Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble

very tight across the shoulders.
    Agatha had chosen to wear a long floaty summer dress of chiffon patterned with large roses. She had an impulse to cry when they made their marriage vows. Agatha had been married twice and longed to give it another go, despite the fact that both marriages had been disasters.
    Jake Turnbull was there, still looking amazingly healthy. Harry Dunster was in the glory of a very old morning suit which hung loosely on his skinny figure.
    All Agatha’s niggling worries about Freda came back. She was sitting next to Mrs. Bloxby. “Have you heard anything about Freda?” she whispered.
    “Don’t you know?” the vicar’s wife whispered back. “She sold up and left the village. I believe she bought a flat in Oxford.”
    I don’t like that old codger getting away with it, thought Agatha fiercely. Okay, Freda was a pain in the bum, but no man should get away with striking a woman.
    A little voice in her head admonished her. You don’t know he did anything. It could all be your imagination.
    “I’m going to challenge Harry outright,” Agatha whispered fiercely.
    “It’s a wedding!” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Don’t do anything to spoil the day.”
    “Shhh!” said a man in the pew behind them.

    The wedding ser vice finished. Agatha and a few others had been invited to a restaurant in Moreton-in-Marsh for a celebration lunch.
    The congregation filed out into the sunshine of the village churchyard. Agatha saw Harry standing over by a table tombstone. Ignoring Mrs. Bloxby’s attempts to hold her back, she went up to him.
    “Harry Dunster,” said Agatha fiercely, “I swear you struck and threatened Freda.’
    “Lovely day, isn’t it?” he said, looking up at the sky. “I’m waiting for my lift to Moreton.”
    “Answer me!” said Agatha. “Did you or did you not strike Freda?”
    He grinned. “An old man like me?”
    “Come along, Mrs. Raisin,” urged Ms. Bloxby, pulling at her arm.
    Agatha turned away.
    “Oh, Mrs. Raisin,” called Harry.
    Agatha turned back.
    He winked at her, waved the stick she had bought him and swiped it through the air. “Gotcha!” he cried. “Take that!”
    He began to laugh, a horrible wheezing, cackling sound. Then he lost his balance, staggered backwards, his arms flailing and fell down against the tombstone, cracking his head on the edge of it.
    Agatha rushed forward and bent over him. Blood was oozing from his head. The bells from the church tower pealed out deafeningly over the scene.
    His eyes flickered open. “Got your answer,” he mumbled, and then all life drained out of him.

    Two weeks later, Agatha was being interviewed for the local newspaper, the
Mircester Times
. It was the silly season and the editor had decided that an interview with a local detective would fill up the pages. Agatha had agreed to it, on the condition that there should be no mention of the Christmas pudding affair.
    She bragged happily about all her successful cases with a few embellishments. Then she posed for photographs, something she hated to do.
    “A few more questions, Mrs. Raisin,” said the interviewer, a thin, nervous girl with great ambitions but little talent. “Would you consider yourself a feminist?”
    “That is a hard question to reply to,” said Agatha. “If one says ‘yes,’ one is damned as having hairy legs, a bullying attitude, a hatred of men and no bra. If one says ‘no,’ then people think one is old-fashioned and believes that men know better.”
    “So what
are
you?”
    “I am unique,” said Agatha crossly. “Now, if we could just wind this thing up . . .”
    “One more question. Have you ever believed someone to be guilty of a crime but were unable to prove it?”
    Suddenly, Agatha was back in the churchyard. Harry cackled in the sunlight and swung his stick.
    “No,” said Agatha Raisin firmly. “Never.”

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.