Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

FOUR

CHARLES came down the stairs in his dressing gown. "What's all the row about, darling?" he called.

"Come in, Amy," said Agatha, flushing with embarrassment. She said to Charles, "Tolly's been murdered."

"How? When?"

"Last night," said Amy. "I don't know yet how he was killed. Betty Jackson, the cleaner, went up to the manor this morning and let herself in."

"So she has a key?" asked Charles.

"Yes, and she can operate the burglar alarm. It was still on! She said she went upstairs to see if anyone was at home and she found Tolly dead on the landing."

"Maybe he knew who had stolen that painting of his."

"Insurance prices, as a rule," said Charles, "are often twice or three times the auction estimate. Unless Tolly was so filthy rich he didn't care, I would have thought he would have been delighted to get the insurance money. How much was it insured for?"

"Tolly told everyone he had insured it for a million."

They sat down round the kitchen table.

"A Stubbs," mused Charles. "Now what would a man like Tolly be doing having a Stubbs?"

"I can explain that," said Amy, her face pink with excitement and the importance at being the source of so much interesting gossip. "It was just after they moved down here. Lord Tarrymundy was visiting friends in Norfolk and came over for a day's hunting. Of course, he impressed poor Tolly no end, him being a lord and all. The next thing he says a gentleman like Tolly should start collecting and offered to sell him the Stubbs, knock-down price, he said. I believe it was three hundred and thirty thousand pounds, which isn't really a knock-down price, but Tolly bought it and then insured it high. But this is the thing. At that time, they had a house in Launceston Place in Kensington. Lucy adored it. Evidently when they were first married, they held very chic parties there. Tolly ups and says they can't afford two residences and he's happy in the country and sells the house for nearly a million. Poor Lucy was furious."

"Can one make a fortune from bathroom showers?" asked Charles.

"Evidently," said Amy eagerly. "He sold all over the world, or so he says, and sold the business to an American company."

"So," said Agatha slowly, "Lucy would hardly steal the painting and then murder her husband. I mean, all she had to do was murder him and then she would get everything, Stubbs and all."

"But she was in London when the murder took place," exclaimed Amy. "So it can't be anything to do with her at all."

"Who's the handsome fellow at the bottom of your garden, Agatha?" asked Charles. "Not a fairy?"

"No, that's Barry Jones, who does the garden."

"I wonder if he does any gardening up at the manor," said Charles.

"I'll ask him." Agatha opened the back door and called, "Barry?"

The gardener walked up to the back door and entered the kitchen, doffing his cap to reveal a thick head of chestnut hair. He had the same bright blue eyes as Rosie Wilden. He was wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off and his bronzed and muscled arms were a miracle of human sculpture.

"We're talking about the murder of Tolly," said Agatha. "Do you garden up at the manor?"

"I did, missus, for a while. No flowers or vegetables, but he likes the lawns kept trim. Then, three weeks ago, he sacks me. I says to him, `Is my work unsatisfactory?' And he says, `I want a real gardener. Going to get the place landscaped.' "

"Do you know how he was killed?" asked Charles.

"No, but Mrs. Jackson is telling everyone that Mrs. Raisin and her boyfriend were the last to see him alive, so I reckon the police'll be calling on you soon enough."

"Thanks, Barry. You can go back to work. I'd better get dressed. You, too, Charles."

Agatha had only just finished dressing when the doorbell went again. She ran downstairs and opened the door to the man she remembered as Detective Inspector Percy Hand. He was accompanied by another detective.

"You are Mrs. Raisin?" he asked.

"Yes, come in. It's about this murder?"

She led both men into the sitting-room. The sun was shin ing again, streaming through the windows to light up the debris of Charles's night-time television viewing-coffee-cup, biscuit packet and TV Guide.

"Sit down," said Agatha. "Coffee?"

"Thank you."

Agatha called up the stairs on her road to the kitchen, "Hurry up, Charles. The police are here."

As she plugged in the percolator, she suddenly remembered the manuscript of Death at the Manor lying on the desk in the sitting-room. The desk was in a dark corner. Surely he wouldn't prowl around looking at things.

The coffee seemed to take ages to percolate. Where was Charles? He should be doing this and giving her the opportunity to get that manuscript. At last she poured two mugs of coffee and put them on a tray along with milk and sugar and a plate of biscuits.

She walked into the sitting room, carrying the tray-and nearly dropped it. Hand was standing at the desk flicking through her manuscript.

"Aren't you supposed to have a search warrant before you go poking through my things?" asked Agatha harshly.

"We can get one," said Hand, looking at her mildly. "I find it interesting that your book is called Death at the Manor, and here we have a death at the manor."

"Coincidence," snapped Agatha, setting the tray down on the coffee-table.

"A lot of coincidence," he murmured. "This is Detective Sergeant Carey." And to Agatha's rage, he handed Carey the manuscript, saying, "Have a look at this."

Charles came in at that moment and Agatha hailed him with a furious cry of "Charles, they're reading my book and they don't have a search warrant."

"I didn't know you were writing a book," said Charles. "Still, you lot are being a bit cheeky."

"Mrs. Raisin's book is called Death at the Manor," said Hand.

Charles laughed. "Oh, Aggie, your first attempt at writing?"

