The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [78]
“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 onto 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.”
“They’re all laughing about your burnt turkey. Every housewife