The only thing she had cooked was the pudding.

“So what
exactly
happened?”

I’m going to lie to my friend, thought Agatha. But I’m damned if I’m going to serve a life sentence for murdering someone with a pudding.

“I was about to serve it. I was standing behind Len. He had been making passes at me all evening. He was an old lech. He half-stood up and knocked the tray. The pudding landed on his head.” Agatha bit her lip. “I must have made a mistake in the cooking because it was soft in the middle but had a toffee coating. It landed right on his head. It
enveloped
his head.” She bit back a sob.

“Could we do this tomorrow, Bill? I’m in shock. The guests are elderly and should be allowed home.”

“Yes, we’ll take their names and addresses and let them go. But you and Mr. Silver must accompany us to headquarters for questioning.”

Agatha waited nervously in an interview room at the police station. Roy had been taken off to a separate room. She felt miserable, frightened and exhausted. She had been unable to get through to her lawyer. If she asked them to supply a lawyer, they would probably lock her up in a cell until morning and she desperately wanted it to be all over. What on earth had possessed her to lose her temper like that? Perhaps it was the sheer insult that an old crumblie like Len should think she was fair game. If only she hadn’t invited that horrible woman, Freda Pinch.

The door opened and Chief Inspector Wilkes walked in, accompanied by a police sergeant Agatha had not seen before. Wilkes had decided that Bill Wong was too friendly with the suspect to conduct the interview.

Agatha fidgeted as the police sergeant set up the recording and video. His name was Pratt. How appropriate, thought Agatha, disliking the man’s small, beady accusing eyes.

“Now, Mrs. Raisin,” said Wilkes. “Begin at the beginning.”

So Agatha did.

Pratt interrupted when she had got as far as the pudding recipe. “My missus always cooks a Sarah Smith Christmas pudding. Great it is. You must have buggered it up. My missus is a dab hand at . . .”

“Can we get on with the interview?” asked Wilkes coldly.

Pratt interrupted again when Agatha began to describe Len’s lecherous advances.

“Now, then,” he said with a grin, “you ladies of a certain age often imagine us fellows are after you when they’re just being kind.”

Agatha’s face flamed. “Look here, you pillock,” she snarled, “it was not my imagination.”

“I’ll have you for insulting a police officer,” yelled Pratt.

“Let’s get on with it,” said Wilkes wearily.

The night dragged on as Agatha was taken over and over her statement. Then a sealed bowl of rice was brought in on a tray. It was guessed to be the same weight as the pudding. Agatha had to demonstrate over and over again how the accident had happened. Pratt acted the part of Len. To Agatha’s delight, she finally managed to tilt the tray so that the bowl of rice came down on Pratt’s head. The cling film covering split and Pratt swore dreadfully as rice cascaded down over him. At last, she was told not to leave the country and to hold herself in readiness for further questioning.

Agatha found a miserable Roy waiting for her in reception. “The press are waiting for us outside,” he said. “For once in my life I don’t feel like facing them.”

“We’ll use the back door,” said Agatha, “and go home and pack a couple of suitcases and find a hotel. My cottage will soon be crawling with forensic people.”

The next morning, Simon drove around the village collecting the other five of Agatha’s guests in his minibus. The night before he had arranged to take all of them along to police headquarters.

He collected Matilda first so that she could sit beside him. When everyone was in the bus, he said, “I am sure we are all agreed that Agatha upset that pudding over Len’s head, right?”

“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.