Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble

expect them all to tug their forelocks and say, ‘Thank you, Lady Bountiful’?”
    “Stop bitching and help me with this tinsel.”
    “I hope you’ve got caterers,” said Charles.
    “I have. But not for the pudding. I made that myself.”
    “Where is it?”
    “Down in the garden shed.”
    “It’s been unusually mild recently, Agatha. Are you sure the flies won’t have got to it?”
    “It’s sealed.”
    “Maybe I’d better have a look at it.” Charles strolled towards the kitchen door with the cats at his heels.
    “Look! But don’t touch.” Agatha called after him.
    Charles opened the shed door and then backed away. He felt like someone in a
CSI
television programme discovering a rotting corpse. The air was full of the hum of flies. The pudding was sitting on a potting bench with black flies swirling around it. He gritted his teeth, stepped into the shed, and carried the pudding back up the garden and into the kitchen.
    “You’d better come and see this,” he called. “The bowl’s covered in flies.”
    Agatha rushed in, took one horrified look at the bowl, seized a can of fly killer and sprayed the pudding.
    “There. That’s all right,” she said as dying flies rolled around the kitchen table.
    “Don’t you think it might now taste awful?” asked Charles.
    “No. It’s well sealed. Clean up those flies, Charles. I know, I’ll put it in the fridge. Why didn’t Sarah think of that?”
    “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