Agatha nodded.

Charles turned to Hand. "How was Tolly murdered?"

"His throat was cut with a razor."

"You mean, one of those old-fashioned cutthroat razors?"

"Exactly. And in Mrs. Raisin's manuscript, the owner of the manor, Peregrine Pickle, is murdered when someone slits his throat."

"You can't call him Peregrine Pickle," said Charles, momentarily diverted.

"Why not?"

"It's the title of a book by Tobias Smollett. A classic, Aggie."

"I can change the name." Agatha turned red. She hated the gaps in her education being pointed out. "But what on earth are we doing discussing literary points? They've got no right to look at anything of mine without my permission."

"She is right, you know," said Charles.

There was a ring at the doorbell. "That'll be for us," said Hand. He went to the door and came back waving a piece of paper. "Now, this is a search warrant, Mrs. Raisin. Before I get my men in, I would like to ask you some questions."

Agatha sat down on the sofa next to Charles, defeated. Her outrage at the detectives looking at her manuscript was not because she was furious at the intrusion, but because she was ashamed of her work.

She and Charles answered the preliminary questions: who they were, where they came from, what they were doing in Fryfam.

"So we get to what you were both doing at the manor yesterday," said Hand. "Mr. Trumpington-James said something about the pair of you being amateur detectives."

Before Charles could stop her, Agatha, nervous, had launched into a full brag of all the cases she had solved. Charles saw the cynical glances the detectives exchanged and knew they were putting Agatha down as a slightly unbalanced eccentric.

"I think at the moment," said Hand sarcastically, when Agatha's voice had finally trailed off under his stony stare, "that we'll just settle for good old-fashioned police work. But should we find ourselves baffled, we will appeal to you for help. Can we go on? Right. Why did you visit Mr. Trumpington-James? Had either of you known him before you came here? You first, Mrs. Raisin."

Agatha described how she had first been invited for tea. Then she hesitated a moment, wondering whether to tell Hand about Lucy's suspicions of her husband's infidelity. Then she thought angrily, why should I? Let him find out for himself if he's so damned clever.

"You hesitated there," said Hand. "Is there something you're holding back?"

"No," said Agatha. "Why should I hold anything back?"

Hand turned to Charles. "You say you did not know Mr. Trumpington-James before and yet you called on him with Mrs. Raisin. Why? You only arrived yesterday."

"Aggie told me about the theft of the Stubbs."

"Aggie being Mrs. Raisin."

"It's Agatha, actually," said Agatha crossly.

"So, Sir Charles, you called. Why?"

Charles felt ashamed of saying they thought they might be able to find out who had stolen the Stubbs after all Agatha's bragging, but he shrugged and said, "We thought we might get an idea of who had taken it."

"How?" demanded Hand sharply. He should cut his fingernails, thought Agatha. They're like claws, all chalky and ridged.

"How, what?"

"How on earth did you think, Sir Charles, that you could find out something the police could not? You do not have forensic equipment or even a knowledge of the area."

"I know you didn't believe Agatha when she was going on about the mysteries she solved," said Charles patiently, "but you can always check with the Mircester police. You see, people talk to us the way they wouldn't talk to a policeman, and I'll tell you why. Take you, for instance. By sneering at Aggie, you put her back up, so if by any chance she does hear a useful piece of gossip, she won't go running to you."

"If I find either of you have been withholding useful evidence, then I shall charge you."

"Just listen to yourself," said Charles, unflustered. "Now you've put my back up."

"We will start our search now," said Hand grimly. "And we will be keeping this manuscript for the moment. You will get a receipt for it."

After two hours, the police left. "I'm starving," said Charles. "We haven't had breakfast. Got eggs?"

"Yes."

"I'll make us an omelette and then we'll go and see that copper, the local bod; what's his name?"

"Framp."

"That's the one."

"But why him, Charles?"

"Because he's only a copper and I'll bet he got the wrong side of Hand's mouth. We'll go and be oh, so sympathetic."

"Won't he be up at the manor?"

"Not him. He'll have been sent back to his beat with a flea between both ears. I'll make that omelette."

Agatha sat hunched over a mug of coffee in the kitchen, watching Charles as he whisked eggs in a bowl. Why do I always land up with men who never tell me what they really think of me? she wondered. Charles had made love to her in the past but he had never said anything particularly affectionate. He came and went in her life, leaving very little trace of his real thoughts or personality.

After they had eaten, they headed out to see PC Framp. Agatha said testily-cross because Charles had insisted they walk and she was wearing high heels-that it was a useless effort. PC Framp would at least have been roped in to comb the bushes around the manor for clues.

There was a high wind which sent the tops of the pine trees tossing and making a sound like the sea, but on the ground it was strangely calm, apart from sudden whispering puffs of wind. Little snakes of sandy soil blew from the roots of the trees and writhed across the road at their feet. Not only were Agatha's shoes high-heeled but they had thin straps at the front of each and gritty bits of sand were working their way inside her tights and along the soles of her feet.

"There's his car!" said Charles triumphantly as they approached the police station.

They rang the bell and waited. No reply. "Let's try round the back," said Charles.

They walked along the side of the building and through a low wooden gate that led into the back garden. Framp could be seen standing over a smoking oil drum burning leaves he had raked up from the grass.

