Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

by M C Beaton

  "I think you should accompany us to headquarters first," said Hand. "Detective Sergeant Carey will travel in your car with you."

  "Too kind," murmured Lizzie. "Mr. Carey, if you could help me to my car with the cases? Thank you."

  Agatha and Charles had spent a frustrating day. They had gone to call on the gamekeeper, only to find he had been taken off in a police car. "So maddening not to know anything," mourned Agatha. "Maybe the gamekeeper did it. Maybe Lucy was having an affair with the gamekeeper."

  "How Lady Chatterley of her if she was," said Charles. "What about les girls?"

  "You mean Harriet et al?"

  "Exactly. Gossip runs round this village like wildfire."

  "I know where she lives. Let's go."

  Hariett was at home and her friends were with her, their husbands being, as usual, in the pub.

  "Come in," said Harriet eagerly. "I was just thinking of phoning you. Such news! Fancy the Stubbs turning up in your kitchen!"

  "How did you hear?" asked Agatha, following Harriet into her sitting-room, where Polly, Amy and Carrie were quilting.

  "One of the policemen went into the pub for a pint and got talking to Rosie, and Carrie met Rosie on the village green and she told her. And guess what? Mrs. Jackson and Paul Redfern have been taken off in police cars. Do you think they did it?"

  "No," said Agatha. "What reason would they have? Gosh, I know. I bet they witnessed that will."

  Four pairs of eyes goggled at her. Charles tried to give Agatha a warning kick but she was off in full gossipy flight. "There was a will attached to the back of the painting. I believe it leaves the Stubbs to Lizzie Findlay."

  "That figures," said Polly.

  "Why?"

  "Well, I always said there was something going on there, didn't I? Last hunt dinner, I said to Peter I could swear they had been playing footsie under the table and he said, `Don't be disgusting.' Wait till I tell him this."

  "Oh, I don't think anything was going on," said Agatha.

  "So loyal, so late," murmured Charles.

  "I think the police have arrested Lizzie," said Amy.

  "Why would they do that?" asked Charles.

  "Sloppy Melton, who works on the farm the other side of the road from the captain's land, said he went up to see the man who runs the captain's farm, that's Joe Hardwick, and while they were talking, Lizzie comes out with suitcases and gets in her car, but there was a detective beside her and another following."

  "If they'd arrested her," said Agatha, "she wouldn't have been allowed to leave in her own car and with suitcases. I think she's left the captain."

  "She wouldn't dare," breathed Carrie. "She was terrified of him."

  "What if the captain thought his wife was having an affair with Tolly," said Agatha, and then coloured as Charles glared at her. "I mean, the whole idea's ridiculous, but he might have believed she was and gone and murdered Tolly."

  "You don't know hunting," said Polly. "It's not a sport, it's a religion. The captain would have given Tolly his wife if it kept the funds coming in."

  "But why on earth would Mrs. Jackson and the gamekeeper keep quiet about the will?" asked Agatha.

  "That's easy," said Carrie. She smiled. She was wearing an attractive shade of pink lipstick and her eyes kept drifting to Charles.

  "What's easy?" demanded Agatha crossly.

  "It stands to reason that when it transpired, the solicitors had a will leaving everything to Lucy, and no mention was made of any other will, they would assume that was the only will."

  "Or," said Harriet, "it could be because they were just told to put their signatures down at the bottom of the will and didn't bother reading it. Why would they? Tolly would simply say he wanted their signatures, and they would sign, because he was the boss."

  "What do you think of your fairies now?" asked Agatha, keeping her eyes on Carrie. "I mean, don't you feel rather silly finding out that it was only Mrs. Jackson's children?"

  "There're strange things go on in old parts of Britain like this, but you wouldn't understand," said Polly dismissively. "Now you're here, Agatha, would you like to do some quilting?"

  "We've got to get going," said Agatha. "Come along, Charles." She marched to the door of the sitting-room. She heard a burst of laughter and whipped round. Charles was creeping after her, touching his forelock. When he saw her glaring he said meekly, "Coming, missus. Don't beat me."

  "Clown!" said Agatha, when they got outside.

