Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam (18 page)

‘I’m not going to be lovey-dovey with you, Agatha Raisin,’ said Charles. ‘But in your moments of passion, you might have the decency to remember my name.’

‘What?’

‘“Oh, James, James,”’ mocked Charles. ‘I’ll see you in the car.’

Agatha felt herself blushing all over. If only she could just run away and forget about the whole thing.

Lizzie Findlay was at home.

She let them into a small neat flat. ‘How’s Tommy?’ she asked.

‘Tommy?’ asked Agatha.

‘My husband.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Agatha. ‘Why?’

‘I can’t help wondering how he’s getting on without me,’ said Lizzie. ‘He can’t cook, you know.’ She flashed a timid smile at Charles. ‘You men are so hopeless.’

‘Charles cooks,’ said Agatha. ‘We keep wondering and wondering who killed Tolly – and now Paul Redfern.’

‘It’s a nightmare,’ said Lizzie. ‘Who would want to kill Paul?’

‘He might have known something. He might have been blackmailing someone,’ said Charles. ‘He witnessed that will.’

‘It all comes back to Lucy,’ mourned Agatha. ‘Such a suitable subject.’

‘But she’s got an alibi. Tolly always said it suited Lucy very well being married to him.’ Lizzie began to walk up down the room. ‘He said when they’d had a row she would punish him by going out and buying something expensive. I said, why didn’t he just stop her credit cards, take control of the money. Tommy never allowed me a credit card. Tolly sort of waffled on and said he would do something about it. I don’t think near the end that Tolly cared for me at all. He just liked the excitement of cheating on his wife. And I’ll tell you something else. At the last hunt dinner before he died, he entered with Lucy on his arm. She was wearing a Liz Hurley sort of gown, slit up both sides and with a plunging neckline. All the men were goggling, and do you know, I think Tolly was
proud
of her.’

‘How are you managing for money?’ asked Charles.

‘I have a little left from an inheritance and I’ve applied for a job in a supermarket. They take older people.’

‘Did Tolly talk about enemies?’

‘No, he was too much of a people-pleaser in the country to annoy anyone.’

‘What about his past life? Anything there?’

She shook her head. ‘Not that he told me. I do hope Tommy’s all right.’

‘Why should you care about your husband?’ asked Agatha curiously. ‘He seemed to have led you a dog’s life.’

‘It was a busy life,’ sighed Lizzie. ‘I seemed to have such a lot to do during the day. There was the cleaning and cooking and baking things for the church sales and so on. I’m not used to being idle. Perhaps if I get a job, things won’t be so bad.’

‘Are you sure your husband didn’t kill Tolly?’

‘He might have done it, but he wouldn’t have killed Paul. He admired Paul. Said he was a first-class gamekeeper.’

Agatha studied Lizzie covertly. Could Lizzie have murdered Tolly? But it would take strength to creep up behind a man and slit his throat. Tolly must have heard some sound and come out of his bedroom to investigate. Still, one arm around his neck, pull his head back, and zip! She felt that underneath Lizzie’s calm exterior were layers and layers of undiscovered territory.

Lizzie saw Agatha watching her and said, ‘If you don’t mind, I would like you to leave. I’m rather busy.’

‘Doing what?’ asked Agatha.

‘Come on, Aggie,’ said Charles.

‘So what did you make of that?’ asked Agatha when they were outside. ‘I suppose you fell for that meek-housewife routine.’

‘On the contrary, I kept thinking she might make a good murderess.’

‘I wondered about that. But it would have taken strength to bump off Tolly.’

‘Did you see her arms and hands? She was wearing that short-sleeved blouse and she’s got strong arms and hands. And if she killed Paul – well, I bet she knows how to use a shotgun.’

‘I’ve not really had time to sit down and think it through,’ said Agatha.

‘What, like Poirot? Going to exercise the little grey cells, Aggie?’

‘Don’t sneer,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s go back to the motel and try to work things out again.’

After a welcome from the cats, they sat down with sheets of paper. ‘Let’s not talk,’ begged Agatha. ‘I think each of us should try on our own and then we’ll compare notes.’

