Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble

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.
    Matilda was wearing a dull gold silk suit and a large hat embellished with silk flowers. Simon was in morning dress,