Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

by M C Beaton

  "Why?" mocked Charles. "Is she that ugly?"

  "On the contrary, she's a country beauty."

  "Aha, let's skip the frozen fish and go to the pub."

  "They don't do meals."

  "What? Not even a Scotch egg?"

  "Not even that. It's like a man's club or an old-fashioned pub. Women not welcome while the men gawp at Rosie."

  Charles looked around him. "Not bad for a rented cottage. Bit cold, though."

  "No central heating. Lots of logs and I'll light this Calor gas heater."

  "What on earth brought you here?"

  "Just an impulse. I was bored and I stuck a pin in the map."

  She put a plate of fish in front of Charles. "Any wine?" he asked.

  "I've got a bottle of Chablis I got in Tesco's the other day."

  "Tesco's around here?"

  "Norwich." Agatha took the bottle out of the fridge and handed him an opener.

  "That reminds me," she said, "the night I arrived I went down to the pub looking for food. Rosie said they didn't do meals but invited me through to the kitchen to have some of the family food, which was delicious. She gave me this wine which was marvellous. I didn't know what it was."

  "So why didn't you ask her?"

  "I meant to. But then it went out of my mind. I was taken aback when she wouldn't let me pay for anything. I've been invited to join the women's group here. I've been quilting."

  Charles snorted with laughter. "Poor you. You must have been at your wits' end for some amusement. So let's finish this and go out and visit Tolly Trumpington-James."

  "There'll be police all over the place and Lucy's cleared off to London."

  "Still, we shall turn our great brains to the task of the missing Stubbs."

  The rain had settled down to a dismal drizzle. "Not much of a place," commented Charles as they drove past the village green.

  "Looks all right in the sunshine."

  They drove out to the manor house. Various police cars, vans and other cars were parked outside.

  They went up. Agatha rang the bell. The door was opened by the grumpy-looking woman who had served tea the day before.

  "Tell Mr. Trumpington-James I wish to see him," said Agatha grandly.

  She clumped off. After a few moments, she returned and said, "He's too busy."

  The door began to close. Charles held out his card. "I'm staying with Mrs. Raisin. Perhaps he would like to give me a call?"

  She squinted down at the card and the legend "Sir Charles Fraith."

  Toily appeared in the hall behind. "She gone yet?" he called.

  The surly woman said. "She's got a Sir Charles Fraith with her."

  Tolly surged forward, pushing her aside, an unctuous smile on his face.

  "Glad to see you, Sir Charles," he said. "Come in. Come for some hunting? You do ride on horseback?"

  "Camel, actually," said Charles.

  Tolly goggled at him, and then burst out laughing. "Joke, eh? That's a good one. Come through. Mind if I call you Charles?"

  He strode off in the direction of the drawing-room. "What a twat," muttered Charles. "Come on, Aggie."

  They went into the drawing-room. "Heard you'd had a painting pinched," said Charles. "Insured, I hope?"

  "Fortunately. But it's not the money that bothers me. It's the fact that some cheeky bugger walked into my house as cool as you please and took it off the wall and disappeared with it."

  "And the burglar alarm was set?" asked Agatha.

  "Yes," said Tolly impatiently, "and all the doors and windows were locked."

  "It was taken from the study, wasn't it. Can we have a look?"

  "Not now. The police are in there."

  "What about that woman who answered the door?"

  "Betty Jackson. Yes. But she's salt of the earth."

  "I find her a grumpy old bitch," said Agatha.

  Tolly stared insolently at her. "You wouldn't understand. People like us are used to servants, eh Charles?"

  "No," said Charles. "I get women up from the village to clean and when I've got a big house party, I get a catering company to cope. Aggie's quite right, you know. She is a grumpy old bitch."

  Tolly let out false bray of laughter. Then he said, "Plan to stay long? I belong to the local hunt. Got some good hunting around here."

  "Don't hunt," said Charles.

  Tolly eyed him with sudden suspicion. "What did you get your knighthood for?"

  "It's a baronetcy," said Charles patiently. "In the family for years."

  "And where's your place?"

