Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam (10 page)

‘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 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 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 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 ageing.’

‘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 sitting-room 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 necessarily. It could mean the cuckolded huntsman,’ said Charles.

‘I wish it were all over,’ sighed Harriet. ‘First those dancing 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 women 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.