  "Don't order me around like a dog, Agatha. If you go on like that, they really will think I'm your toy boy."

  "You can't be a toy boy," said Agatha nastily. "You're too old and you haven't got muscles."

  "Let's go to the pub and see if we can pick up any gossip." Charles set off rapidly across the village green, leaving Agatha to follow him.

  When Agatha went into the pub, Charles was already at the bar, smiling at Rosie and ordering drinks. Agatha joined him. "There you are," said Charles. "One large gin and tonic for you. Oh, look, there's Framp over there. Let's join him."

  The policeman was sitting alone at a corner table. As they walked to join him, Agatha was aware of three pairs of hostile eyes. While the wives were quilting, the husbands were back in the pub. She wondered about Henry Freemantle. He had threatened her and seemed to have a filthy temper. She must find out more about him.

  Framp's glass was nearly empty, so Charles offered to buy him another. "Don't tell her anything until I get back with your drink," said Charles.

  "I'm not allowed to tell anyone anything," said Framp moodily.

  When Charles returned with the policeman's pint of beer, Agatha said, "I cannot understand why Mrs. Jackson and Redfern signed a will and didn't tell you about the new will."

  "I can tell you that," said Framp, mellowed by the sight of the large pint. "It's simple. They said they didn't read the will, and as far as they were concerned that was the only will."

  "Oh." Agatha was disappointed.

  "Why do you think the Stubbs landed up in your house?" asked Framp. "And how did they get in?"

  "Everyone seems to have keys to everywhere in this village," said Agatha.

  Charles looked guilty. "I forgot to tell you, Aggie. I didn't lock up."

  "What?"

  "Fact. I meant to, but it slipped my mind. You'd gone up to bed first and I thought I'd watch a bit of television and then lock up, but I didn't."

  "Still, he's got a point," said Agatha. "Why leave it with us?"

  "I shouldn't be telling you this." Framp drained his pint and looked at the empty glass soulfully. "I'll get you another," said Charles quickly. He returned with a brimming pint and asked eagerly, "What aren't you supposed to tell us?"

  "It's like this. Hand thinks it's odd that Mrs. Raisin here should have been writing a book called Death at the Manor in which a chap gets his throat cut with a razor, and bingo, we've got Mr. Trumpington-James with his throat cut. So he's beginning to think that no one put that Stubbs in your kitchen. You pair stole it and got rattled and decided to concoct a story about someone having left it there."

  "That's ridiculous!" Agatha was pink in the face with outrage.

  "He's looking into your finances to see if you were badly in need of money."

  "This gets better," said Charles, looking amused. "So after we steal the painting, Tolly guesses it's us, and phones us up or something and we panic and nip up there and slit his throat with a safety razor which we just happen to have with us."

  "Well, Hand says that county types like you, Sir Charles, often use an old-fashioned open razor."

  "You know what I think," said Agatha. "I think someone panicked-not us-but knew the way Hand's mind was working and decided to get rid of a painting they didn't have the knowhow to sell and make us look guilty."

  "Far-fetched, that," said Framp.

  "Thinking we're murderers is a damn sight more farfetched," raged Agatha.

  "Calm down," admonished Charles. "It's a hoot."

  But Agat
ha was suddenly thinking of James. Was he back? And how could she leave this village now that she was a murder suspect? She had not thought of him much, but now she did not have the freedom to leave Fryfam any time she wanted, he came rushing back into her mind.

  "I've left my cigarettes," said Agatha, getting to her feet. "I'll nip home and get them."

  "I'll get you some at the bar. Sit down," said Charles.

  Amazement at this new generous Charles momentarily diverted Agatha, but as he returned with her cigarettes, she remembered she had her mobile phone in her handbag.

  "Got to go to the ladies' room," she said brightly. "Where is it, I wonder?"

  "Over there, under that sign saying `Ladies' " replied Charles, looking at her suspiciously. Why was Agatha such a mixture of excitement and guilt?

  Agatha went into the old-fashion ladies' room with its giant Victorian wash-basin, brass taps, and toilet with the huge brass pull-chain hanging down beside it.