"Off duty," he called when they saw him.

Undeterred, Charles went up to him. "You know Mrs. Raisin here. I'm Charles Fraith."

"I heard of you. You were at the manor yesterday," said Framp. An erratic gust of wind sent smoke swirling into his eyes and he rubbed them with the back of one grimy hand.

"I'm surprised a bright copper like you isn't on the job," pursued Charles, "what with all this murder and robbery."

"Told to go about my regular duties," said Framp sulkily. "You would think it was my fault he was murdered. I was on duty all night outside that house and I never heard a sound. No one came or went."

"So who do you think did it?"

"Let's have a cup of tea." Framp gave the smoldering leaves a vicious poke with a rusty metal rod. Little tongues of flame licked round the leaves and more aromatic smoke filled the air.

They followed him into his messy kitchen. A kettle was already simmering on an old iron stove. He put five tea-bags into a small teapot, stirred it up, and poured each of them mugs of black tea.

He sat down wearily at the table. "You ask who did it? It's the wife, for sure."

"But I gather she was in London," said Agatha.

"So she says, and anyway, her alibi hasn't been checked out yet and even if it is, her friends could lie for her."

"Why her?" asked Charles.

"She hated it here. Wanted to go to London. So she pinches the painting first, bumps him off, knowing she'll inherit everything along with the insurance money. She can't sell the painting, everyone will be on the look-out for it. Anyway, it was insured for a mint, so it's worth more to her lost."

"I didn't like Hand," said Agatha. "Unpleasant sort of man."

"Nobody likes him," said Framp gloomily. He stifled a yawn. "I'd better get some sleep."

"Where's Lucy Trumpington-James at the moment?" asked Agatha.

"Arriving by police car from London any moment."

"Mrs. Jackson knows how to operate the burglar alarm, doesn't she?"

"Yes, but come on. She's a villager and lived here all her life."

"Is there a Mr. Jackson?" asked Charles.

"Yes, but he's doing time in the Scrubs."

"Wormwood Scrubs? Prison?"

"That's the one."

"What for?" asked Agatha.

"Robbery with violence. Beat a guard at a warehouse nearly to death. Got fifteen years. Not for so much beating the guard. This is Britain, after all. For stealing eighteen thousand pounds."

"When was this?" asked Agatha.

"Two years ago."

"So that lets him out. Did they find the money?"

"Yes; he wasn't living with his wife at the time. They found the lot in a flat in Clapham in London."

"And was this his first crime?"

"First major one. Before that, lots of petty stuff, car hijacking, that sort of thing."

"Where does Mrs. Jackson live?"

"Why?" demanded Framp sharply.

"I need a cleaner," said Agatha patiently, "and she'll have spare time at the moment, with the police being all over the manor. By the way, does the manor house have a name?"

"Reckon folks have always just called it the manor."

Charles took another sip of bitter black tea and repressed a shudder. "We'd better get on our way, Aggie."

"That what they call you?" asked Framp with a momentary flash of humour. "You don't look like an Aggie to me."

"It's Agatha, actually." She threw a baleful look at Charles and then turned back to Framp. "So where does Mrs. Jackson live?"

"You know Short's garage?"

"We saw it yesterday."

"Well, her cottage is tucked in the back of that."

"Let's get the car," pleaded Agatha once they were out on the road again.

"Why not just go home and put on a pair of flat walking shoes? People might stop and talk to us on our way there. You can't pick up gossip if you're flashing past in a car."

"Oh, okay," said Agatha, although she felt that wearing flats made her look dumpy.

When they set out again, Agatha began to wonder what villagers they were supposed to meet. The village green was deserted.

They walked across it and down the street past the estate agent's, where Amy could be seen crouched over a computer. Then Agatha saw Carrie Smiley and Polly Dart approaching and greeted them with "Isn't it terrible about Tolly?"

"Terrible," echoed Came. "Have the police been to see you?"

"Yes," said Agatha. "They have, as a matter of fact. Did you expect them to?"

"Oh, yes," said Carrie. "It's all round the village that you were probably the last person to see him alive."

"Then it's just as well his throat was cut in the middle of the night," said Agatha. "I say, it was the middle of the night?"

"Nobody knows," barked Polly. "But the police didn't leave until late last night, leaving only Framp on duty. The press have arrived. Such excitement!"

"Where are they?"

"In the pub. Rosie opened up especially early the minute she heard about the murder. She says the press always drink a lot. Where are you off to?"

"To see Mrs. Jackson. I need someone to clean. I don't suppose she'll be resuming her duties up at the manor for a few days yet."

"I don't think she'll be resuming them at all," said Carrie. "Lucy hated her."

"She didn't give me that impression," said Agatha.

"Well, she did. She once told Harriet that Mrs. Jackson was always poking her nose into things and reading letters. Are you sure you want Mrs. Jackson?"

"I'll see. Is there anyone else?" asked Agatha, but more as a matter of form because she didn't want anyone else. Mrs. Jackson would surely be the best source of gossip.

"No one who's free. Mrs. Crite does for the vicar and she always says that's enough for her. The summer people usually fend for themselves," said Polly. "Now I do all my own housework. I don't hold a woman paying someone to do what they ought to be doing themselves."

