Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance

by Beaton, M. C.

  Agatha drew him into the house, babbling about the ruined turkey.

  ‘What a mess!’ said Charles, looking around. ‘Did you plan to serve that sliced turkey the cats are eating?’

  Agatha loved her cats, but right at that moment she felt she could have slaughtered both of them. She chased them out into the garden and sat down and buried her head in her hands.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Charles. ‘Just come through with your credit card when I call you. Have you got anything to start them off?’

  Agatha opened the fridge and pointed. ‘That looks all right,’ said Charles. ‘Go and wipe the soot off your face.’

  Agatha repaired her make-up and came down the stairs just as the first guests started to arrive.

  She poured them all drinks and stood chatting, wondering what Charles was up to.

  She went into the kitchen once, but he was on the phone and broke off to say, ‘Serve them their starters. I’ll be in in a moment.’

  Agatha led them all through to the dining-room. What a terrible expense all this had turned out to be. She had even bought extra chairs for the dining-room. They all exclaimed over the decorations. The table was looking fine. It was decorated with holly wrapped round the base of three tall candles and with her best crystal glasses at each place.

  When she went back to the kitchen, Charles had all the starters laid out on three trays.

  ‘Start carrying,’ he ordered.

  Agatha could hardly enjoy the first course, wondering what Charles had arranged to replace the missing turkey. Suddenly, the Christmas carols which had been playing softly in the background started to blast out as the volume increased.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Agatha got to her feet and hurried out to the kitchen. Men in white coats were carrying large containers into the kitchen.

  ‘Get your credit card,’ said Charles. ‘You’ve got to pay for this.’

  Agatha meekly paid up without even looking at the bill.

  A large golden-brown turkey emerged from its thermal container and was placed on a serving plate. Then came bowls of sprouts, cranberry sauce, mushrooms, peas, roast potatoes, parsnips, bacon rolls and a jug of gravy.

  ‘Take the turkey through,’ ordered Charles, ‘and I’ll bring the rest.’

  ‘Did you turn up the volume on the stereo?’

  ‘It was to cover the arrival of this lot at the back door. I’ll turn it down when they’ve left.’

  Agatha carried the turkey in to the oohs and aahs of her guests. Then she helped Charles carry in the other dishes and turned down the stereo after the last white-coated figure has disappeared.

  Roy Silver was wearing a green velvet suit and had a wreath of plastic holly on his head. ‘Do you forgive me, Roy?’ whispered Agatha.

  ‘A meal like this and I’ll forgive you anything. Don’t do it again.’

  Agatha began to relax but was aware of Charles’s cynical eyes on her each time one of her guests praised her cooking.

  The turkey was delicious. Agatha wondered where Charles had got it from. She had been too upset to read the name on the bill.

  ‘Have you got Christmas pudding?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry. I bought it. I didn’t make it.’ ‘Good, nothing can go wrong then.’ Agatha smiled at him fondly. Dear Charles. Roy would be staying over, so Charles could sleep with her that night. She forgot about her vow to forgo casual sex. It was not the sex she wanted but someone to hold her.

  Charles and Roy helped her to clear the plates away. ‘Now, off you go back to the table and I’ll bring in the pudding,’ said Agatha. She took two dishes of brandy butter and a large jug of double cream out of the fridge. ‘If you’ll just take these with you.

  ‘Our Mrs Raisin’s come along no end,’ said Doris Simpson. ‘I never would have guessed she could cook like that. Did you know there was some sort of fire up at the village hall?’

  ‘Hasn’t burnt down, I hope?’ said Roy.

  ‘No, but it seemed someone was using the big oven and burnt something by turning the gas too high. I’ve told them and told them they ought to paint numbers on the knobs on that old cooker.’

  Roy’s eyes gleamed with sudden malice. ‘You don’t know who was responsible, do you?’

  ‘Not yet. But everyone in the village will know by the morning.’

  In the kitchen, Agatha took the pudding out of the microwave and tipped it out of its plastic bowl on to a soup plate.

  Now to pour brandy over it and light it. No, she would light it at the table. First she carried through the pudding bowls. Would there be enough pudding to go round? Maybe if she did not have any herself.

  Then Agatha found to her dismay that she was out of brandy. She searched among the liquor bottles. There was an over-proof bottle of vodka she had brought back from Poland after one of her holidays. That would surely do. All that was needed was a festive blaze.

  She poured nearly the whole bottle over it and placed it on a tray with a box of kitchen matches and then carried the tray into the dining-room and set it on the sideboard.

  Agatha lifted the pudding off and put it at her place at the head of the table. She fetched the kitchen matches and stood poised.

  ‘Merry Christmas, everyone!’ she cried. She struck a match.

  She leaped back as with a whoosh a great sheet of flame shot up from the pudding. Patrick ran to the kitchen and came back with a fire extinguisher and covered both the pudding and Agatha with foam.

  Suddenly everyone began to laugh. Roy started with a high cackle, then Bill Wong, and then the whole table was in an uproar.

  Agatha’s Christmas party was voted the biggest success ever.

  Charles did not stay and Agatha was relieved. It would have been pleasant to go to bed with him, but she knew she would suffer from self-recrimination the day after.

  Roy found the bill on the kitchen table as he was helping her to clear up. ‘You faker,’ he crowed. ‘Eight hundred pounds! That bird should have been gilt-edged.’

  ‘I never knew it was that much,’ gasped Agatha. ‘And now I’ve got to get the village hall redecorated.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll never forget that Christmas pudding. What kind of brandy did you put on it?’

  ‘It wasn’t brandy. I’d run out. I poured practically a whole bottle of vodka I brought back from Poland a couple of years ago.’

  ‘That stuff! You might as well have used petrol.’

  ‘I know. I know. Gosh, I’m exhausted.’

  Tinkling sounds of breaking glass came from the dining-room. ‘Oh, Lord,’ said Agatha. ‘I forgot to shut the dining-room door and the cats are wrecking the tree. I’ll let them get on with it. I’m too tired to move.’

  ‘Off to bed with you,’ said Roy. ‘We’ll clear up in the morning.’

  ‘Doris is coming to help me. It’ll be all round the village in the morning about that burnt turkey. I didn’t tell you about that, did I?’

  ‘I guessed the minute I heard. Off to bed.’

  Agatha rose and winced as she felt that pain in her hip. It couldn’t be anything serious. She was too young. Early fifties these days was young.

  ‘The villagers will be even more hostile towards me,’ said Agatha as she made for the stairs. ‘I didn’t notice until recently and Mrs Bloxby told me it was because they blamed me for bringing all this murder and mayhem to the village. I might have to move.’

  ‘Nonsense. You belong here.’

  Agatha phoned a firm of decorators and accepted their horrendous charge, saying she would pay their bill if they started immediately. She went down to the general stores to buy the Sunday papers and was greeted on all sides by friendly smiles and greetings such as ‘Morning, Mrs Raisin. Bit nippy this morning.’

  She bought the papers and returned to her cottage to find Mrs Bloxby waiting for her. ‘Come in,’ said Agatha. ‘The kitchen’s a mess. Roy’s here but he hasn’t woken up yet and Doris should be along shortly to help. The villagers seem to have thawed towards me.’<
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  ‘They’re all laughing about your burnt turkey. Every housewife who’s ever messed up a meal is in sympathy with you, and then everyone likes a good laugh.’

  ‘I may stay after all.’

  ‘You weren’t thinking of leaving, were you?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind.’

  ‘Nonsense. Believe me, you will never be involved in such a horrendous set of murders or attempted murders again.’

  But Mrs Bloxby was wrong.