Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble

pretty horrible. I won’t be asking her again. It’s my belief she’s just trying to upset you.”
    “Maybe I should talk to her,” said Matilda.
    Simon took her hand. “You’ll only get a mouthful of abuse,” he said. “Leave her alone.”
    After they had left, Agatha phoned Mrs. Bloxby and poured out her woes. “You’ll just need to ignore her,” said the vicar’s wife.
    “I can’t. I’m going to see her right now.”
    “There might be a difficulty. Did you actually bring that pudding down on Mr. Leech’s head?”
    “Got to go,” said Agatha.
    Simon was entertaining three of Agatha’s dinner guests: Matilda, Harry, and Jake.
    Matilda was falling in love with Simon, and Harry and Jake were enjoying what Jake thought of as a return to the living. No more sitting in a lonely home.
    “It is a shame about Freda’s case against Agatha,” said Simon. “I wish we could stop it.”
    Old Harry caressed the silver knob of the stick Agatha had given him and said vaguely, “I’ve a feeling she’ll come around.”

    It was nine in the evening when Agatha set out for Freda’s cottage. Mrs. Bloxby’s remark had upset her. Why on earth should Mrs. Bloxby think that she had actually rammed that pudding down on Len’s head? Because she knows you well, said her conscience.
    The chilly evening air was full of the scents of the countryside. The first stars were beginning to shine. The village breathed peace and serenity outside, while inside Agatha there was a turmoil of anger, guilt and fear. She realised, in that moment, how much the usual placidity of the village meant to her. Living in the Cotswolds, that famous beauty spot, had been a childhood dream. Her parents had once taken her there on holiday, and, although they had bitched about how boring it was and they would have been better off at Butlin’s Holiday Camp, Agatha had fallen in love with the whole area. Why couldn’t Len just have dropped dead before she had attacked him?
    Freda’s small thatched cottage crouched in front of one of the cobbled lanes leading off the main street. The windows on either side of the door glittered in the streetlight like two eyes peering out from under a heavy fringe of thatch.
    Agatha rang the bell. There was no reply. An owl hooted from the nearby woods. Agatha then noticed the door was slightly open. She half-turned away but was suddenly determined to get this confrontation over and done with.
    She edged her way in, calling, “Freda,” at first quietly and then loudly. The little entrance hall was dark and she nearly tripped over a vacuum cleaner. She pushed open a door on her left and switched on the light. She found herself in a cluttered cottage living room. Photographs of Freda at every age were dotted on little tables about the room. A sofa and two armchairs were covered in some sulphurous yellow material to match the yellow painted walls.
    A high-backed leather reclining chair was in front of the television set, which was showing a game show with the sound turned off.
    Agatha edged round it. Freda Pinch sat there. Her eyes were closed. Her face was chalk-white apart from a livid bruise on one cheek.
    Agatha felt a wave of panic. She’s dead, she thought desperately. I’ll be called in for questioning. Let someone else find her. I am not going to spend another night at the police station. Everyone will think I did it.
    She backed slowly towards the door.
    Footprints!
    A forensic team would find her footprints even on this nasty carpet. Then she remembered that vacuum. She collected it from the hall, plugged it in, and began to vacuum every bit of carpet where she thought she had stood.
    She had just reached the living room door when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Agatha screamed with fear and turned round.
    Freda was standing there, very much alive. Her lips opened and closed. “I can’t hear you!” yelled Agatha and switched off the vacuum.
    “I asked you what on earth you were doing vacuuming my floor?” said Freda.
    “Just being neighbourly,” babbled Agatha. “I saw you were asleep and you didn’t look very well, so I thought . . .”
    “Just get out,” said Freda wearily.
    “Where did you get that bruise?” asked Agatha.
    “I fell over. Now, shove off.”

    ****

    Agatha hurried back to her cottage. She was just looking for her keys when once more she felt a tap on her shoulder. Again she screamed and swung round.
    Bill Wong stood there. “You’re a bag of nerves, Agatha.