She wrote down everything they had found out, little though it was, and then re-read what she had written. She then glanced across at Charles. He was chewing the end of a pencil and scowling down at his notes. Agatha felt a sudden spasm of lust and then shuddered. Never again. There was something so demeaning about casual sex. Perhaps it was because she belonged to the wrong generation. Somewhere she had read that young women didn’t suffer from the same pangs of guilt and remorse. Affairs. Lizzie’s affair with Tolly. Lucy had suspected something. If Lucy had found out, then she could have had grounds for divorce and get a good settlement, too. What was Lucy really like? Agatha had put her down as a bimbo. But people were never that simple. That was the bad habit of stereotyping people. It stopped one from looking underneath. Someone had feared her and Charles, someone had been worried that they might have found out something. But who could that have been? Nothing had been taken. There had been no attempt to make it look like a robbery. Which argued that someone had been very confident. No, that was wrong. A confident person wouldn’t have been frightened enough to break in. And why leave the Stubbs with them?

Agatha wrote LUCY in block capitals and stared at it. But Lucy had been away. All right. Indulge in a flight of fantasy. Lucy had learned about the will and had taken the Stubbs. Something tips her over the edge. Tolly wants a divorce. Okay, what would upset her about that, provided he offered a settlement? But what if she wanted it all?

So she kills Tolly. But why Paul Redfern?

‘Got anything?’ asked Charles.

‘Let’s swap notes,’ said Agatha.

She started to read Charles’s neat script. He had written, ‘Why is Mrs Jackson so loyal? Is Lucy paying her to keep her mouth shut? Blackmail? But Lucy couldn’t have committed the murder.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Agatha.

‘Mmm? Wait a bit, till I read yours. You don’t mention Lizzie or Captain Findlay.’

‘That’s because Lizzie said the captain admired Paul.’

‘But I’ve got an interesting idea in blackmail. That would explain the return of the Stubbs.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Look,’ said Charles, tapping Agatha’s notes with his pencil. ‘Let’s think about blackmail. Mrs Jackson and Redfern know about that other will. They witnessed it. Say, Redfern tells Lucy. She nabs the painting. Something then happens to make her kill her husband. Up pops Redfern and says, “Unless you pay me, I’ll talk about that other will.” I’ve got the loot, I don’t need the painting, thinks Lucy, and I’m not going to be blackmailed, so she dumps it on us. Redfern then ups and says, “Pay up or I’ll tell the police you stole that painting,” so she blasts him with a shotgun.’

‘I wish she didn’t have such a cast-iron alibi.’ Agatha suddenly thought of James. Why hadn’t he phoned? Perhaps he was trying even now.

‘The heat from the press should be off by now,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back to the cottage. Whatever clues we need are in Fryfam.’

Charles sighed. ‘I must admit, I’m tired of this motel room. But the press will still be snooping around. It’s too hot a story for them to drop. We’ll leave in the morning.’

Agatha felt nervous about going into the cottage when they got back. She stood outside until Charles had checked every room for either dead bodies or would-be assailants under the bed.

Finding it was safe, Agatha let out the cats into the garden. Barry Jones was raking up leaves. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he called. ‘I borrowed the key from Mrs Jackson and let myself into the kitchen for a cup of tea.’

Agatha walked down the garden to join him. ‘Do you always call your mother Mrs Jackson?’

‘Only to folks who don’t know the score. It confuses people, us having different names.’

‘What was your father like?’

‘Dunno. He scarpered right after I was born.’

‘Chatting up the garden Adonis?’ asked Charles when Agatha came back into the kitchen.

‘He is incredibly good-looking, isn’t he?’ said Agatha.

‘Now there’s a real toy boy for you.’

‘I might consider it,’ snapped Agatha. ‘What are we going to do now?’

‘I’m going to watch something stupid on television. If I keep thinking about it and thinking about it and thinking about it, I’ll never get anywhere.’

Agatha retreated to her bedroom and shut the door. She waited until she could hear the sounds of the television set downstairs, then took out her mobile phone and called Mrs Bloxby.

‘Oh, dear, what has been happening to you?’

There was a ringing at the doorbell downstairs. ‘Wait a minute,’ said Agatha. She put her head round the bedroom door. ‘Press,’ came Charles’s voice. ‘I’m not going to open it.’

Agatha retreated into the bedroom. ‘That was the press,’ she said to Mrs Bloxby.

‘Is it not getting a little dangerous for you to be there?’ asked Mrs Bloxby. ‘You always stir things up and then someone tries to hurt you.’

‘I’m safe for the moment, with the village crawling with police and press. How’s things in Carsely?’

‘Very quiet.’

‘James getting on all right?’

‘Yes, he and that Mrs Sheppard I told you about have struck up a friendship.’

‘Oh, the pushy blonde.’