"Good for you," commented Agatha sweetly. "But it's so important not to inflict one's prejudices on anyone else, don't you think? I must be going. Charles, let's ... Charles?"

She swung round. Charles had moved a little away and was whispering to Carrie, who was blushing and giggling.

"What were you up to?" asked Agatha angrily as she and Charles walked on.

"Just chatting. Jealous, Aggie?"

"Of course not. Don't be silly."

Carrie had been wearing tight jeans and high-heeled boots. She had good legs. And so have I, thought Agatha, when I'm not wearing these clumpy flat shoes. They turned into the other lane and so to the garage. A man in overalls was peering at the engine of a car.

"Mrs. Jackson live near here?" asked Charles.

The man straightened up. "Take that little path at the side there. You can see the chimbleys behind the trees."

They followed his directions and arrived at a seedy-looking cottage thatched in Norfolk reed. It needed rethatching, the thatch being dusty and broken. The front garden was a mess of weeds with various discarded children's toys scattered around.

Agatha rang the bell. "I didn't hear it ring," said Charles. "Probably broken." He knocked at the door. The door was opened by Barry Jones, the gardener.

"What are you doing here?" asked Agatha.

"Came home to Mum's for a bite to eat."

"Mum? But you're a Jones."

"Mum's first husband was a Jones."

"Can we talk to her?" asked Charles.

"Okay, but she's a bit tired. Police here all morning."

They walked into a stone-flagged kitchen, which outmessed Framp's. Dishes were piled in the sink, the old fuelburning stove was thick with grease and piled with dirty pots.

Betty Jackson was sitting at the kitchen table, mopping up egg with a slice of bread. It seems to be all-day breakfast around here, thought Agatha, thinking of Framp.

"What is it?" she asked dully.

"I'm looking for a cleaner," said Agatha brightly. "What a picturesque cottage you have. I do love these old cottages."

"All right for folks like you," said Mrs. Jackson sourly. "I would like one of them new council ones they'd got over at Purlett End Village. But would they give me one? Naw!"

Charles slid into the chair next to her. "Police been giving you a bad time?"

"Yerse. Them and their tomfool questions. I told them, I left at five and that's that."

"Who would do such a thing?" Charles took one of Mrs. Jackson's red and swollen hands and gave it a squeeze.

"I don't know," said the cleaner, but in a much softer voice. Agatha, seeing that no one was going to ask her to sit down, jerked out a chair.

"Weren't relations between Tolly and Lucy a bit strained?" Charles's voice was soft and coaxing.

"Oh, no." She shook her head. "Devoted couple, they was."

"You see, Lucy Trumpington-James did tell Mrs. Raisin here that she thought her husband was being unfaithful to her."

Mrs. Jackson's heavy face registered shock and she gave her dentures an angry click. "That's rubbish. I tell you what it was; Lucy got fits of jealousy, she was that mad about him, but they always made up. Fact is, she was laughing about it with him before she left for London. She says to him, she says, `I told that old trout who thinks she's a detective that you was having it off with Rosie.' And they both had a laugh about that."

Agatha coloured angrily. Then she heard Charles say, "About the cleaning?"

"It's seven pounds an hour."

Agatha was about to yell that she was not going to pay London rates to a bad-tempered slut when Charles surprised her by leaping to his feet and putting his arms round her. "Shut up," he whispered. Then he turned to Mrs. Jackson. "Why not start tomorrow? At ten, say. Nothing like work to keep your mind off things."

"Right you are, sir."

Charles smiled and propelled the raging Agatha out of the cottage. Agatha held her temper until they were out of earshot and then she confronted him with "How could you? I don't want that old bitch around my cottage."

"Calm down. Be nice to her and you might get the truth out of her. You only came here to employ her to get gossip." He took her shoulders and gave her a little shake. "Just think, woman! Did Lucy give you the impression of a wildly jealous wife?"

"Well, no," said Agatha. "Not in the slightest. She looks like some bimbo who married for money and despises her husband."

"So, isn't that interesting? And why would the horrible Mrs. Jackson lie about it? She doesn't strike me as the staunch and loyal servant type."

Agatha's anger ebbed away as she considered this. "No," she said slowly. "So why would she say such a thing? Of course she could simply have been out to humiliate me out of sheer nastiness."

"Could be. Let's go and get a car and drive somewhere for a drink. Rosie's pub will be full of reporters."

As they approached the village green, the pub door opened and several pressmen came out dragging one of their fellows. Their faces were boozy and flushed. Their intention appeared to be to dump a weedy colleague in the duck pond. Rosie appeared in the pub doorway and called to them to stop. They all crowded back into the pub except the weedy one, who set off away from the pub at a jogtrot, occasionally looking back over his shoulder like some weak animal rejected by the herd.

"I thought they would all have been out at the manor," said Charles.

"No," replied Agatha, wise in the ways of the press. "They'll have been out there already. Hand will have told them that he will say nothing until a press conference at, say, about four o'clock."

"But you would think they'd all be knocking on doors in the village for background."

"They'll get around to it. As long as there's a pub, they'll move in a bunch. They feel they're safe just so long as they all keep together. That way they can drink as much as they want and not run the fear of being scooped."

"So what about the one that's run off?"

