Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble

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