Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble

TWO

    “What do you make of it?” asked Detective Constable Alice Peterson as she and Bill sped towards Carsely.
    “Agatha’s a dreadful cook,” said Bill. “Let’s hope she hasn’t poisoned anyone.”
    “We’ve made good time,” said Alice as they turned down into the road leading to Carsely. “The ambulance is just in front of us.”
    Agatha was waiting at the door. “Oh, Bill,” she cried. “I haven’t done anything.”
    “Let us in, Mrs. Raisin,” said Bill formally. “We need to view the scene first.”
    Mrs. Raisin, not Agatha. Things are looking bad, thought Agatha.
    He and Alice stood in the doorway of the dining room. Len’s face had been washed clean of pudding and he had been laid out on the floor. But his clothes were spattered with brown stains of uncooked pudding and shards of toffee.
    Bill stood aside to let the paramedics through. “Make sure that he is really dead and then leave the scene. Did you try to revive him?”
    “Yes,” said Simon.
    “So what happened? Is a Miss Freda Pinch here?”
    “That’s me,” said Freda. She pointed at Agatha. “She did it. She hit him on the head with a Christmas pudding.”
    Harry Dunster shouted, “You’re lying. I saw it all. Agatha was about to serve and Len knocked her arm and the pudding fell on his head.”
    “Yes, I saw that too,” said Matilda quickly. “Didn’t you see it, Simon?”
    “Yes, we all saw it.”
    “I’m not going to let that woman get away with murder,” screamed Freda.
    Bill looked apologetically at Agatha. “Could you escort your guests through to your sitting room? I will take statements. In view of Miss Pinch’s accusation, I will need to call in a forensic team. For the moment, the body cannot be removed. I will interview you one at a time in the kitchen.”
    He phoned headquarters in Mircester and asked for the Scenes of Crimes Operatives but was told as it was Christmas, no one would be available until the following day.
    Agatha was the first to be called through to the kitchen. “Before we go any further,” said Bill, “what happened to the pudding?”
    “Simon Trent cleaned him up. We couldn’t leave him like that.”
    “So where are the remains of the pudding?”
    “In that plastic bag over there.”
    “Right. That will need to be examined. What happened?”
    Agatha told Bill and Alice about her desire to give some of the elderly residents a Christmas dinner. The only thing she had cooked was the pudding.
    “So what
exactly
happened?”
    I’m going to lie to my friend, thought Agatha. But I’m damned if I’m going to serve a life sentence for murdering someone with a pudding.
    “I was about to serve it. I was standing behind Len. He had been making passes at me all evening. He was an old lech. He half-stood up and knocked the tray. The pudding landed on his head.” Agatha bit her lip. “I must have made a mistake in the cooking because it was soft in the middle but had a toffee coating. It landed right on his head. It
enveloped
his head.” She bit back a sob.
    “Could we do this tomorrow, Bill? I’m in shock. The guests are elderly and should be allowed home.”
    “Yes, we’ll take their names and addresses and let them go. But you and Mr. Silver must accompany us to headquarters for questioning.”

    Agatha waited nervously in an interview room at the police station. Roy had been taken off to a separate room. She felt miserable, frightened and exhausted. She had been unable to get through to her lawyer. If she asked them to supply a lawyer, they would probably lock her up in a cell until morning and she desperately wanted it to be all over. What on earth had possessed her to lose her temper like that? Perhaps it was the sheer insult that an old crumblie like Len should think she was fair game. If only she hadn’t invited that horrible woman, Freda Pinch.
    The door opened and Chief Inspector Wilkes walked in, accompanied by a police sergeant Agatha had not seen before. Wilkes had decided that Bill Wong was too friendly with the suspect to conduct the interview.
    Agatha fidgeted as the police sergeant set up the recording and video. His name was Pratt. How appropriate, thought Agatha, disliking the man’s small, beady accusing eyes.
    “Now, Mrs. Raisin,” said Wilkes. “Begin at the beginning.”
    So Agatha did.
    Pratt interrupted when she had got as far as the pudding recipe. “My missus always cooks a Sarah Smith Christmas pudding. Great it is. You must have buggered