Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam (11 page)

‘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 Trumpington-Jameses 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-James, 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 coincidence. How on earth could I think that anyone in this day and age would use a cut-throat 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 detective story where –’

‘Spare us,’ said Hand nastily. ‘You can still buy cut-throat 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 Mrs 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 a 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 cats’ 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.

Agatha tossed and turned all night, wondering what to do. Part of her longed to rush back to Carsely and get her cottage ready, to visit the beautician, the hairdresser, the dress shops, to prepare for James’s arrival. The sensible part of her mind told her that it would be a waste of time. She and James would never be friends again.

Around dawn, she suddenly fell into a heavy sleep and did not wake until ten in the morning. She got out of bed, amazed that the police had not been hammering on the door. She put on a dressing-gown and trailed down to the kitchen.

Charles was sitting at the kitchen table, newspapers spread out in front of him.

‘Anything interesting?’ asked Agatha.

‘Oh, yes.
The Radical Voice
. Front page. “The Fairies of Fryfam.”’

‘God. They’ll lynch me in this village. I would have thought the other papers would have been beating on the door.’

‘They were. You were fast asleep. I expected the onslaught, so I drove both our cars at dawn out of the village and hid them in a side road and didn’t answer the door. They assumed we had both fled.’

‘Should I read it?’

‘Gerry’s precious prose? No, better not.’

‘Let me see it.’ Agatha sat down opposite him and seized
The Radical Voice
. The first awful sight that met her eyes was a coloured photograph of herself and Charles. Charles looked dapper and amused. But she! The camera had cruelly accentuated every line on her face. ‘Is that grey hairs?’ she asked, peering closely at the photograph.

‘You’ve got a few grey roots,’ said Charles.

Agatha read the article with growing dismay. It would be clear to everyone in the village that Agatha Raisin had babbled about the fairies, and at great length. Now she definitely had a good excuse to go home.

‘They’ll lynch me,’ she said. ‘I was going back to Carsely anyway. Better go home today.’

‘James home?’

Agatha blushed angrily. His eyes searched her face. ‘But he’s coming home. Last night after that phone call from Mrs Bloxby, you were elated one minute and fidgety and miserable the next. We’ve talked about this before. A friend of mind went to a very good therapist in Harley Street for your problem.’

‘I don’t have a problem.’

‘Oh, yes, you do. You are a grown woman who is obsessing over a cold man. Before you go back to Carsely, which you should not do until we discover a bit more about this murder, you should go to this therapist first. Just think how free you would feel if you didn’t care, Agatha. Think of facing James again and
not caring
. How long is it since you had any
fun
with James? No, don’t yell at me off the top of your head. Think!’

Agatha said, ‘I don’t like to be bullied.’

‘You don’t like a sensible suggestion either. Promise me you’ll at least try this therapist.’

‘Anything to shut you up. Where’s Mrs Jackson?’

‘I called on her at her cottage and told her not to come until tomorrow.’

‘We can’t hide in here all day.’

‘No, we’ll walk a back route to the cars, take yours and go to Norwich, where you will get your hair done.’

‘I s’pose,’ grumbled Agatha. ‘I’d better have some breakfast.’

‘By which you mean two cups of coffee and three cigarettes. The coffee’s ready in the pot and your cigarettes are on the table.’

‘What on earth is Hand going to say about these fairies? He’ll say I’ve been holding out on him.’

‘He’ll know about the lights. I can’t see Tolly holding back that bit of information when Hand was investigating the theft of the Stubbs.’

The day was quiet and misty, a grey, dreamy landscape. They set out looking to right and left to make sure no reporter was lurking in the bushes. Charles had warned her to wear her wellingtons and carry her shoes, for the way he took her led over a stile at the end of Pucks Lane and across a field of stubble.

They climbed over another stile and into a lane to where he had parked the cars at the end of it. Agatha removed her muddy boots and put on her shoes. She drove off slowly through the mist and on to the main road. ‘We can’t hide out forever,’ she said.

‘Give it another day and you won’t be the only one to have talked about fairies. In fact, I’ll bet you if we watch the news when we get back, some of them will be standing in front of a camera talking happily about the little people. It always amazes me how people will refuse to talk to newspaper reporters and yet welcome a television crew into their homes.’

‘We’ll have lunch in Norwich first,’ said Agatha, ‘and then I’ll leave you to entertain yourself while I find a hairdresser.’

Charles waited by Agatha’s car in a car park in Norwich. They had arranged to meet at five o’clock. The mist had lifted and late sun was shining down. Then he saw Agatha coming towards him and smiled. Her thick hair was once more a glossy brown. Her face had been skilfully made up. She was wearing a new jacket and skirt in a soft heathery tweed. Her excellent legs were encased in fine tights, ending in a new pair of court shoes. Agatha, reflected Charles, would never be a beauty, but she carried with her a strong aura of sexual magnetism of which she was entirely unaware.

‘You clean up a treat,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can get back in time for the six o’clock news.’

‘Do I have to struggle across that muddy field again?’

‘No, deadline time’s over for the newspapers and they’ll all be in the pub. Drop me at my car and then we’ll both drive home.’

Agatha was dying to phone Mrs Bloxby again, to ask more about James’s return. But the cottage was small and Charles would hear her and then he would start nagging her about that therapist again.

Agatha had a leisurely bath that evening, creamed her face, put on her night-dress and went into her bedroom. Charles was lying on her bed with his hands clasped behind his head.

‘What are you doing there?’ demanded Agatha.

‘I thought we might . . .’

‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘Not even a cuddle?’

‘No.’

He sighed and swung his legs out of bed and then made for the door. ‘Saving yourself for James?’ he jeered.

‘Just go away!’ shouted Agatha and slammed the door behind him.

She had slept with Charles before, only to find out that he had gone off romancing some other female the day after. Agatha got into bed and lay staring at the ceiling. To take her mind off the imminent return of James, she began to turn what she knew about Tolly’s murder over in her mind, and the more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed. She began to think that the theft of the Stubbs might not have anything to do with the murder. So concentrate on the murder alone. Lucy was the only suspect. Agatha was sure that Lucy had been telling the truth when she had suspected Tolly was having an affair. Based on what? Rose perfume and the fact that Tolly had washed the sheets. But Rosie Wilden, Agatha was sure, had been telling the truth. But surely rose perfume could be used by anyone.

The best thing would be to wait until the fuss died down and then try to see Lucy. Charles had been right about one thing – the evening television news had featured many of the locals, including Harriet, talking about the fairies.

By the next day, Agatha began to wonder if the fuss would ever die down. And for the following week, the village of Fryfam was under a sort of siege. ‘You did this,’ Polly shouted at Agatha when she met her crossing the village green. Because of the fairies, not only tourists but weirdos had descended on the village. And then came the New Age travellers, that scourge of the countryside, with their savage dogs and dirty children, their broken-down trailers and trucks camped on the village green. They were finally routed by the police and left in a haze of filthy exhaust, leaving the village green like a tip and not a duck left on the pond because they had eaten the lot.