Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

by M C Beaton

  "The rest of the world was burning up," said Charles. "Here we are. Gates open. No policeman on duty."

  They went up the drive. It all seemed very quiet.

  Charles rang the doorbell. They waited for what seemed a long time, until Lucy's voice suddenly sounded from the other side of the door. "Who is it?"

  "Charles Fraith and Agatha Raisin."

  The door opened. "I thought it might be the press," said Lucy. "Come in."

  They followed her into the drawing-room. She was wearing a silky trouser suit and was highly made up, as if about to go on television.

  "We were very sorry to hear of Tolly's death," said Agatha.

  "Were you?" Lucy raised thin eyebrows. "You barely knew him."

  There was an awkward silence. Then Agatha said, "Have you any idea who would murder your husband?"

  "No," said Lucy, suddenly looking weary.

  "But you wanted me to find out if Tolly had been having an affair."

  "Did I?"

  "Yes," said Agatha crossly. "You thought he was having an affair with Rosie Wilden. Remember? All about the rose perfume in the bedroom and the fact that Tolly had washed the sheets?"

  "Oh, that."

  There was a silence.

  "Well?" prompted Charles.

  "Well, what? Oh, I see. Nothing seems to matter much."

  "But don't you see," said Agatha eagerly, "if Tolly was having an affair, then the murder might have been committed by a jealous husband."

  "Rosie doesn't have a husband."

  "It doesn't need to be her. She might give that perfume of hers to people who ask for it."

  "Truth to tell, I've been so shattered by this," said Lucy, "I haven't been able to think clearly. You've got an idea there."

  "Didn't you say anything to the police about your suspicions?" asked Charles.

  "Them! That man, Hand, went on and on as if I'd done it. I had to have all my wits about me sticking to my alibi."

  Agatha wanted to ask her why Mrs. Jackson had said that she and Tolly had been laughing about her suspicions and why they had ridiculed her, Agatha. But Lucy might freeze up. And there was still hope of getting gossip out of Mrs. Jackson-that is, if she ever turned up to clean.

  "Did Tolly ever seem to favour any woman?"

  "Apart from Rosie, no. He would suck up to wives at hunt dos, ones whose husbands he wanted to ingratiate himself with."

  "Like who?" asked Charles.

  "Oh, like that dreary old bag, Mrs. Findlay."

  "Captain Findlay's wife?"

  "Yes, her. I call her the battered bride. She always trembles every time her husband looks at her. He probably beats her."

  "And the police have no idea where the Stubbs went to?"

  "None at all. It'll probably turn up in some mansion in South America."

  "I assume you get everything," said Charles.

  "Yes."

  "Good solicitors?"

  "Old-fashioned and solid. Tomley and Barks in Norwich."

  "Tomley," said Charles. "There was a Tristan Tomley in my form at Eton and he came from over here."

  "Could be," said Lucy indifferently.

  "What will you do now?" asked Agatha.

  For the first time, Lucy seemed animated. "I'll sell up here and move to London. Thank God this place and the grounds are worth something. Tolly didn't leave much else. That damn hunt must have been bleeding him dry. I never want to see another horse or hound again."

  "We'll do all we can to help," said Agatha.

  Lucy gave a little shrug. "I don't see what you can do. But thanks anyway. I'm sorry I haven't offered you anything, but I'm a bit busy at the moment, so ..."

  Agatha and Charles rose to their feet. "Find your own way out?" Lucy remained seated.

  They said goodbye and walked out to the car.

  "What now?" asked Agatha.

  "The solicitors in Norwich."

  " "They won't tell us anything.

  "They might-that is, if the Tomley part of the business is the one I went to school with."

  The city of Norwich was shrouded in mist, slowly thickening into fog. "Hope it doesn't get worse than this or we'll need to stay the night here," said Charles. "Do you know, the fairies have disappeared. No more petty theft."

  "That's true. Do you think someone stole the petty stuff and flashed lights around to make everyone frightened as a blind, when all the time he really meant to steal the Stubbs?"

  "Could be. But there's something about the petty thefts which smacks of the work of children. We never saw Mrs. Jackson's children, apart from the gardener."

