Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble (4 page)

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 diplomatically 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.

“Sit down,” ordered Harry, lowering himself painfully onto one of the chairs.

“Freda Pinch has decided to drop the case,” said Agatha.

“That’s good.”

“Did you threaten her?”

“Look at me! I couldn’t even threaten a mouse.”

“It just seemed so odd that such a woman should change her mind.”

Harry cackled. “Well, there’s good in all of us. I have to get to bed. Is that all?”

“I suppose so. I’ll see myself out.” Agatha said goodnight and went outside the cottage.

She turned at the gate and looked back. She could see into the room she had left because the curtains hadn’t been drawn. Harry had got to his feet. He had a big smile on his face. As she watched, he raised his stick and swung it at some imaginary foe.

Agatha drove slowly home. She noticed her ex-husband James Lacey’s car parked outside his cottage.

She stopped her car, got out and rang his doorbell. “Why, Agatha!” exclaimed James when he opened the door. “It’s late. Anything up?”

“I could do with a bit of advice.”

“Come in and tell me what’s up. I read about you a while ago in the newspapers. Death by Christmas pudding. Now, there’s a first.”

If only our marriage had worked out, thought Agatha. James was as handsome as ever with his tall, rangy figure, dark hair and bright blue eyes. He was a retired colonel who wrote travel books and historical biographies. But he had proved to be a perpetual bachelor and rows had led to divorce. James brought her a gin and tonic and then said, “Tell me about it.”

So Agatha did while James tried to keep a straight face. “So what’s the problem?” he asked when she had finished. “The only proof you have is that you saw old Harry through the window, taking an imaginary swipe at someone.”

“He shouldn’t get away with hitting someone, even someone as horrible as Freda.”

“If you get the truth out of her, then what? A ninety-year-old pensioner will be charged with assault. Do you want that?”

“Not really.”

“So let it go.”

Business suddenly picked up for Agatha in the following months and she was able to forget about Harry. That was, until the wedding of Matilda and Simon. The church was full, the villagers always turning up in force for any wedding, whether they had been invited or not. Matilda’s son and daughter were there, looking furious. They could see their inheritance fading away.