  She dialled Mrs. Bloxby's number. The vicar's wife answered. "Oh," she said, her voice a little distant. "How are you?"

  Agatha told her about the finding of the Stubbs and then asked, "James back?"

  "Well, yes, he came back today."

  "Have you seen him?"

  "As a matter of fact, he's just left."

  "Did he ask for me?"

  "He asked about the murder. He'd read about it in the newspaper."

  Agatha clutched the phone tightly. "Nothing James likes more than a mystery. He'll be coming here, I suppose."

  "He said he wouldn't be."

  "What? Just like that? He said, `I will not be going to Norfolk to see Agatha'?"

  "I can't remember the exact words. I've got to go. Alf is calling me. 'Bye."

  Agatha was so miserable that she joined Charles and Framp still holding the mobile phone in one hand. Charles stared at it, and Agatha blushed and thrust it into her handbag.

  Mrs. Bloxby went into her sitting-room and sat staring at the fire. Was it a sin to lie when that lie was for someone's good? James Lacey had actually said, "I miss Agatha. I think I'll take a trip to this Fryfam place."

  And Mrs. Bloxby remembered herself saying, "She's with Sir Charles." And the way James's face had gone a bit set and grim and how he had gone on to talk of other things.

  But Mrs. Bloxby was fond of Agatha and she felt that James Lacey would destroy Agatha's independent spirit. But, she thought miserably, she should not have told James about Charles. James would have gone to Fryfam and it would be obvious there was really nothing going on between Charles and Agatha. Anyway, there was an age difference of about ten years between them, thought Mrs. Bloxby naively, and that meant there would could not possibly be any affair. Mrs. Bloxby sighed. Telling James about Charles had been interference in Agatha's life and she had no right at all to interfere. If she had said, "Charles is over there with her," then that would have been all right because James must have seen Charles's name in the newspapers. But to say, "She's with Sir Charles," abruptly and in that warning way. That was lying. She heard her husband come in.

  "What's up?" asked the vicar. "You look gloomy."

  But she could no longer confide in him about Agatha. Alf did not like Agatha and would not understand her motives.

  SEVEN

  AGATHA and Charles were glad that Framp had warned them of Hand's suspicions, so neither was particularly surprised when they found themselves borne off in a police car to headquarters.

  They were interviewed separately. Under Hand's remorseless questioning, Agatha began to wonder if people actually caved in and confessed to crimes they had not committed, because he was almost making her believe she had done it. She was trying to control her temper, but was just about to crack and call him every name under the sun when they were interrupted. Tristan Tomley had arrived to represent both Agatha and Charles.

  He joined Agatha at the table. Hand's questioning lost its belligerence and Agatha, glad of the support and wishing she had had the sense to demand a solicitor before Charles had thought of it, answered all his questions calmly.

  At last she read and signed a statement and was free to go. "You'll need to wait for Charles," said Tommers breezily. "Got to sit in on his questioning."

  Agatha waited patiently on a hard chair by the front desk. She tried to conjure up a dream about herself and James, but the dream would not come. She remembered instead all James's coldness and anger, the way he would make love to her without saying a word. It's over at last, she told herself.

  "Would you like a cup of tea?" asked the desk sergeant.

  "No, thank you."

  The desk sergeant straightened up and then groaned. "My joints are killing me," he said. "Don't you find when you get to our age that your knees and ankles ache the whole time?"

  "No," replied Agatha curtly. That's all I need on this awful morning, she thought, to be reminded of my age by some fatgutted copper whose joints would not ache so much if he lost some weight.

  At last Charles appeared with Tommers. "Thank God that's over. Drink, Tommers?"

  "Not me. I've got an appointment with a client. I'll be in touch."

  Charles turned to Agatha. "Best smile," he said. "The press are outside. Some copper told me it's leaked out that we are helping the police with their inquiries."

  "Isn't there a back way?"

  "Oh, let's just face the music."

  "Isn't a police car going to take us home?"

  "That's an idea." Charles went up to the desk and asked if they could have a car to take them back to Fryfam.

