Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

THREE

THE bad weather Agatha had seen approaching had arrived by the following morning. Agatha awoke to the sounds of howling wind and rain pattering against the windows. She dressed and went downstairs. The house was cold.

She went into the sitting-room. With sunlight streaming in the windows, it had seemed tastefully furnished, the sofa and chairs upholstered in checked tweed, the carpet a warm burnt orange. But now it appeared what it was, a room in a rented cottage with ornaments on the mantelpiece that she would never have bought and pictures that she would never have hung.

She lit the fire. Must get more fire-lighters, she thought. Agatha used half a packet to light a fire. When the logs were crackling merrily, she went into the kitchen and made herself a coffee and carried it back to the sitting-room.

Agatha felt lost and alien. She rose after a while and went to the phone in the hall. Must get an extension and put it in the sitting-room, she vowed. Silly to have to stand in a cold hall. She phoned Mrs. Bloxby. "Oh, it's you," said the vicar's wife. "No, he isn't back yet."

"I'm not phoning about that," said Agatha crossly. "I might come back earlier than I intended."

"It'll be nice to see you. But, why? Has anything suddenly gone wrong?"

"It's a bit boring and it's started to rain." Not for a moment would Agatha admit that the fairy lights had frightened her. Such as Agatha Raisin was frightened of so many things-love, confrontations, aging, living alone-that she went at life with both fists metaphorically swinging.

"You're near Norwich, aren't you?" asked Mrs. Bloxby in her gentle voice.

"Not far, no."

"Might be an idea to go and see a silly movie and look at the shops."

This was an eminently sensible idea, but Agatha felt cross. She wanted Mrs. Bloxby to say that everyone in Carsely missed her and beg her to come home.

"I'll think about it," she said sourly. "Any news your end?"

"Miss Simms has a new boyfriend." Miss Simms was Carsely's unmarried mother and secretary of the ladies' society.

"Really?" Agatha was momentarily diverted. "Who?"

"He's something in carpets. She gave me one of those fake Chinese rugs. So kind."

"I can't imagine you putting a fake Chinese rug in your sitting-room."

"It's in Alf's study. It's got a stone floor and his feet get cold when he's writing his sermons, so it's ideal."

"Anything else?"

"The Red Lion is being threatened with redecoration."

"Why? I like it the way it is," said Agatha, thinking fondly of the low-beamed pub and its comfortable shabby chairs.

"It's not John Fletcher's idea. It's the brewery. I think they want it art deco."

"But that's dreadful, and so old-hat," screeched Agatha. "You've got to get up a protest."

"We have."

"Maybe I'd better come back and really get things going."

"You aren't listening. The ladies' society has already collected signatures from everyone in the village. I don't think the brewery will go ahead in the face of such protest."

"No, I don't suppose they will," said Agatha in a small voice.

"Lovely weather, isn't it?"

"It's pissing down with rain here."

Agatha coloured as a short, reproving silence greeted the profanity. Then Mrs. Bloxby said, "Perhaps you should consider coming back. I know the winters can be bad here, but they're truly dreadful in Norfolk."

Agatha seized on the invitation like a lifeline. "I'll probably be back next week."

After she had said goodbye, she felt better. Now for some coffee and that book.

Unfortunately, she decided to start off by printing out what she had written and reading it. "What a load of waffle," she groaned. "It's not literary enough." How the hell could you get a book on friends' coffee tables or get the Booker Prize if you didn't write literature?

She frowned. Of course, she could always start again and write one of those stream-of-consciousness novels with an eff as every second word. But she wasn't from Glasgow and all the successful effers seemed to come from Glasgow. Or there was the literary trick of observing the minutiae of surroundings. Literary writers always ended up lying in the grass describing each blade and insect.

Agatha looked gloomily out of the window at the driving rain. Fat chance of lying in grass in this weather.

She switched off the computer and stood up. What to do? No use investigating the infidelity of Tolly. Agatha was sure Rose Wilden had been telling the truth.

The doorbell rang. Agatha opened it. Harriet stood on the step, sheltering under an enormous golfing umbrella.

Agatha invited her in. Harriet left her umbrella and waxed coat in the hall. "I came to thank you," she said.

"What for?"

"Believe it or not, Rosie came up to our table last night and went on about how nice it was to see ladies in the pub. Our husbands were so disappointed."

"Your husband came here and threatened me."

