By M. C. Beaton
Christmas story that’s holly, jolly—and lethal, through golly…
At domestic by myself for the vacations, Agatha Raisin makes a decision to host a cocktail party for the elder citizens in her Cotswold village of wintry weather Parva. Agatha’s by no means been a lot of a homemaker, yet she’s dead-set on making this the correct vacation for the “crumblies,” as she affectionately calls them. She’s adorned a tree whereas heading off her cats Hodge and Boswell, or even made a (lumpy) Christmas pudding in among swigs of rum. but if Agatha dumps the pudding at the head of the neighborhood self-proclaimed lothario—an eighty-five yr outdated with a lager abdominal and hands like sausages—his dying by way of dessert proves greater than a trifle as mysteries mount larger than the season’s snow fall. lots for attempting to do solid by way of her friends. Now Agatha wishes at least a Christmas miracle to get herself out of this one...
Deck the halls with boughs of folly this Christmas with Agatha Raisin, a modern day omit Marple, who Publishers Weekly calls “an absolute gem!”
Read or Download Christmas Crumble (Agatha Raisin short story) PDF
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Extra info for Christmas Crumble (Agatha Raisin short story)
No such testimony is now reckoned of value, but it will be shown that the statements made by the tortured men only compromise the Earl and his brother incidentally, and in a manner probably not perceived by the deponents themselves. They denied all knowledge of a plot, disclaimed belief in a plot by the Earl, and let out what was suspicious in a casual way, without observing the import of their own remarks. Finally, we have the evidence of the only living man, except the King, who was present at the central point of the occurrences.
Mar had not seen the Master at Falkland; after the kill Mar did not succeed in rejoining James till they were within two or three miles of Perth. Drummond of Inchaffray had nodded to the Master, at Falkland, before the Master met the King at the stables. He later saw the Master in conference for about a quarter of an hour with James, outside the stables. ) Inchaffray then breakfasted in Falkland town, and next rode along the highway towards his own house. On the road he overtook Lennox, Lindores, Urchill, Hamilton of Grange, Finlay Taylor, the King, and the Master, riding Perthwards.
R. Gardiner, have abstained from a verdict, or have attempted the via media; have leaned to the idea that the Ruthvens died in an accidental brawl, caused by a nervous and motiveless fit of terror on the part of the King. Thus the question is unsettled, the problem is unsolved. Why did the jolly hunt at Falkland, in the bright August morning, end in the sanguinary scuffle in the town house at Perth; the deaths of the Ruthvens; the tumult in the town; the King’s homeward ride through the dark and dripping twilight; the laying of the dead brothers side by side, while the old family servant weeps above their bodies; and the wailing of the Queen and her ladies in Falkland Palace, when the torches guide the cavalcade into the palace court, and the strange tale of slaughter is variously told, ‘the reports so fighting together that no man could have any certainty’?