  "Detective Chief Inspector Hand ordered one, sir, and if I'm not mistaken, it's outside the door."

  As Charles and Agatha exited, flashes blinded them and Agatha stumbled. Charles put an arm about her shoulders and got her into the police car.

  When they arrived back at the cottage, Charles said, "Let's get the cats and clear off somewhere for the night and try to work out what we've got. If we stay here, the press will be hammering on the door any minute."

  "Where will we go? A hotel won't take cats."

  "We'll find one of those roadside motels. Don't mention the cats. We'll get a key and then just carry them in when no one is looking."

  They hurriedly packed a couple of suitcases and put the cats in their travelling boxes and set out again. They found a motel on the outskirts of Norwich. It was a very expensive motel, and to Agatha's amazement Charles produced his credit card to pay for the bill. What had happened to this man, who was expert at "forgetting" his wallet?

  They drove round to their room and carried the luggage and the cat boxes in. There were a sitting-room and a bedroom with one large double bed.

  "We should have got one with single beds," said Agatha.

  "Don't make a fuss," said Charles, who was kneeling on the floor and helping Hodge and Boswell out of their boxes. "It's an enormous bed. You stay on your side and I'll stay on mine. Put the cats in the middle if you fear for your honour."

  "Should we tell the police where we are?" asked Agatha.

  "I'll do that. Then we'd better eat something. We never seem to eat much these days."

  Charles phoned the police and explained they were keeping away from the press.

  "Let's wrap up and take a walk after we have something to eat. This place has a restaurant."

  After they had eaten, they turned off the main road where the hotel was situated and walked along a country lane. A strong wind was blowing, sending the last of the autumn leaves swirling about their feet. Great ragged clouds chased each other across a stormy sky, driven by a north-eastern all the way from Iceland.

  Agatha was glad she had put on boots and trousers. They walked a mile or two before returning to the hotel. When they went into their motel sitting-room, the cats ran up to Charles, purring and rubbing themselves against his legs.

  "It's funny the cats should like you so much," said Agatha, taking off her coat. "They wouldn't ever go near James like that."

  "They have good taste, tho
se cats of yours."

  "I thought you liked James."

  "He's a man's man, to put it politely. If you had got married to him, Agatha, he would expect you to go on like his batman."

  "He always respected my independence."

  "When you were having an affair. Marriage is different. After the first fine careless rapture is over, it all comes down to. . . `What did you do with my socks?' Believe me, that one would have expected his shirts ironed and his dinner on the table."

  "It's not going to happen," snapped Agatha. "I thought we were going to discuss this case?"

  "Okay. Let's sit down and work it out." Charles took several sheets of motel stationery. "Now who and what have we got? Who is your prime suspect?"

  "What about Captain Findlay? I'd like it to be him."

  "So, does he steal the Stubbs as well?"

  "Could be. If Tolly was loose-mouthed enough to tell the world the code for his burglar alarm, he may have confided in someone at the hunt about the Stubbs. Anyone else?"

  "There's more going on in that village than we can even begin to imagine," said Charles. "Let's go back to the beginning. Lucy thinks her husband is having an affair with Rosie Wilden."

  "But I thought Lizzie cancelled that idea out."

  "Not necessarily. Why should Lizzie be the only one to have an affair with Tolly? Once he started philandering, he might have felt like spreading his wings."

  "Then why should anyone murder him, Charles? Lizzie was the one getting the Stubbs."

  "Rats. Try again. You know, it's a pity Lucy has such a cast-iron alibi. Do you know what I think? I think we should nip back to the manor and try to see that gamekeeper."

  "All right," said Agatha wearily. "We seem to have reached a dead end here. I'll feed the cats and give them some food. Better hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door in case some maid comes in when we're out and frightens them."

  The day was even colder when they set out for Fryfam, with a fiery-red sun sinking into black clouds. "Could almost snow," said Charles.

  "Not yet, surely. It doesn't snow in Britain until January."

  "Not anywhere else. This is Norfolk. But you're probably right. Isn't it funny, all those films and books about Christmas in England? It always snows. And yet I've never seen a white Christmas, except in places like Switzerland."