"They obviously don't rate him highly. It's not always like this. But if one of them's a bully, he becomes the leader of the pack and they all stick together, swearing to share any morsels of information, and yet each one is privately determined to scoop the others at the first opportunity."

"Excuse me."

A voice behind them made them jump. They swung round. The weedy reporter had come back. "I'm Gerry Philpot of The Radical Voice," he said. The paper he represented claimed to have unbiased views, the sort of paper which reported on the "warring factions" in Bosnia to avoid pointing out the obvious truth, that the Serbs were murdering everyone. It was a sittingon-the-fence and pontificating sort of newspaper which paid the lowest wages, hence Gerry Philpot, a youngish man with weak eyes, receding hair, a pea-green jacket, checked shirt, shabby corduroys and red tie. "Have you heard about the murder?"

"Yes," said Agatha before Charles could say anything. "We were the last people to see Tolly Trumpington-James alive."

"Really!" His eyes lit up. He pulled out a notebook. "If I can just get your name?"

"Mrs. Agatha Raisin."

"Age?"

"Forty-five," lied Agatha, ignoring Charles's snort of laughter.

"And you, sir?"

"This is Sir Charles Fraith," said Agatha quickly, knowing that Charles would not use his title and Agatha was out to impress.

"Age?"

"Thirty-two," said Charles maliciously. He was, in fact, in his forties.

"And you have lived here, how long?"

"Only a few days," said Agatha. "Sir Charles is my house guest."

"What brought you to Fryfam?"

"Just a whim. I'd never been to Norfolk before. I've only been here a short while. As a matter of fact, when it to comes to crime-"

But the reporter interrupted her impatiently. "So tell me how Mr. Trumpington-James seemed to you when you saw him."

"Bit fussed over the robbery of his Stubbs. Police all over the place. I'd had tea with himself and his wife two days before."

"And how did they seem? A happy couple?"

Agatha was not prepared to tell the press about Lucy's sus picions and so she said, "I couldn't really judge. Their cleaner, a Mrs. Jackson, lives behind the garage. She could tell you more than I could."

Gerry cast a longing look towards the pub. His faithless photographer was in there. He was wondering if he could winkle him out without alerting the others. But for the moment he persevered, asking Agatha what the manor looked like inside, had Tolly been very rich and so on. Then he said, "I'll just go and see this Mrs. Jackson. Where do you both live when you're not in Fryfam?"

They gave their home addresses. As he was about to leave, Agatha said, "Oh, have you heard about the fairies?"

Gerry, who had been closing his notebook, opened it again and stared at her. "Fairies?"

Agatha could hear Polly's voice asking her not to say anything, but her desire to shine was greater than any loyalty to the women of Fryfam. She told Gerry about the mysterious lights and the petty thefts, ending up in the grand theft of the Stubbs. When she had finally finished, Gerry's face was red with excitement. "Where do you live? I mean, in Fryfam?"

"Lavender Cottage, over there in Pucks Lane."

"I'll call on you with a photographer if I may."

"We're going out," said Charles.

"But if you can make it quick," put in Agatha. If she got her picture in the newspaper, then James, wherever he was, might see it.

"So you're thirty-two," jeered Agatha as she and Charles walked off.

"Well, if you're forty-five, sweetie, I'm definitely thirty-two."

Agatha could feel herself ageing by the minute as they walked home, like She when the Eternal Flame didn't work any more. She was grumpy and guilty because she had told the reporter about the fairies.

Gerry sidled into the pub. The reporters and photographers were all swapping tall tales of their own adventures, and in the middle of the noisiest group was his photographer, Jimmy Henshaw. He was just wondering how to get Jimmy away from the group when the pub door opened and a television crew entered. The newspaper reporters, who all affected to despise television and yet were secretly longing to see their faces on the screen, surged forward to surround the newcomers. Gerry caught Jimmy by the arm and whispered, "I've got a great story. Meet me outside."

Gerry went outside again and chewed his thumb nervously, watching the pub door. Just when he thought Jimmy was never going to emerge, the photographer appeared, lugging his camera case.

"This had better be good," he said sulkily. Rapidly Gerry outlined the story of the fairies.

"Great," said Jimmy. "Let's go and see these people."

Agatha had not expected them so soon and had therefore had not had time to apply that thick layer of make-up, so necessary when being photographed by the press if one did not want to appear ten years older. And she was still wearing her flat shoes. But she led them down the garden and pointed to the place where she had seen the mysterious lights.

"Don't point," said the cameraman sharply. "Looks so damn amateur when people point. Just stand there, Agatha, by that tree, next to Charlie. No, don't smile."

When they had left, Agatha groaned, "Why did I ever tell that reporter about the fairies?"

"Wanted glory?" suggested Charles. "Come on, let's get out of this village and find somewhere to eat."

At last, seated over a late lunch at a roadside pub on the way to Norwich, Charles said, "What I'm wondering about is this. You seem eager to believe that Rosie is innocent, that Lucy made up all that about Tolly having an affair with her. What if it was all true? What if Tolly planned to run away with Rosie? Lucy somehow nips back from London, slits Tolly's throat, and rushes back."