  "Warwickshire. Actually, the reason we called is that Aggie and I have made a pretty good job at solving some mysteries in the past. Thought we might be able to help you."

  "Very kind of you. I don't see what you can do that the police can't."

  The door of the drawing-room opened, and a nondescript man looked in. "Could we have a word with you, sir?"

  "Sure." He turned to Agatha and Charles. "This is Detective Chief Inspector Percy Hand. He's in charge of things. I've been talking to a couple of amateur detectives here."

  Hand gave them a bleak smile. "If you could come with me, sir."

  "Right," said Tolly. "Come again, if you like. Can you see yourselves out?"

  "What a pill," marvelled Charles. "It's a wonder it's not a murder we're looking at."

  They got in the car. "What's up, Aggie? You've got a face like a fiddle."

  "Why the hell should he think I'm not one of their sort! That's what he said." Agatha looked miserably at her hands.

  "Oh, that. It's because he's a vulgar pushy little man, insecure socially and always trying to put someone down. Cheer up. Maybe someone will murder him and then life around here will really get exciting."

  Agatha found she was enjoying Charles's company. They took a walk in the rain in the late afternoon. The air was full of the smell of grass and plants, although over all hung the redolent scent of the pine trees. They walked down past the little row of shops, farther than Agatha had gone, and turning a corner, found there were more little shops around the bend: an ironmonger's, a thrift shop, a dried-flower shop, which also sold candles of all shapes and sizes, and a small garage with two rusting old cars at the side of the forecourt.

  The drizzle was steady and soaking and began to sweep across their vision in curtains of rain blown by a rising wind. Night had fallen and lights twinkled in cottage windows.

  "Pub should be open by now," said Charles. "Let's go for a drink."

  The pub was still empty. Agatha took a seat by the fire after removing her soaking raincoat. "A gin and tonic for me, Charles."

  Charles went up and rapped on the bar. A strong waft of rose perfume heralded the arrival of Rosie Wilden in a cream wool dress which complemented the creaminess of her complexion and the vivid blue of her eyes.

  Charles leaned over the bar and began to flirt. First he affected astonishment that such rare beauty could be found behind the bar of a village pub. Then he began to ask her about herself. It was when he got around to asking her if she ever had a night off that Agatha called crossly, "What about my drink, Charles?"

  "Right," he called back but without turning around. "That'll be a gin and tonic and a half of bitter."

  Then he fumbled in his jacket. "I'm afraid I've forgotten my wallet."

  "That's all right, sir. I'll put it on the slate."

  "No need for that. Aggie'll pay. Aggie?"

  Agatha marched up to the bar and put the money on the counter. "Why don't you come and join me, Charles?" she demanded. "Or are you going to prop up the bar all night?"

  Charles sat down opposite her and said, "The way you go on sometimes, one would think we were married."

  "Particularly when you never pay for anything."

  "Well, she's quite something."

  Agatha felt all the irritation any woman feels when her escort praises some other woman. "I'd forgotten what you were like." Agatha sighed. "In fact, I've made a mistake coming here. I'm goi
ng back home next week."

  "What, with fairies shining lights and a Stubbs stolen? Not like you. Where's your curiosity?"

  "It first got washed away in the rain and then, when you said you'd forgotten your wallet, I realized your company was not going to alleviate the boredom."

  "Nasty!"

  "But so true." The firelight flickered on Charles's wellbarbered neat features. Oh, why couldn't it be James sitting opposite?

  The pub began to fill up. Agatha saw the three husbands come in, Henry, Jerry and Peter, minus wives.

  Jerry was complaining about PC Framp. "I'm glad that lazy hound of a copper has to stand out in the rain all night outside the manor. Mind you, it's a case of bolting the stable door after the horse has fled. I hope he gets pneumonia. I've never forgiven him for that time he pulled me over on the Norwich Road because one of my brake lights was out. He refused to let me drive on and I had to get a cab home."

  "Yes, you told us ... many times," commented Peter Dart, leering at Rosie.

  "What a waste of champagne," said Agatha, half to herself. "I haven't done any good there at all."

  "What?" asked Charles. "What are you muttering about?"