"He's got a lousy temper and he really did have a bad crush on Rosie. But now that's gone."

"Good. So he and the others will stay home in the evenings?"

"No, they're going to find a pub in another village."

"So we didn't achieve anything."

"Oh, yes, we did. At least we know none of our husbands is going to have an affair with Rosie."

Agatha thought about the husbands-Harriet's, tall, thin and pompous; Polly's, small round and pompous; Amy's, small and ferrety-and opened her mouth to say it was her considered opinion that none of their husbands had the slightest chance of bedding Rosie, but uncharacteristically held her tongue. She clung on to the fact that she would soon be leaving Fryfam and its fairies.

Instead she asked, "What on earth do you do in Fryfam on a day like this?"

"There's always household chores to catch up on. Then there's church-cleaning duty. It's my day for the brasses."

"Talking about cleaning, I'd better get someone for here," said Agatha, thinking she'd better leave it as clean as she had found it.

"There's Mrs. Jackson. I'll write down her phone number for you if you've got a bit of paper."

"Thanks." Agatha found a piece of paper. Harriet was writing down the number when the bell rang again. When Agatha opened the door it was to find Polly there.

"Come and join us," she said. "Harriet's here."

Polly took off a large yellow oilskin coat and sou'wester. "Gosh, what a day! Such excitement!"

She followed Agatha into the kitchen. "You'll never guess. There's been a theft up at the manor."

"Never!" said Harriet. "Oh, I know. Is it those lights again?"

"Yes, Tolly saw them at the back of the manor, but he was convinced it was kids playing tricks."

"So what's been pinched?" asked Agatha, "The usual piece of tat?"

"No," said Polly. "You'll never believe.... Any chance of coffee?"

"Right away," said Agatha. "But go on. What was nicked?"

"A Stubbs."

"Never!" exclaimed Harriet.

Agatha did not want to ask what a Stubbs was and so betray her ignorance, but curiosity overcame her.

"Stubbs?" she asked.

"George Stubbs," said Harriet. "An eighteenth-century painter, famous for his paintings of horses. Must be worth a mint."

"Where was it?" asked Agatha. "Didn't see anything like that in their drawing-room."

"It was in Tolly's study," said Polly.

"So how did they get in?"

"That's the mystery," said Polly, bobbing up and down on her chair in excitement. "Before Tolly does the rounds, he locks up everything and sets the burglar alarm."

Agatha poured mugs of coffee and bent down to ferret in a cupboard for a packet of biscuits. "So what are the police doing?" she asked, straightening up and crackling open a packet of chocolate digestives.

"The CID and forensic people are all over the place. That lazy policeman, Framp, has been told to stand guard all night."

"Seems a bit silly now the robbery has taken place."

"That's what Framp says. Oh, Agatha, if the press come round, you mustn't say anything about fairies," said Polly.

"Why not?"

"Because we'd all be a laughing-stock."

Agatha put the biscuits on a plate and put them down on the table. "So why do you believe in the things in the first place? I mean, surely you two don't."

"There's odd things in this area. It's very old," said Harriet.

"But, come on," protested Agatha. "Fairies!"

"So if you're so clever," said Polly, "what's your explanation?"

"Someone fooling about. Gets superstitious people scared, steals rubbish, then goes in for the kill. What's a Stubbs worth?"

"I've heard Tolly bragging it was insured one million pounds," said Harriet.

"Blimey!"

"Lucy's freaked out," said Polly with relish. "She says she's clearing off to London to stay with a couple of friends."

Another ring at the doorbell. "I suppose that's Amy." Agatha went to answer it as Harriet called after her, "Can't be Amy. She's working."

Agatha swung open the door. "Charles!" she cried. She had forgotten all about telling Mrs. Bloxby to pass on her address and phone number to him.

Rain was trickling down from his well-groomed hair. In one hand, he carried a large suitcase. "Can I come in, Aggie?" he asked plaintively.

"Yes, sure. Leave your stuff in the hall. I've got company, but they'll be leaving in a minute." Charles dumped his suitcase and struggled out of his raincoat. "What weather. It was sunshine all the way until I got to the county border."

"We're in the kitchen," said Agatha, hoping that a friendship with a baronet would cancel out her ignorance of George Stubbs.

She introduced Charles. Her triumph was short-lived. "Your nephew?" asked Harriet.