  "And that's a mystery," said Agatha as Charles eased into the car-park. "How on earth did a woman like that manage to get married two times?"

  "No accounting for taste." Charles flashed her a wicked look. "Is there, Aggie?"

  "Stop calling me Aggie and let's find this solicitor."

  The solicitors' offices were in a pleasant old sixteenth-century flint building in a courtyard off Lower Goat Lane. "Let's hope it's the Tomley I knew and that he's here and not in court," said Charles.

  He gave his card to a motherly looking receptionist. She smiled at them, told them to wait, and said she would see if Mr. Tomley was available.

  They sat down in comfortable leather armchairs in front of a low table covered in glossy magazines.

  The receptionist returned, smiled again, and said, "Mr. Tomley is on the phone. Will you wait? He should only be a few moments."

  Agatha picked up a magazine about country houses and flicked through it. The offices were very quiet, protected from the sound of traffic by the courtyard outside. Her eyelids began to droop and soon she was fast asleep.

  She awoke with a jerk half an hour later. Charles was shaking her by the shoulder. "Come along, Aggie. We're going for a drink. This is Tommers."

  Agatha stood up and blinked blearily and focused on a plump, well-tailored man with a red shiny face and thick grey hair. "You should have woken me, Charles," she admonished.

  "You haven't missed anything," said Charles cheerfully, "and you look so beautiful when you sleep, snoring gently and with your mouth hanging open."

  "And you make noises like a dog hunting rabbits in your sleep. Whoop, whoop, shiver, whoop," said Agatha nastily.

  Then she blushed as Tristan Tomley surveyed both of them with bright-eyed interest.

  "Let's go," said Charles, his good humour unabated. "Where's the pub, Tommers?"

  "Round the corner. The Goat and Boots."

  As they walked out into the freezing, foggy air, Tommers said, "I doubt if the pair of you will get back tonight. Fog's bad. I feel in my bones it's going to be a bad winter."

  The pub was relatively quiet. They took their drinks to a corner table. "Well, Charles," said Tommers, "what's this all about? Or did you come the whole way here to reminisce about our school-days?"

  "Not quite. You see, I'm staying with Agg-Agatha in Fryfam."

  "Aha. The Trumpington-James murder. Why should you be interested?"

  "We like to solve mysteries," said Charles. "Wanted to ask you about the will."

  "I don't mind telling you about that. All straightforward. Everything goes to the wife."

  Agatha had then what she considered as being a sudden flash of intuition. "Aha," she said, her bearlike eyes boring into the lawyer's. "But what about the other will?"

  "What other will?"

  Agatha leaned forward eagerly. "The one Tolly was threatening to make just before he was killed. The one in which he cut out his wife and left the money to ... someone else!"

  Tommers surveyed her with amusement. "You mean like in books?" He burst out laughing. "Nothing so sinister. Only one will and no threats of cutting the wife out. I say, Charles. Do you remember old Stuffy?"

  Agatha relapsed into gloom as the reminiscence went on. What a waste of a journey! What a foggy freezing place to land up in, only to be made to feel ridiculous.

  At last, after what seemed an age, Tommers said
he had to be getting home. "Would invite you," he said, "but my motherin-law is in residence and she's a bit crotchety, to say the least."

  After he had left, Charles said, "Did you really think there might have been another will?"

  "I hoped there might be the threat of one, or even some mysterious woman who got something in the real will. Now I feel stupid."

  "I must admit I was hoping for the same thing. So what do you want to do? Shall we find a hotel?"

  "Let's at least try to get back. We can always stop somewhere on the way home. In fact, we can at least stop somewhere for dinner. I don't like to leave the cats on their own. I left some hard food for them and they've got plenty of water, but they will worry about me."

  "I think Hodge and Boswell keep each other amused, Aggie."

  "But the cottage will be cold."

  "Then they'll probably end up under your duvet."

  Agatha grabbed his arm. "Look!"

  "Look at what?"

  "Oh, she's gone."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "It was there at the end of the street, just in front of that shop window," said Agatha. "I thought I saw the captain's wife, Lizzie Findlay."

  "Well, what's so exciting about that?"

  "She looked different, all smartened up, heels and trouser suit and make-up."