  "Those three men at the bar neglect their wives to come in here and goggle at Rosie. So I brought the wives in and threw a champagne party. They told me their husbands were going to find another pub, but there they are again. Do you think Rosie is really innocent? Do you think she flirts?"

  "I think when a woman looks like Rosie, she doesn't need to flirt. And what are you doing interfering in village marriages? No wonder murders follow you around."

  Agatha felt a spasm of dislike for Charles. "Let's go," she said. "I'm bored."

  They had a supper of microwaved curry. Charles settled down to watch television. Agatha had forgotten that he had a tremendous appetite for rubbishy television. She said crossly that she was going to bed but he was watching a movie called Monsters of the Dark and did not hear her.

  Agatha went grumpily up to bed. She stared at her face in the bathroom mirror. The rain had washed all her make-up off. She felt old and unattractive. She had a leisurely bath. Then she climbed into bed, propped herself up on the pillows and looked through the selection of paperbacks she had placed on the bedside table. She had bought a selection of light reading. There was a large blockbuster which claimed to be, according to the blurb, "erotic and unputdownable." Agatha flicked through it. Gucci labels and crumpled bedsheets. The next came under the category of chick-fic, or rather one of those women's books, a romance clothed in a convoluted literary style. She discarded that. The next was an Aga saga, a novel set in a village where a well-heeled middle-aged woman found out her husband was unfaithful to her. Agatha was very much of her roots and found it hard to believe that anyone who had money in the bank could suffer in the same way as someone poor. She often felt her yearning for James was ridiculous. She put that aside and settled for a hard cop novel set in the deep southern states of the United States. After a few pages the book slipped from her hand.

  Charles came into her room later to say good night. He switched out her bedside light and kissed her on the forehead. Agatha stirred and muttered something but did not wake.

  She was dreaming of James. They were on a Mediterranean cruise. She could feel the sun on her cheek. They were leaning against the rail. James turned and smiled down at her. "Agatha," he said.

  "Agatha! Agatha!" In her dream, Agatha wondered why James was suddenly shouting at her. Then she woke up with a start, realizing it was morning and someone was banging at the door downstairs and shouting her name.

  She pulled on a dressing-gown and hurried down the stairs, nearly tripping over the cats, who snaked around her ankles.

  She wrenched open the door. Amy Worth stood there, her eyes dilated with excitement.

  "What's up?" asked Agatha sleepily.

  "It's Tolly. You'll never believe it."

  "Believe what?"

  "He's dead ... murdered ... and with Framp guarding the house, too!"

  FOUR

  CHARLES came down the stairs in his dressing gown. "What's all the row about, darling?" he called.

  "Come in, Amy," said Agatha, flushing with embarrassment. She said to Charles, "Tolly's been murdered."

  "How? When?"

  "Last night," said Amy. "I don't know yet how he was killed. Betty Jackson, the cleaner, went up to the manor this morning and let herself in."

  "So she has a key?" asked Charles.

  "Yes, and she can operate the burglar alarm. It was still on! She said she went upstairs to see if anyone was at home and she found Tolly dead on the landing."

  "Maybe he knew who had stolen that painting of his."

  "Insurance prices, as a rule," said Charles, "are often twice or three times the auction estimate. Unless Tolly was so filthy rich he didn't care, I would have thought he would have been delighted to get the insurance money. How much was it insured for?"

  "Tolly told everyone he had insured it for a million."

  They sat down round the kitchen table.

  "A Stubbs," mused Charles. "Now what would a man like Tolly be doing having a Stubbs?"

  "I can explain that," said Amy, her face pink with excitement and the importance at being the source of so much interesting gossip. "It was just after they moved down here. Lord Tarrymundy was visiting friends in Norfolk and came over for a day's hunting. Of course, he impressed poor Tolly no end, him being a lord and all. The next thing he says a gentleman like Tolly should start collecting and offered to sell him the Stubbs, knock-down price, he said. I believe it was three hundred and thirty thousand pounds, which isn't really a knock-down price, but Tolly bought it and then insured it high. But this is the thing. At that time, they had a house in Launceston Place in Kensington. Lucy adored it. Evidently when they were first married, they held very chic parties there. Tolly ups and says they can't afford two residences and he's happy in the country and sells the house for nearly a million. Poor Lucy was furious."