‘Now, now, she’s not at all pushy and, in fact, is very amusing. What’s been happening? I saw you and Charles on the television news.’

Agatha told her all about the new will, Lizzie and the captain, and the dead end they had reached in looking for motives and suspects. Then she told her the whole business in detail from the beginning.

Agatha ended up by saying, ‘We’ll maybe have to look further. I mean, it could have been any member of the hunt, for all I know. And that Lizzie, I’m beginning to think she is a bit of a minx. She can’t be all that downtrodden and crushed. She was even flirting with Charles.’

‘And did that annoy you?’

‘Of course not. I’m not interested in Charles. Still, it was a bit odd.’

‘How was the Stubbs left in your house? I mean, how did they get in?’

‘Charles forgot to lock up.’

‘And the time before, when the place was searched? Any signs of a door or window being forced?’

‘No, someone must have had a key.’

‘Does anyone who might be involved in this work at the estate agents’?’

‘Yes, Amy Worth. But it can’t be her.’

‘Why not?’

‘What motive?’

‘There seem to be a lot of secret passions in that village. Blame it on the awful Norfolk weather. Once the summer visitors leave, those women can have little else to do but make mischief. Satan finds some mischief for idle hands to do.’

‘Quite. Still, you’ve got a point.’

‘And doesn’t that cleaner have a key?’

‘Yes, but she only got one recently.’

‘But before the return of the Stubbs?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Agatha. ‘Anyway, thanks. You’ve given me some points to think about.’

‘Any message for James?’ asked Mrs Bloxby, feeling contrite.

‘Doesn’t seem much point now he’s got that paragon of all the virtues to entertain him.’

James was sitting with Mrs Sheppard in Carsely’s pub, the Red Lion. Despite the chill of the day, she was wearing a sleeveless red chiffon dress. Her blond hair was smooth and shiny but she kept tossing it about like a model in a shampoo advertisement. James could feel himself becoming more and more bored. If only it were the prickly irritating Agatha Raisin opposite. Agatha could be infuriating, but she was never, ever boring.

Agatha told Charles what Mrs Bloxby had said, but omitting any mention of James. ‘So many people,’ mourned Charles. ‘So many suspects. I feel like going home. What about you? The police can’t really keep us here.’

But Agatha suddenly did not want to go back to Carsely. In her imagination, James was already engaged to Mrs Sheppard. And she did not want to be left on her own without Charles.

‘We may try a little longer.’ Charles was putting his coat on. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Agatha.

‘I’m going to buy a couple of bolts, one for the back door and one for the front. While I do that, why don’t you pop down to the estate agent’s and have a word with Amy?’

‘All right, but I don’t think that woman’s got much more in her mind than quilting and church affairs.’

Agatha set out. The wind was cold and the ground was frozen and slippery. She made her way cautiously across the village green and then heard herself being hailed from the pub. Rosie Wilden was standing outside, waving to her. Agatha walked back to join her. ‘Come in, Mrs Raisin, dear. I’ve got a bottle of my perfume for you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Agatha, following her into the darkness of the pub. ‘We’re not open yet,’ said Rosie. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘I was just going to call on Amy Worth at the estate agent’s.’

‘You’d better hurry. They close at five-thirty and it’s nearly that. Here’s your perfume.’

‘Thanks a lot. Are you sure I can’t pay you for it?’

‘My pleasure.’

Agatha hurried off, thinking that she must get Rosie something to repay her for the perfume and for that free meal.

Amy was just locking up when Agatha came hurrying up.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

‘Nothing more,’ said Agatha. ‘I think enough has happened already. I just wanted a chat.’

‘I live next to Harriet. Walk round with me and we’ll have a cup of tea.’

Amy’s house was smaller than Harriet’s, a trim 1930s bungalow with pebble-dashed walls, looking out of place among the other older houses of Fryfam.

‘Is your husband at home?’ asked Agatha, following Amy into her kitchen.

‘No, Jerry’s working late. Sit down. Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’

‘Coffee will be fine. Mind if I smoke?’

‘I do, actually.’

‘Oh, well.’ Agatha put away the packet of cigarettes she had taken out of her pocket. ‘I’m at my wits’ end trying to figure out who murdered Tolly, and Paul Redfern.’

‘It’s really not your job,’ said Amy. There was a loose thread hanging down from her droopy skirt. Agatha was wondering whether to tell her about it when Amy giggled and said, ‘Now tell me all about you and Sir Charles.’