"I've a feeling it will be proved she was in London all the time," said Agatha. "Now if it were in a book, she would turn out to be a motorcycle fiend or had a friend with a private helicopter. Anyway, all she really wanted from Tolly was Tolly's money, I'm sure of that. If he did run away with Rosie, then all she had to do was divorce him and live happily ever after off the alimony."

"But why would anyone else want to kill him?"

"Maybe the hunt got tired of him."

"Joke. But the hunt could be a good start. We'll find out the name of the master and go and see him."

"How will we do that?"

"Anyone will tell us. Framp will tell us. Have you got a mobile phone?"

"Yes." Agatha produced one from her handbag. Charles phoned directory inquiries and got the number of the Fryfam police station. He then phoned Framp and asked for the name of the master.

Framp was obviously asking why he wanted to know, for Agatha heard Charles say that he might be staying on longer than expected and would like a bit of hunting. Then Charles made writing motions and Agatha produced a pen and small notebook from her bag. Charles wrote busily, then thanked Framp and rang off.

"Here we are. Captain Tommy Findlay, The Beeches, Breakham, and Breakham is that village we drove through, not far from Fryfam. Drink up your coffee and let's go see him."

Agatha was aware, as Charles drove her away from the pub, of the mobile phone resting in her handbag. She had a sudden longing to telephone Mrs. Bloxby, but Charles would listen and so she couldn't talk about James. She felt a wave of homesickness, a longing for her own home. She was glad she had brought her cats and wished she had thought to buy them a little treat, like fresh fish.

She worried about that reporter, Gerry. He had predictably said he didn't like cats. Men usually said they didn't like cats but then went on to brag about their own cat, which was somehow an exception to the rule.

Maybe the newspaper wouldn't publish his story. Maybe he was such a failure that they would take their news from one of the agencies and ignore his.

"Here we are," said Charles, turning up a lane bordered by high hedges. He drove past a farm, through a farmyard, over a cattle grid and so to a square eighteenth-century house.

"Maybe we should have phoned first," said Agatha.

She started to get out of the car and then retreated back inside and slammed the door as three dogs, one Jack Russell, one Irish setter, and one Border collie, rushed barking towards them.

But Charles was out of the car and patting the dogs and talking to them. "Come on, Aggie," he shouted. "They won't eat you."

Agatha got out and hurried up to Charles as the dogs sniffed about her. Charles rang the bell. I hope no one's at home, thought Agatha, pushing away the collie, which had thrust its nose up her skirt. The door was opened by a small faded woman in an apron. "Mrs. Findlay?" said Charles. "Is the captain at home?"

She peered myopically at him. "If you're collecting for something or selling something, it's not a good time."

"Would you tell him Sir Charles Fraith wants to speak to him about getting some hunting?"

"Of course, Sir Charles. Come in. I don't see very well without my glasses." Charles walked in and Mrs. Findlay shut the door in Agatha's face. Agatha was just planning to kick the door when it opened again and Charles, with a broad grin on his face, said, "Come along."

"Stupid woman," grumbled Agatha. "Have I become invisible or something?"

"She doesn't see very well."

He led her into a dark hall where a flustered Mrs. Findlay was waiting. "My husband's in the study."

Captain Findlay was a very tall man. Agatha guessed he might be in his seventies but he looked fit, with a lean brown face, bright brown eyes and thick grey hair.

The study was as dark as the hall and smelt strongly of wood-smoke and damp dog. There were oil paintings of hunts on the wall, rather dingy and, even to Agatha's inexpert eye, badly executed.

"Sit down," said the captain. "Get them some tea, Lizzie. Hop to it!"

Agatha almost expected the meek and myopic Mrs. Findlay to drop a curtsy before she left the room.

"Now, to what do I owe this visit?" asked the captain.

"We were interested in finding out your views on Tolly Trumpington-James," said Charles.

"Why?"

"Well, he's been murdered, for a start."

"What's it to you?"

"We both knew Tolly and Lucy-"

"Then you'll know more about them than me."

"But you hunted with Tolly," Charles lied. "Surely you can tell a lot about a man's character on the hunting field."

"That's true." The captain, who had been standing in front of a small smouldering fire, suddenly sat down in a battered armchair. "He was a dreadful rider. Had an old hunter like an animated sofa but he still seemed to fall off it every now and then. Lot of time wasted picking him up. But he was generous at fund-raising dinners, that sort of thing. Pathetically anxious to join in. I admired him in a way. It was no wonder he was a successful businessman, the way he stuck to hunting and kept turning up for the meets although he must have been black and blue. Wife's pretty, but a bit sulky. She turned up at various hunt dinners and glared around, smoked and drank too much. Made no effort to fit in."

"Why should she?" asked Agatha crossly. "It was Tolly who wanted to belong."

"It's a wife's job to support her husband," said the captain sharply. "I remember when Lizzie told me she'd got a job as a secretary in Norwich. I soon put a stop to that."

Agatha sighed and relapsed into silence, wondering if there might not be another murder soon.

"Mark my words," the captain went on. "The wife did it."

"But she was in London," said Charles gently.

"Probably got friends to lie for her. Who else would want to kill Tolly?" His eyes sharpened, "I really don't see what all this has to do with you."

Charles flashed a look at Agatha to warn her not to launch into a description of their detecting abilities, but Agatha appeared sunk in gloom. "We just wanted to do what we could to help Lucy," said Charles.