"Just a friend," snapped Agatha. Charles was in his forties and she was in her fifties-but a very well-preserved fifties.

"We must go." Harriet and Polly got to their feet. "I'll show you out." Agatha's face was sour. It would be a long time, she felt, before she forgave Harriet for mistaking Charles for her nephew.

When she had slammed the door behind them, Agatha peered at her face in the hall mirror and let out a squawk of alarm. She did not have on any make-up and her hair was a mess.

"Be down in a minute," she called to Charles. "Help yourself to coffee."

She darted up to her bedroom, and sitting down at the dressing-table, applied a thin film of some anti-aging cream and then a light foundation. Powder, lipstick, but no eye shadowtoo early in the day. She brushed her thick brown hair until it shone and then returned downstairs, where Charles was sitting on the kitchen floor, playing with the cats.

"You might have phoned first," said Agatha.

"Came on impulse." Charles jumped lightly to his feet and dusted himself down. He was such a clean man, thought Agatha. His shirt was immaculate, his trousers pressed, his shoes gleaming. Even naked, he never looked vulnerable but as if he were wearing a neat white suit.

"How long are you staying?"

"Depends," said Charles, stifling a yawn. "What goes on in this burg?"

"Lots," said Agatha. "Take your case up to the spare room. That's the one with the single bed."

"Okay."

Charles disappeared. I should have told him I was only going to stay another week, thought Agatha. Oh, well, a week of Charles will be enough. And I am not going to bed with him, ever again. But it certainly looks as if things in Fryfam are getting very interesting indeed.

When Charles came down again, he found Agatha looking at ready meals from the freezer. "Back to the microwave, eh?" said Charles. "Last time I saw you, you had gone in for real food."

"This is real food," snapped Agatha. "Just because I don't cook it doesn't mean it isn't real. I bet you most of the stuff you get in those restaurants you go to is ready-made and supplied by some catering firm. I know a restaurant in Moreton-in-Marsh that's pulled in all sorts of awards and yet someone who worked there told me that everything from duck a l'orange to boeuf stroganoff comes in a boil-in-bag. What about haddock in a cheese sauce?"

"Why not?" Charles sat down at the table. "Now what's going on here?"

As she worked at her domestic chores of taking off cardboard wrappings, piercing cling film and popping packets in the microwave, Agatha told him about the fairies of Fryfam and the theft of the Stubbs.

"But no murder?" asked Charles. "I always see you surrounded by dead bodies."

"Don't," said Agatha with a shudder. "Although there's a bit more. Tolly's wife thinks he's having an affair with Rosie Wilden, who runs the local pub, but she denies it and I believe her."

"Why?" mocked Charles. "Is she that ugly?"

"On the contrary, she's a country beauty."

"Aha, let's skip the frozen fish and go to the pub."

"They don't do meals."

"What? Not even a Scotch egg?"

"Not even that. It's like a man's club or an old-fashioned pub. Women not welcome while the men gawp at Rosie."

Charles looked around him. "Not bad for a rented cottage. Bit cold, though."

"No central heating. Lots of logs and I'll light this Calor gas heater."

"What on earth brought you here?"

"Just an impulse. I was bored and I stuck a pin in the map."

She put a plate of fish in front of Charles. "Any wine?" he asked.

"I've got a bottle of Chablis I got in Tesco's the other day."

"Tesco's around here?"

"Norwich." Agatha took the bottle out of the fridge and handed him an opener.

"That reminds me," she said, "the night I arrived I went down to the pub looking for food. Rosie said they didn't do meals but invited me through to the kitchen to have some of the family food, which was delicious. She gave me this wine which was marvellous. I didn't know what it was."

"So why didn't you ask her?"

"I meant to. But then it went out of my mind. I was taken aback when she wouldn't let me pay for anything. I've been invited to join the women's group here. I've been quilting."

Charles snorted with laughter. "Poor you. You must have been at your wits' end for some amusement. So let's finish this and go out and visit Tolly Trumpington-James."

"There'll be police all over the place and Lucy's cleared off to London."

"Still, we shall turn our great brains to the task of the missing Stubbs."

The rain had settled down to a dismal drizzle. "Not much of a place," commented Charles as they drove past the village green.

"Looks all right in the sunshine."

They drove out to the manor house. Various police cars, vans and other cars were parked outside.

