Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble

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 Len 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