  "Can one make a fortune from bathroom showers?" asked Charles.

  "Evidently," said Amy eagerly. "He sold all over the world, or so he says, and sold the business to an American company."

  "So," said Agatha slowly, "Lucy would hardly steal the painting and then murder her husband. I mean, all she had to do was murder him and then she would get everything, Stubbs and all."

  "But she was in London when the murder took place," exclaimed Amy. "So it can't be anything to do with her at all."

  "Who's the handsome fellow at the bottom of your garden, Agatha?" asked Charles. "Not a fairy?"

  "No, that's Barry Jones, who does the garden."

  "I wonder if he does any gardening up at the manor," said Charles.

  "I'll ask him." Agatha opened the back door and called, "Barry?"

  The gardener walked up to the back door and entered the kitchen, doffing his cap to reveal a thick head of chestnut hair. He had the same bright blue eyes as Rosie Wilden. He was wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off and his bronzed and muscled arms were a miracle of human sculpture.

  "We're talking about the murder of Tolly," said Agatha. "Do you garden up at the manor?"

  "I did, missus, for a while. No flowers or vegetables, but he likes the lawns kept trim. Then, three weeks ago, he sacks me. I says to him, `Is my work unsatisfactory?' And he says, `I want a real gardener. Going to get the place landscaped.' "

  "Do you know how he was killed?" asked Charles.

  "No, but Mrs. Jackson is telling everyone that Mrs. Raisin and her boyfriend were the last to see him alive, so I reckon the police'll be calling on you soon enough."

  "Thanks, Barry. You can go back to work. I'd better get dressed. You, too, Charles."

  Agatha had only just finished dressing when the doorbell went again. She ran downstairs and opened the door to the man she remembered as Detective Inspector Percy Hand. He was accompanied by another detective.

  "You are Mrs. Raisin?" he asked.


  "Yes, come in. It's about this murder?"

  She led both men into the sitting-room. The sun was shin ing again, streaming through the windows to light up the debris of Charles's night-time television viewing-coffee-cup, biscuit packet and TV Guide.

  "Sit down," said Agatha. "Coffee?"

  "Thank you."

  Agatha called up the stairs on her road to the kitchen, "Hurry up, Charles. The police are here."

  As she plugged in the percolator, she suddenly remembered the manuscript of Death at the Manor lying on the desk in the sitting-room. The desk was in a dark corner. Surely he wouldn't prowl around looking at things.

  The coffee seemed to take ages to percolate. Where was Charles? He should be doing this and giving her the opportunity to get that manuscript. At last she poured two mugs of coffee and put them on a tray along with milk and sugar and a plate of biscuits.

  She walked into the sitting room, carrying the tray-and nearly dropped it. Hand was standing at the desk flicking through her manuscript.

  "Aren't you supposed to have a search warrant before you go poking through my things?" asked Agatha harshly.

  "We can get one," said Hand, looking at her mildly. "I find it interesting that your book is called Death at the Manor, and here we have a death at the manor."

  "Coincidence," snapped Agatha, setting the tray down on the coffee-table.

  "A lot of coincidence," he murmured. "This is Detective Sergeant Carey." And to Agatha's rage, he handed Carey the manuscript, saying, "Have a look at this."

  Charles came in at that moment and Agatha hailed him with a furious cry of "Charles, they're reading my book and they don't have a search warrant."

  "I didn't know you were writing a book," said Charles. "Still, you lot are being a bit cheeky."

  "Mrs. Raisin's book is called Death at the Manor," said Hand.

  Charles laughed. "Oh, Aggie, your first attempt at writing?"

  Agatha nodded.

  Charles turned to Hand. "How was Tolly murdered?"

  "His throat was cut with a razor."

  "You mean, one of those old-fashioned cutthroat razors?"

  "Exactly. And in Mrs. Raisin's manuscript, the owner of the manor, Peregrine Pickle, is murdered when someone slits his throat."