A slight frost entered the captain's fine eyes. "I can't help you any further. Do you hunt?"

"No," said Charles.

The frost was now pure ice. "Thought not, even though you used it as an excuse to lie your way in here." He got to his feet. "I'll see you out."

They nearly collided in the doorway with Mrs. Findlay, who was staggering under the weight of a laden tea-tray.

"What are you bringing tea for, you silly woman?" barked the captain.

"You asked for tea, dear."

"They haven't got time. They're just going."

"If I were married to someone like that, I'd shoot myself," said Agatha when they were in the car.

"You nearly were."

"What are you talking about?"

"James Lacey."

"What! James would never behave like that."

"Suit yourself. I think he would, given time and aging."

"Let's talk about this case," said Agatha testily. "I don't think we really got anything there we didn't know."

"Hunts are expensive and Tolly was anxious to ingratiate himself. It still points to Lucy. What if she saw all the money leaching away and knew she wasn't going to end up with much even if she found grounds to divorce him. Maybe she thieved the Stubbs first. Maybe she resented the money he paid for it and did it for revenge and then killed him in a rage."

"She's got that alibi, and besides, cutting a man's throat isn't a female crime."

"How could anyone creep up behind a man on a landing and slit his throat?"

"We don't know the details," said Agatha. "He might have been in bed, asleep, when his throat was slit, and then staggered out to the landing."

"But wouldn't Mrs. Jackson be talking about there being blood everywhere?"

"Huh! Hardly one of the world's talkers is our Mrs. Jackson."

"We've got visitors," said Charles as they drove up to Lavender Cottage.

"Les girls." Agatha saw Polly, Carrie and Harriet turning round at the sound of the car.

"Let's see if there's any more gossip," said Charles.

The three greeted them with cries of "Isn't it awful? Have the police been to see you again? Lucy's back from London but she's with the police."

Agatha unlocked the door and shepherded them all through to the kitchen. "I think we could all do with a drink," she said. "Charles, could you attend to them?"

Charles took their orders and vanished towards the sittingroom to collect the drinks. Three curious pairs of eyes followed his well-tailored back. "So nice to have a man friend around at a time like this," said Carrie. "Are you engaged?"

Before Agatha could reply, Polly said, "Of course they're not."

"Why do you say that?" demanded Agatha.

"Age difference," remarked Polly bluntly.

"Never mind my private life," said Agatha crossly. "What's the latest about the murder?"

"Paul Redfern, the gamekeeper, says that Tolly often confided in him and Tolly had said only the other week that he was tired of his wife complaining about the country and he had told her if she liked London so much she could go back and live there, but he wouldn't support her, she'd have to get a job," said Harriet.

"But she has an alibi," said Agatha, wondering how many times she was going to say that. "She has, hasn't she?"

"Evidently so. Oh, thanks," said Harriet, taking a glass of gin and tonic from Charles. "One of the policemen told Paul, who told Sarah at the dried-flower shop, who told me that she says she was staying with a friend, Melissa Carson in South Ken, near the tube, something mansions or other, and they had gone out for dinner at a restaurant in the Brompton Road and then had an early night, so she couldn't have got to Norfolk. Such a pity when she's such an obvious suspect. That awful man, Hand, has been poking about and making everyone in the village feel guilty."

"I wonder if either of them was having an affair," mused Agatha.

"I shouldn't think so," said Polly. "You can't keep anything quiet around here."

"But they may not have been carrying on with anyone in the village," said Agatha. "I mean, Tolly might have been having an affair with one of the wives of the huntsmen."

"But that would mean the murderer would have to be Lucy," protested Carrie.

"Not necessary. It could mean the cuckolded huntsman," said Charles.

"I wish it were all over," sighed Harriet. "First those danc ing lights, and now this. At least the village has stayed solid."

"About what?" asked Agatha.

"The lights, of course. We don't want everyone saying we're some yokel nuts who believe in fairies."

Charles looked quizzically at Agatha, who said rapidly, "I think someone's bound to have said something. I mean, look at all the gossip that came out of the gamekeeper. Where does he live?"

"He's got a cottage on the estate. He's wondering what's going to happen to him now."

There was a ring at the doorbell. "I'll get it," said Charles. He returned and said to Agatha, "It's Hand and his sidekick. I've put them in the sitting-room."

Agatha suppressed a groan. The three woman rose rapidly to their feet. "We'd best be going. We've had enough of the police," said Polly.

Reluctantly, Agatha went through to the sitting-room. With a sinking heart, she noticed Hand was clutching her manuscript.

"Just a few more questions, Mrs. Raisin. Do you not think it a remarkable coincidence that the owner of the manor in your book should have his throat cut and that Mr. Trumpington-James should be murdered in the same way?"

"Remarkable," said Agatha wearily.

"Where were you on the night of the murder?"

"I went to the pub with Charles and we came back here."

"I suppose you will vouch for him and he will vouch for you?"

"Yes, but look here. Neither of us knew the TrumpingtonJameses before we came here. What motive would we have?"

"Well, let's take you, for instance. We've been checking up on you. You seem to have been involved in a lot of murders and you are not shy of publicity. Let's say, you know the value of publicity. You ran a public relations firm before you took early retirement."