  "How could you see anything in this fog?"

  "It parted a bit and the shop window's brightly lit. A bus passed and sent the fog swirling. It probably wasn't her. It was someone who looked the way she would look if she were smartened up. I suppose I'm seeing things because I don't want this nasty cold outing to be entirely wasted. And, damn, I am worrying about those cats."

  The rush-hour was building up. Charles eased out into a lane of traffic. "Maybe we should stop somewhere for a bite soon," he said, "and then we can have a clearer road."

  "Anywhere you like," said Agatha. "And put the heater on. I'm freezing."

  As they eased out of Norwich, the commuter traffic grew less, and the surrounding countryside, blacker and foggier. "I need a break," muttered Charles. "There's a lit-up sort of building ahead, I think, but with this fog I don't know if it's a factory or a pub. Ah, a pub."

  He turned right into a car-park. He got out of the car and held up one finger. "I think there's a breeze, Aggie. Just like a faint breath of air. Do you know what the forecast is?"

  "Oh, well, let's see what they've got in the way of food."

  The pub turned out to have a small dining-room. The food was of the chicken-in-a-basket-, scampi-in-a-basket-type of meal, along with various sandwiches and baked potatoes with different fillings.

  They both ordered chicken and chips. The chicken turned out to be hard and dry and coated in orange breadcrumbs, and the chips were of the nasty frozen variety. But food was food. They washed it down with mineral water, Charles saying that he didn't want to be charged with being over the limit, and as he couldn't drink, he didn't see why Agatha should have that pleasure. "Besides," he said, "people who drink on their own are terribly suspect."

  They ate in silence. Charles, to Agatha's amazement, paid the bill. Outside, the fog was as bad as ever. "Going to be pretty hopeless getting back," commented Charles as damp fog swirled about them. "We should try to get back to Norwich for the night."

  "I'll drive," said Agatha grimly. "My cats."

  "Damn your pesky cats," said Charles in a rare fit of bad temper. "You're turning into an old maid."

  "I'm turning into a caring human being," snapped Agatha, "which is more than I can say for you."

  "Get in the car. I'll do my best."

  "Where's that precious wind of yours?" asked Agatha, as she fastened her seat-belt.

  "God knows. Well, here we go into the black nothingness of Norfolk."

  They made their way along the road at a steady thirty miles an hour.

  "Can't you go faster?" complained Agatha.

  "No. Shut up."

  After several miles, Charles said, "The wind is rising at last, and just for the moment, it's making things worse."

  Odd pillars of fog danced in the headlights in front of his tired eyes, like grey ghosts. He crested the top of a small hill and suddenly they were out into a clear starry night.

  "Amazing," muttered Charles, accelerating.

  At last they reached Fryfam and turned into Pucks Lane. "A large brandy, I think, is called for," said Charles, parking alongside the hedge. Agatha fished in her handbag for the enormous door key.

  She stopped short on the threshold. "Charles," she said, "the door's open. Did we leave it like that?"

  "Of course not. Don't go in, Aggie. There may be someone still there. I said don't go-"

  But with a cry of "My cats!" Agatha went straight inside.

  Then Charles heard a scream of dismay from Agatha and darted in after her. She was standing in the sitting-room. Everything had been turned over. The drawers in the desk were hanging open. "Hodge and Boswell?" asked Agatha through white lips.

  "Wait here. I'll look upstairs."

  Charles went upstairs and into both bedrooms. Someone had gone through everything.

  He came back down. "I'm phoning the police. Where are you going?"

  "To look for the cats."

  Agatha went into the kitchen. Cupboards opened, drawers opened. What had they been searching for?

  She went down the garden, calling desperately for her cats. But there was no welcome glint of green eyes in the darkness.

  Agatha searched and searched, until Charles came up behind her. "The police are here, Aggie. I'm sure the cats are all right. They're great survivors. Come in out of the cold."

  "I should never have left them." Agatha began to sob.

  "Here, now." He put an arm round her. "Where's my brave Aggie? It's only old Framp. The heavy mob will be along shortly."

  He coaxed her into the sitting-room, where Framp was standing in front of the fireplace.