They went up. Agatha rang the bell. The door was opened by the grumpy-looking woman who had served tea the day before.

"Tell Mr. Trumpington-James I wish to see him," said Agatha grandly.

She clumped off. After a few moments, she returned and said, "He's too busy."

The door began to close. Charles held out his card. "I'm staying with Mrs. Raisin. Perhaps he would like to give me a call?"

She squinted down at the card and the legend "Sir Charles Fraith."

Toily appeared in the hall behind. "She gone yet?" he called.

The surly woman said. "She's got a Sir Charles Fraith with her."

Tolly surged forward, pushing her aside, an unctuous smile on his face.

"Glad to see you, Sir Charles," he said. "Come in. Come for some hunting? You do ride on horseback?"

"Camel, actually," said Charles.

Tolly goggled at him, and then burst out laughing. "Joke, eh? That's a good one. Come through. Mind if I call you Charles?"

He strode off in the direction of the drawing-room. "What a twat," muttered Charles. "Come on, Aggie."

They went into the drawing-room. "Heard you'd had a painting pinched," said Charles. "Insured, I hope?"

"Fortunately. But it's not the money that bothers me. It's the fact that some cheeky bugger walked into my house as cool as you please and took it off the wall and disappeared with it."

"And the burglar alarm was set?" asked Agatha.

"Yes," said Tolly impatiently, "and all the doors and windows were locked."

"It was taken from the study, wasn't it. Can we have a look?"

"Not now. The police are in there."

"What about that woman who answered the door?"

"Betty Jackson. Yes. But she's salt of the earth."

"I find her a grumpy old bitch," said Agatha.

Tolly stared insolently at her. "You wouldn't understand. People like us are used to servants, eh Charles?"

"No," said Charles. "I get women up from the village to clean and when I've got a big house party, I get a catering company to cope. Aggie's quite right, you know. She is a grumpy old bitch."

Tolly let out false bray of laughter. Then he said, "Plan to stay long? I belong to the local hunt. Got some good hunting around here."

"Don't hunt," said Charles.

Tolly eyed him with sudden suspicion. "What did you get your knighthood for?"

"It's a baronetcy," said Charles patiently. "In the family for years."

"And where's your place?"

"Warwickshire. Actually, the reason we called is that Aggie and I have made a pretty good job at solving some mysteries in the past. Thought we might be able to help you."

"Very kind of you. I don't see what you can do that the police can't."

The door of the drawing-room opened, and a nondescript man looked in. "Could we have a word with you, sir?"

"Sure." He turned to Agatha and Charles. "This is Detective Chief Inspector Percy Hand. He's in charge of things. I've been talking to a couple of amateur detectives here."

Hand gave them a bleak smile. "If you could come with me, sir."

"Right," said Tolly. "Come again, if you like. Can you see yourselves out?"

"What a pill," marvelled Charles. "It's a wonder it's not a murder we're looking at."

They got in the car. "What's up, Aggie? You've got a face like a fiddle."

"Why the hell should he think I'm not one of their sort! That's what he said." Agatha looked miserably at her hands.

"Oh, that. It's because he's a vulgar pushy little man, insecure socially and always trying to put someone down. Cheer up. Maybe someone will murder him and then life around here will really get exciting."

Agatha found she was enjoying Charles's company. They took a walk in the rain in the late afternoon. The air was full of the smell of grass and plants, although over all hung the redolent scent of the pine trees. They walked down past the little row of shops, farther than Agatha had gone, and turning a corner, found there were more little shops around the bend: an ironmonger's, a thrift shop, a dried-flower shop, which also sold candles of all shapes and sizes, and a small garage with two rusting old cars at the side of the forecourt.

The drizzle was steady and soaking and began to sweep across their vision in curtains of rain blown by a rising wind. Night had fallen and lights twinkled in cottage windows.

"Pub should be open by now," said Charles. "Let's go for a drink."

The pub was still empty. Agatha took a seat by the fire after removing her soaking raincoat. "A gin and tonic for me, Charles."

Charles went up and rapped on the bar. A strong waft of rose perfume heralded the arrival of Rosie Wilden in a cream wool dress which complemented the creaminess of her complexion and the vivid blue of her eyes.

Charles leaned over the bar and began to flirt. First he affected astonishment that such rare beauty could be found behind the bar of a village pub. Then he began to ask her about herself. It was when he got around to asking her if she ever had a night off that Agatha called crossly, "What about my drink, Charles?"