"So where's this leading?" asked Agatha, wondering where Charles was and why he wasn't in the sitting-room, supporting her.

"The point is this." Hand held up the manuscript. "Now this is not well-written. But some publisher might offer a hefty sum for it because of the tie-in with the murder."

"You potty man," said Agatha furiously. "Are you trying to say that I would come all the way to Norfolk to bump someone off just to get a book sold?"

"We are just examining all the angles."

"Examine this! I do not know how to operate Tolly's burglar alarm, and whoever did must have murdered him, which leaves only Mrs. Jackson or Lucy."

Hand looked at her with mournful eyes. "If only it were as simple as that. Not only did Mrs. Jackson know the code, but the gamekeeper, the gardener and most of the hunt."

"What?"

"Mr. Trumpington-Jones, after he had the burglar-alarm system installed, kept forgetting the code. He got drunk at a hunt dinner and kept telling everyone who would listen to write it down for him so they could remind him."

"So what was the point of having a burglar-alarm system installed in the first place?"

"Oh, he evidently told his wife that they were all decent chaps around here. It was to protect him from city thieves, not local people."

"I can't tell you anything further," said Agatha. "Like I said, that death in my book and the death of Tolly is sheer coinci dence. How on earth could I think that anyone in this day and age would use a cutthroat razor?" She looked sharply at Hand. "It was his own razor, wasn't it?"

"I see no harm in telling you. No, it wasn't his own razor."

"Oh, then, it should be easy to trace the owner. I read a Dorothy Sayers's detective story where-"

"Spare us," said Hand nastily. "You can still buy cutthroat razors at boot sales and in some antique shops."

"It still strikes me as a daft idea. Why not just club him or poison him?"

"This way would be fast and deadly and quiet," said Hand.

Where was Charles? "Don't you want to question Sir Charles further?" asked Agatha.

"Not at the moment." Hand rose to his feet.

"May I have my manuscript back?"

"We'll keep it for the moment. I assume you have a copy of this on your computer?"

"Yes, but-"

"So you won't be needing this. We'll be in touch."

Charles was lurking in the hall when Agatha let the police out.

She was about to berate him for having left her alone with the police when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver. It was Mrs. Bloxby. "I heard about the murder on television," said the vicar's wife. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Charles is here, although," added Agatha waspishly, "he's not much help."

Charles grinned and strolled off into the kitchen.

"So you'll be staying on for a bit?"

"I feel I have to. To see if I can solve the murder."

"Why? You're not connected to anyone there."

"The thing is this: I thought I'd try my hand at writing a detective story. This was before the murder."

"But I don't see-"

"Listen!" said Agatha. "I called the damned thing Death at the Manor and in the book the owner of the manor gets his throat cut with an open razor and bingo, the owner here goes and gets his throat cut with an open razor. And what's worse, I based the characters on those of Tolly Trumpington-James and his wife, so you see ... Are you laughing?" she demanded angrily as a stifled snort sounded down the phone.

Another snort and then chuckles. "I'd better go," said Agatha furiously.

"No, wait!" Mrs. Bloxby recovered herself. "I've a bit of news."

"What?" asked Agatha sulkily.

"I was passing James's cottage the other day and that girl he let use it was packing stuff into a car. She said she'd had a postcard from James, and James is expected back next week."

Agatha felt as if she had been punched in the stomach.

Then she said slowly, "I'll stay on for a bit, you know. The police are still asking me questions."

"I'm sure they are," said Mr. Bloxby with a giggle.

"Goodbye. I've got to go." Agatha slammed down the phone and marched into the kitchen. "You'll never believe it," she stormed at Charles. "I told Mrs. Bloxby about the mess I'd got into because I wrote that detective story and she laughed."

"Think of it, Aggie," said Charles. "It's such a sort of Agatha Raisin thing to have done."

"I don't see ... Oh, I suppose it is funny in way." They both began to laugh helplessly. At last Agatha recovered and wiped her eyes. "What a lot of ghouls we are. Poor Tolly. We shouldn't laugh. What are we to do now?"

"I think we should relax for what's left of the day and tackle Mrs. Jackson in the morning."

The vicar of Carsely, Alf Bloxby, came into the room just as his wife was replacing the receiver. "What was so funny?" he asked.

"That was Agatha Raisin." She told him about the coincidence of Agatha's story and the murder. "I shouldn't have laughed," she said contritely. "I mean, it's not at all funny. That poor man. Why did I laugh, Alf?"

He sighed. "We're like the police and the press, we deal with so many sad cases that sometimes inappropriate laughter is our way of coping with things. Shouldn't you be on your way to see Mrs. Marble?"

"Yes, I'm just going." Alf was right, thought Mrs. Bloxby, as she walked through the village. Take Mrs. Marble, for instance. The poor woman was dying of cancer. But she was querulous, bitter and demanding. She had made out a new will, cutting out her daughter and grandchildren and leaving all her money to a cat's home. Mrs. Bloxby had tried in vain to get her to make a more reasonable will. Occasional jokes with her husband about the terrible Mrs. Marble enabled her to go on calling on her, and doing what she could to help. Humour was a necessary weapon against the pains and tribulations of life.