  "Just a few preliminary questions," said Framp, opening his notebook.

  "Sit down," said Charles, pressing Agatha down onto the sofa. "Wait a moment and I'll answer all your questions. She's in no fit state. I'll get her a brandy." Charles went over to the cupboard where Agatha kept the drinks, pulled out a brandy bottle and poured her a stiff measure. "I don't suppose you drink on duty," he said to Framp.

  "It's a cold night, sir, and a beer wouldn't go amiss."

  "We haven't got beer. Here, Aggie. You drink that. We've got whisky, gin, vodka, and a bottle of elderberry wine."

  "I wouldn't mind a whisky, sir."

  "Right you are. Soda?"

  "No, just straight."

  Charles gave Framp a glass of whisky and poured himself a brandy. "Sit down," he said to Framp. "It's going to be a long night."

  After half an hour, Hand and Carey arrived. "You're lucky," said Hand. "They got us when we were out on another case not far away." Framp deftly slid his glass behind the television set.

  Charles answered all the questions over again. Again he simply said they had been shopping in Norwich and had been late arriving home because of the fog. No, he didn't know what anyone could possibly be looking for, or who could have got in without forcing the door. Agatha was roused to go upstairs with Carey to see if all her jewellery was still there. She moved like an automaton, fretting all the while about her lost cats. Then she returned to the sitting-room with Carey.

  "Nothing missing, sir," said Carey.

  "We'll have the fingerprint boys along soon," said Hand with a sigh. "Now, you," he said to Agatha. "Have you been going in for any detecting?"

  Charles threw Agatha a warning look. "No," lied Agatha. "What about my cats?"

  "I'm sure they are somewhere about."

  But Agatha was sure they were dead. She should never have brought them here. She should never have run away from Carsely. She promised God she would do anything if only those cats came back. A forensic team arrived and dusted the place for fingerprints. Despite her misery about her cats, Agat
ha could not help comparing Fryfam to Carsely. Had this happened in Carsely, all the villagers would have gathered to offer sympathy and support. But the fairy-believers of Fryfam stayed in their burrows like hobbits.

  By three in the morning, police and forensics packed up and left. Agatha and Charles sat side by side on the sofa. Agatha shivered. "It's so cold," she said.

  "Tell you what," said Charles. "You stay there for a bit and I'll light this fire and get us warm and then I'll light the fires in the rooms."

  Agatha watched dully as he put fire-lighters, paper and logs on the fire and sat back on his heels, watching it blaze up. Then he picked up the empty log basket. "I'll go out to the shed and get some more logs. You be all right?"

  Agatha nodded. She stared at the dancing flames. I'm a silly woman, she thought. Why didn't I mind my own business? Why did I come to his hell-hole just to destroy my cats? Who cares who killed Tolly?

  She heard the kitchen door crash open. She heard Charles come in and then he said gleefully, "Look what I've got, Aggie."

  She twisted her head around and then jumped to her feet. For Charles was carrying Hodge and Boswell.

  "Oh, thank God," cried Agatha, the tears of relief running down her face. She patted both cats. "Bring them into the kitchen, Charles, and I'll give them something special."

  Charles waited in the kitchen, amused, as Agatha proceeded to open a tin of pate de foie gras and then one of salmon.

  "Don't kill them with kindness," he said, and then went back down the garden, whistling, to get the logs.

  Agatha was awakened by the ringing of the doorbell downstairs. She looked at her bedside clock and groaned. Eight in the morning! She struggled into her dressing-gown and hurried downstairs and the bell rang and rang. She opened the door to confront the unlovely features of Mrs. Jackson.

  "Came to do yer house," said Betty Jackson, pushing past Agatha. Agatha collected her wits. She wanted to tell this woman to get lost, but there was all that fingerprint dust.

  "We had a break-in last night," said Agatha, "and the police were here, so there's fingerprint dust everywhere. I must go back to bed. Don't bother about the bedrooms. Just clean downstairs. Oh, and do the windows."

  "I don't do windows."

  "Do what you can," said Agatha crossly. "And don't bother my cats. In fact, I'll take them with me." She looked at the cleaner curiously. "You don't seem over-surprised."