Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

by M C Beaton

  "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.

  FIVE

  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 her at her cottage and told her not to come until tomorrow."

  "We can't hide in here all day."<
br />
  "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 onto 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 parking lot in Norwich. They had arranged to meet at five o'clock. The mist had lifted and a 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 skillfully made up. She was wearing a new jacket and skirt in a soft heathery tweed. He 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 Charles 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 of 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 Wilder, 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.

  So it was with something like surprise that Agatha opened the door one morning to Harriet and Polly.

  "Can I help you?" she asked nervously.

  "Yes, you can," said Polly. "We are all getting together to clean up the village green." She handed Agatha a roll of garbage bags.

  Glad to be no longer ostracized, Agatha agreed. She called to Charles to come and help but he appeared to have become suddenly deaf because there was no reply to her calls. She went off with Harriet and Polly. "I'm sorry about that fairy business," said Agatha. "It just slipped out."

  "Well, you're no longer the culprit, everyone in the village seems to have spouted off about fairies to the television cameras," said Polly, sour because no one had asked her about them. "Has Mrs. Jackson been cleaning for you?"

  "Not yet," said Agatha. "She's been due to call several times but she always says she's poorly. Has anyone seen Lucy?"

  They both shook their heads. "We hear she's up at the manor and the lawyers have called," said Polly, "and the police are still there the whole time."

  "Oh, dear," murmured Agatha as they came upon the full horror of the village green.

  "That's not all," said Harriet with gloomy relish. "Those pesky travellers were using the pond as a toilet, so we're getting some down from the Department of the Environment to advise us how best to purify the water."

  Several other villagers were working alongside them. "This is all the fault of that Lucy Trumpington-James," complained a stout countrywoman to Agatha. Agatha straightened up from her rubbish collection. "How's that?" she asked.

  "If she hadn't have murdered him, then these dirty folks wouldn't have come here."

  "But she was in London."

  "So they say, but don't you believe it."

  "Was Tolly Trumpington-James having an affair with anyone?" asked Agatha.

  "Why shouldn't he?" demanded the woman, her red hands on her broad hips. "Wasn't much fun being married to her."

  "So who was he having an affair with?" said Agatha eagerly.

  "I never said nothing," retorted the woman angrily and walked quickly away to another part of the green.

  I must find out more about this, thought Agatha. She called to Polly and Harriet, who had been joined by Carrie, "When you're ready for a break, we can go back to my place for coffee."

  "Right," said Harriet. "We'll let you know."

  Agatha was just wondering if she would ever walk straight again when Harriet called, "Wouldn't mind that coffee now."

  Agatha straightened up with a groan. Her back was aching. Her fingers were numb because the day was icy cold.

  When they were all seated around the kitchen table-still no sign of Charles-Agatha said, "A woman on the green told me Tolly was having an affair."

  "Who would that be?" wondered Harriet. "I mean, who told you that?"

  "Big, broad woman, rosy cheeks, frizzy grey hair."

  "Oh, that would be Daisy Brean. I wonder what she was on about. I never heard anything about Tolly having an affair. I mean, who would want Tolly?"

  "We could ask about," suggested Agatha. "I mean, if she knows something, maybe someone else does. And that would mean there might be some angry husband who wanted rid of Tolly."

  "I saw Charles the other day," said Carrie, "and he
took me for a drink. He said you were thinking of leaving soon but that he might stay on."

  Agatha realized that she had been able to put James out of her mind for over a week.

  They had played endless games of Scrabble, gone to the cinema in Norwich, gone shopping and had kept away from the villagers as much as possible. Charles had said it was best to keep clear until the fuss died down and the press moved on to juicier stories. So when had he met Came? Then she remembered; she had decided to wash and set her hair and he had said he would go out for a walk. Came was slim and attractive. Damn Charles, and thank God she hadn't gone to bed with him. She was now determined to stay on longer. If Fryfam could take her mind off James, then it was worth hanging on for a bit. Charles's suggestion that she see a therapist still rankled.

  "I'll be here for a bit," said Agatha. "By the way, I like that rose scent that Rosie Wilden uses. Is it a commercial one?"

  "No, she makes it."

  "Does she sell any?"

  "I think she'll give you some if you ask her. She says it's from an old recipe," said Carrie. "I suppose I'd better be going."

  The others rose as well. As Agatha saw them out, Charles was just returning.

  "What now?" she asked.

  "Eat something and then we'll go out to the manor to present our condolences to Lucy."

  "I'm tired of thinking about meals," said Agatha crossly.

  "Doesn't seem to trouble you much. Just bung it in the microwave. Let me see what we've got. I'll make something. Let's see. Eggs, bacon, sausage. That'll do. A nice fry-up."

  "I needn't worry about my weight," said Agatha. "I must have lost pounds picking up that garbage."

  "Sit there while I make with the frying pan."

  "Are you usually so domesticated?"

  "Only around you. I'm driven into it."

  After lunch, they headed out to the manor, Agatha refusing to walk, saying she had endured enough cold air to last her for the rest of the day. There had been a hard frost during the night and patches of it still lay unmelted on the ground.

  "If anyone talks to me about global warming, I'll puke," grumbled Agatha. "It was a rotten summer as well."