Agatha Raisin And The Christmas Crumble - Plot & Excerpts
Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, sat in the shabby vicarage drawing room in the Cotswold village of Carsely one Saturday in late November, drinking coffee and looking out at a vista of sleety rain driving across the tombstones of the churchyard at the end of the garden. “Are you going away for Christmas, Mrs. Raisin?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. Both women still addressed each other by their surnames, a fashion started in the now defunct Ladies Society but which they kept up. “I might have a Christmas party here,” said Agatha. “But you tried that before!” exclaimed Mrs. Bloxby. “This time it will be all right,” said Agatha mulishly. Mrs. Bloxby surveyed her with affectionate exasperation. Good detective though she was and the very picture of modern woman from her glossy brown hair to her patent leather high boots, Mrs. Bloxby reflected, not for the first time, that there was a part of Agatha that had never grown up. “People are apt to chase after a romantic image of Christmas which does not exist,”
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