Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble (short story) Read online

  “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 L
en 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.”

  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.

  PART TWO

  “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 g
ame. 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.”