"Right," he called back but without turning around. "That'll be a gin and tonic and a half of bitter."

Then he fumbled in his jacket. "I'm afraid I've forgotten my wallet."

"That's all right, sir. I'll put it on the slate."

"No need for that. Aggie'll pay. Aggie?"

Agatha marched up to the bar and put the money on the counter. "Why don't you come and join me, Charles?" she demanded. "Or are you going to prop up the bar all night?"

Charles sat down opposite her and said, "The way you go on sometimes, one would think we were married."

"Particularly when you never pay for anything."

"Well, she's quite something."

Agatha felt all the irritation any woman feels when her escort praises some other woman. "I'd forgotten what you were like." Agatha sighed. "In fact, I've made a mistake coming here. I'm going back home next week."

"What, with fairies shining lights and a Stubbs stolen? Not like you. Where's your curiosity?"

"It first got washed away in the rain and then, when you said you'd forgotten your wallet, I realized your company was not going to alleviate the boredom."

"Nasty!"

"But so true." The firelight flickered on Charles's wellbarbered neat features. Oh, why couldn't it be James sitting opposite?

The pub began to fill up. Agatha saw the three husbands come in, Henry, Jerry and Peter, minus wives.

Jerry was complaining about PC Framp. "I'm glad that lazy hound of a copper has to stand out in the rain all night outside the manor. Mind you, it's a case of bolting the stable door after the horse has fled. I hope he gets pneumonia. I've never forgiven him for that time he pulled me over on the Norwich Road because one of my brake lights was out. He refused to let me drive on and I had to get a cab home."

"Yes, you told us ... many times," commented Peter Dart, leering at Rosie.

"What a waste of champagne," said Agatha, half to herself. "I haven't done any good there at all."

"What?" asked Charles. "What are you muttering about?"

"Those three men at the bar neglect their wives to come in here and goggle at Rosie. So I brought the wives in and threw a champagne party. They told me their husbands were going to find another pub, but there they are again. Do you think Rosie is really innocent? Do you think she flirts?"

"I think when a woman looks like Rosie, she doesn't need to flirt. And what are you doing interfering in village marriages? No wonder murders follow you around."

Agatha felt a spasm of dislike for Charles. "Let's go," she said. "I'm bored."

They had a supper of microwaved curry. Charles settled down to watch television. Agatha had forgotten that he had a tremendous appetite for rubbishy television. She said crossly that she was going to bed but he was watching a movie called Monsters of the Dark and did not hear her.

Agatha went grumpily up to bed. She stared at her face in the bathroom mirror. The rain had washed all her make-up off. She felt old and unattractive. She had a leisurely bath. Then she climbed into bed, propped herself up on the pillows and looked through the selection of paperbacks she had placed on the bedside table. She had bought a selection of light reading. There was a large blockbuster which claimed to be, according to the blurb, "erotic and unputdownable." Agatha flicked through it. Gucci labels and crumpled bedsheets. The next came under the category of chick-fic, or rather one of those women's books, a romance clothed in a convoluted literary style. She discarded that. The next was an Aga saga, a novel set in a village where a well-heeled middle-aged woman found out her husband was unfaithful to her. Agatha was very much of her roots and found it hard to believe that anyone who had money in the bank could suffer in the same way as someone poor. She often felt her yearning for James was ridiculous. She put that aside and settled for a hard cop novel set in the deep southern states of the United States. After a few pages the book slipped from her hand.

Charles came into her room later to say good night. He switched out her bedside light and kissed her on the forehead. Agatha stirred and muttered something but did not wake.

She was dreaming of James. They were on a Mediterranean cruise. She could feel the sun on her cheek. They were leaning against the rail. James turned and smiled down at her. "Agatha," he said.

"Agatha! Agatha!" In her dream, Agatha wondered why James was suddenly shouting at her. Then she woke up with a start, realizing it was morning and someone was banging at the door downstairs and shouting her name.

She pulled on a dressing-gown and hurried down the stairs, nearly tripping over the cats, who snaked around her ankles.

She wrenched open the door. Amy Worth stood there, her eyes dilated with excitement.

"What's up?" asked Agatha sleepily.

"It's Tolly. You'll never believe it."

"Believe what?"

"He's dead ... murdered ... and with Framp guarding the house, too!"